After two trips on the Cavallo I felt that it was time for me to move on.

I had already done about three weeks working by on the Kenilworth Castle, and had gained another discharge after a sixteen day, home trade run on her, but had decided not to take the offered scrap run to Taiwan. The second steward on her had a nasty habit of waking us up in the morning by crashing into the six berth cabin, shared by only two of us, and firing a spear from his spear gun into the timber paneled bulkhead, a foot or so above our prone forms. I had questions about the second’s sanity and thought it best to give him a wide berth!

I contacted the pool at West India Docks and made myself available for any other ship that might need a Catering Boy.

“Nah, nuffink at the moment mate, give us yer number an’ I’ll phone when sumfink comes up.”

I’d heard so many stories about South America, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand that I yearned for a longer trip. Six weeks away wasn’t enough even to get to some of the places I’d heard of. They sounded so exciting that I felt I’d just about ‘done’ the Med.

 I had no more leave so as instructed, went down to the local Labour Exchange in Water Lane, Watford, to sign on the dole. I had to explain to the officious little clerk that I wasn’t looking for work, and all I wanted was to sign on so that after the qualifying period I was able to draw my dole money.

“Yeah, you an’ everyone else mate”

It took a while before I was able to convince him that he should check with his supervisor. He was obviously very put out that I’d won the argument.

“Sign ‘ere, and report twice a week, chewzdayz an furzdayz ter sign on.”

I would have to wait about three weeks before I would become eligible for unemployment benefits.

Every couple of days I rang the Pool, only to be told that there still wasn’t any work available. I didn’t mind not working, but my money was running low, and life in Watford was becoming a little slow for me.

After about two and a half weeks, I received a call from the Pool.

“Yeah, there’s a job going as galley boy on the Egyptian Prince doin’ six weeks in the Med, jew wannit?”

Although I’d only been at sea for about three months, I’d already heard plenty of stories about Prince boats, and none of them had been particularly complimentary. I didn’t really want to go back down the Med again, but my money had run out, and my father had already made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t prepared to have me in the house if I couldn’t pay the rent. I felt I had no choice, and with a heavy heart, said I’d take the job.

“Orright son, she’s at East India Docks, join ‘er termorrah mornin’.”

Well, it wasn’t what I wanted, but it was only for six weeks. How hard could it be? I’d heard similar stories about the Vindicatrix, and I’d survived that unscathed.

I packed my suitcase and told my mother that I was away in the morning. She looked disappointed although Dad merely said, “That’s good son.”

It took about an hour and a half to negotiate all the busses and trains required to get to Commercial Road and the entrance to East India Docks. I showed the dockside copper my red I.D. book and asked where the Egyptian Prince lay. He glanced at his clipboard inside the guardhouse and pointing with his chin, said, “Up there, about third ship up son.”

 The accommodation was painted white. Her derricks were buff coloured and her hull an almost battleship grey. Upon her funnel, she wore the three plumes of the Prince of Wales.

I climbed up the gangway and was asked my business by the bloke at the top. He told me where I’d find the Chief Steward’s cabin.

“Chief? I’m Bill Young, the new galley boy.”

“Good, it’s about time, the cook’ll be pleased you’re finally here. Got your discharge book?”

I handed it over and the Chief checked my three previous discharges from the Cavallo and Kenilworth Castle.

“OK,” he said, handing back my book, “I’ll hand you over to the second steward here, and he can show you your cabin, and introduce you to the cook.”

I’d felt the presence of someone behind me and turned to shake the second stewards’ hand.

“Right, this way,” he walked back toward the after end of the alleyway and I followed as best I could, carrying my suitcase. About three quarters of the way down, he turned left into a cross alleyway and we crossed over to the starboard side. Almost directly opposite our cross alleyway, he opened a door and announced, “Right, this is your cabin, yours is the top bunk, and you’ll be sharing with two assistant stewards. Oh by the way, we only carry one catering boy, so you’ll be doing galley and pantry work”

To the right of the door, was a two tier bunk, at the foot of which was a six drawer chest of drawers. Directly opposite the doorway was a daybed. On the forward bulkhead was a single bunk, and against the alleyway bulkhead, between the single bunk and the doorway was a bank of three wardrobes. A small coffee table and chair completed the furniture.

“Dump yer kit for the minute, and I’ll take you ‘round to the galley.”

I left my suitcase in the middle of the cabin deck, and followed the sec back toward the after stormstep, and just before reaching it, turned inboard, and we were in the galley. The galley ran athwartships between the port and starboard alleyways.

The cook was at the stove stirring something in a huge pot.

“Orright Tiny? I’ve brought yer galley boy, wass yer name agen son?”

“Bill, Bill Young.” I offered my hand to the cook who had been named with typical English black humour. He was a giant of a man, sporting a large beer gut. His head seemed to sit on his shoulders without benefit of a neck. Two piggy eyes glared from the slits in his pallid, puffy face, and the stubble on his chin was almost as long as the stubble on his head. He ignored my hand, and made it clear from the outset that he had no intention of befriending me.

“Better get out of yer ‘go ashores,’ an’ into some werkin’ gear, an’ get yerself back ‘ere sharpish.”

“Yes cook.” I hurried back to my cabin, and found a pair of jeans and a ‘T’ shirt. Unpacking would have to wait until I had some free time.

When I returned to the galley, the cook said, “follow me,” and handed me a bucket of water containing a milky solution of Basil (a grease cutting agent), a scrubbing brush, soogee rag and another bucket of fresh water.

We exited the galley via the port side door, and turned left then left again, through another steel door, and down a steep set of companionway stairs, to the cool rooms, freezer, and dry stores. An aluminium stepladder was set up in the middle of the alleyway.

Cook stopped at the stepladder and looked up. A myriad of pipes hung from the deckhead, in a seeming unplanned confusion.

“You’re gonna soogee the deck’ead. Come back up top wen you’ve finished soogeeing down ‘ere, an’ do a good job or you’ll be doin’ it agen in yer own time.”

Tiny left me to it. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck have I done to deserve this?” I thought. I climbed the ladder to inspect my chore and found that the top of each pipe sported a film of greasy diesel dust. This was going to be a long, wet and manky job. It crossed my mind to tell the cook to shove this job up his arse, but decided against it, because that would most likely cause me some grief at the Pool. I had committed myself to the job, against my better judgment, and had better get on with it.

Working at as fast a pace as I felt I could maintain, I began soogeeing the pipes, and deckhead, and quickly realised that the job would also require me to soogee the bulkheads and mop up the deck too. I was most definitely not a happy camper.

Every hour or so, another person in cooks checks, came down below to ask how long it would be before I finished. I’d already missed lunch, and was well into what was supposed to be my “make and mend” time, but no one seemed mindful of such a minor detail.

By about four PM I’d finally finished, and after inspecting my work, cook announced that the galley sink was full of pots, and I’d better start pearl diving.

I dragged myself up the companionway and went around to my cabin to find a clean ‘T’ shirt. Two blokes were sitting there having a beer. They didn’t bother with introductions, and I didn’t have time to give a shit who they were anyway.

“Come on son, shift yer arse or you’ll be strapping up at midnight.” Tiny wasn’t about to ease up on me. The second cook looked up from the workbench where he was cutting up veggies, a lazy grin at the corner of his mouth.

I went to the sink and after searching around on the shelf underneath, found the old perforated jam tin full of soft soap, which was used to make up soapy water. Removing all the dirties from the sink I made some working room, and began to work my way through the scungie pots that had been left for my tender ministrations.

“Orright mate?” I looked around toward the stable style, galley door. The bottom half was closed, and on the shelf leaned a young lad about my age. He was wearing a dark blue, deckies shirt.

“I’m Bob, the Peggie.” He announced, “You must be the new galley boy.”

“Yeah, worse luck, I’ve already had a gutful of this ship. It’s a fucken work up, I haven’t even had time enough to unpack yet.”

“Well mate, I don’t envy you one bit, I wouldn’t have your job on at all. Mine’s bad enough. I’m here to collect the crew’s dinner.” He checked to see if Tiny was within earshot, and lowering his voice said, “watch out fer Tiny, ‘es a right bastard.”

Tiny was busy pouring soup into a bain marie container, and the second cook was piling food into additional hot boxes.

“There ya go Peggie, now piss off and stop holding up the galley boy.”

I’d been aboard this ship less than a day, and already hated the cook.

By the time I’d finished strapping up the pots and pans I started with, there was another batch from the evening meal to be washed. The second steward was collecting the food for the officers dining saloon.

“Don’t forget; as soon as you’ve finished in the galley, come on up to the pantry.”

I looked at my watch, it was already about six pm. I still had to empty the gash bin down at the bins at the after end of the ship, then scrub down the galley deck, before going up to the pantry. I wondered what time I would finish work.

By the time I made it to the pantry, the officers were on their dessert. The sink in the pantry was piled high with silver salvers and plates of all description. It was only now that I realised that all meals in the dining saloon were served on full silver service.

“Why not,” I thought, “I’ve got fuck all else to do!”

I began to move the dirties out of the sink, to give me some working space and it wasn’t long before I was on the wrong end of a bollocking from the second steward. “Keep it down son, the officers don’t need to listen to you workin’ while they eat.”

Not a soul lifted a finger to help me at my work, and everyone else in the catering department finished about an hour before me. They had their meals and brought the dirty dishes for me to clean. My own meal lay untouched in the bain-marie. I was too tired to care whether I ate or not. Finally, I finished the dishes and took the gash bin down aft to empty, then I took what leftovers there were back down to the cool room before scrubbing down in the pantry.

I was exhausted; it had been a very tiring, trying day, and an enormous shock to my system. I looked forward to a shower, and a quiet night. My two cabin mates had evidently gone on a run ashore, so I was alone as I unpacked my suitcase, discovering that the two very bottom drawers had been left for me. Grabbing my towel and washing kit, I headed for the stewards’ khassie for my shower, then returned to my lonely cabin, climbed into the top bunk, and fell asleep.

The second steward put us ‘on the shake’ at 0600 hrs the following day. “Soon as you turn to Billy, you can scrub the four accommodation alleyways, then do the stewards’ khassie”

“Yeah OK sec. Oh God, what else have they got for me?” I thought. The four alleyways and the khassie were to be cleaned daily before 0730 hrs when I had to turn to in the galley. I got stuck in and just made the deadline. Only the second cook was turned to in the galley. I learned that the cook was not a morning person and seldom if ever turned to before 0800 hrs.

“You dun yer alleyways an’ the shit’ouse?” asked Mick, the second cook.

I answered in the affirmative.

“Good, now you c’n get stuck into the spuds, there’s a bag an’ anarf ta be dun, then yer c’n do arf a bag o’ onions.”

He showed me where the potato-peeling machine was. “Thank Christ for small mercies” I thought. If nothing else, at least I could work quietly and keep out of the way.

I was just about finished the full bag of spuds when Tiny turned to. His usual pattern was to spend his first ten minutes of every day in the khassie, dispensing with the best part of himself.

“Why didn’t you clean the khassie you little shite?” was his morning greeting.

“I did cook.”

“You never cleaned the shit ‘ouse seat.”

“Yes I did cook.”

“Not the way I like it you cocky bastard, you never put O’ Cedar Wood polish on it.”

“It’s made of Bakelite cook, you don’t clean Bakelite with O’ Cedar.”

“You clean it wiv wotever I fucken say you clean it wiv, you got that.”

“Yes cook,” I sighed. It was going to be another of those days. Looked like I was heading for a fun trip.

Bob, the peggie arrived at the stable door to pick up the crew’s breakfast. He picked up the hot boxes and disappeared with a wink, as soon as he was able. Even Bob tried not to hang around the galley in sight of Tiny.

Breakfast wasn’t such a difficult meal to strap up from, apart from the bergoo pot, which I felt that the second cook took great delight in burning every morning. I soon learned to fill it full of cold water first thing, then leave it until I’d washed all the other pans. The bottom layer of burnt porridge was then scraped out of the pot with a dough cutter, and finished off with steel wool and lashings of elbow grease.

“Why didn’t you scrub out the gash bin last night.”

“Didn’t know I had to, cook.”

“Well, you do now, and make sure you scrub the one from the pantry too you lazy little bleeder.”

I wondered at his definition of ‘lazy’ and wondered how many poor unfortunate first trippers had done one trip on a ship like this, and jacked it in as soon as they paid off. After all, any other ship would carry two boy ratings, and there was certainly enough work to keep the two of them busy. How penny pinching was it, to save twenty-three pounds per month by cutting down on a catering boy, and why did they insist on treating the boy ratings so badly?

We were to sign articles in the dining saloon after breakfast. Accordingly the catering section was called on to ensure that everything was ship shape in the saloon in plenty of time. While everybody else ate their breakfast in the duty mess that morning, I went without, as I was still strapping up in the pantry. Once again, no one offered to give a helping hand.

After I’d finished in the pantry, I made my way back down to the galley and was pleased to learn that the rest of my morning was relatively easy, at least until such time as the strap up of lunch, but by now, I was beginning to get my job down pat, and managed to keep up with proceedings.

About 1000hrs the galley crowd was called into the saloon to sign articles. It wasn’t a long, drawn out affair, and before much time had passed we were back in the galley, signed on for a possible two years. I dearly hoped that the trip would last only the scheduled six weeks.

Our twelve passengers boarded from about 1400 hrs onwards so the evening meal had many more plates, salvers and larger pots to strap up.

We sailed on the night tide, and as was to become habitual, there was a party going on in my cabin when I finished work. No one noticed as the invisible man went out for a shower, returned, and climbed into the top bunk, oblivious to the music, smoke and excited chatter of the partygoers.

“I’m just like fucken Cinderella,” I thought to myself.

I had learned that one of my cabin mates’ names was Tom, the other Barry, but they still hadn’t shown any inclination to acknowledge the fact that I existed. That was fine by me, I’d already decided that they were arseholes, and I wouldn’t piss in either one of their ears, even if their brains were on fire!

The daily grind of work had already become routine albeit still very taxing, and the cook had a habit of throwing a spanner in the works. I learned that he was a piss pot, and my life was made more difficult on the days he had a hangover. This was usually most days, so I learned to do my work, and keep out of his way as much as possible. My life revolved around thinking up subtle ways to even my score with the cook and one day whilst rolling quite heavily through some filthy weather, I put lashings of O’ Cedar wood oil on the khassie seat just before I knew he would turn to. I hadn’t polished the oil off, and knew my plan had worked when a loud and undignified yell came from the shithouse. Cook had gone to sit on the throne just as the ship rolled heavily, and he’d slid off! I marked up one for the underlings, and continued with my duties. This was one bollocking I wasn’t going to mind getting!

My ‘make and mend’ time was supposed to be from 1400 – 1600 hrs daily, but that went by the board and I was forced to work unpaid if I fell behind in my work. Fortunately I was usually finished by around 1400 hrs and looked forward to a couple of hours rest.

Conversation with my cabin mates had begun slowly, and it was a few days before there were any real signs of convivial co-habitation. I was a boy rating, and I suspect that it was resented that I should be in ‘their’ cabin. I became tolerated, though largely ignored.

After we’d been at sea for about a week, we pulled into Tunis, just another Arab port as far as I was concerned.

As usual, it was about 2030 hrs before I finished my duties, and my two cabin mates had already showered and were enjoying a cold beer.

“Hey Billy, you wanna come ashore with us?”

I was stunned. Unsolicited conversation was uncommon enough, but to be invited to go ashore with these higher beings was like winning the lottery. I grabbed the opportunity to go ashore and have someone to talk to. Arab ports were not generally fit places for young boys to be walking around on their own.

“Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks Tom.”

“Well we’ve got a taxi organised to be ‘ere in a couple of minutes. If you’re ready by the time ‘e gets ‘ere, you c’n come too.”

I rushed around like a blue arsed fly, trying to get ready before they got fed up, and went without me.

It must have taken less than five minutes, and I was dressed by the time their beers had been consumed. We walked down the gangway and piled into the waiting cab on the dock.

“Ullo John.” Said Barry to the taxi driver, “Take us to the best club in town.”

We left the depressing concrete and dust of the port and came into town which seemed to be reasonably respectable for an Arab port. I noticed that there were no women on the street although there were plenty of men about, sitting in cafes drinking thick Arabic coffee. A number of men walked hand in hand with other men.

The driver parked and as he was being paid, he tried to explain that we needed to walk around the corner to the nightclub. His message didn’t seem to be getting through to us so he locked his cab and came with us.

As we walked around the corner, the cabbie was walking next to me, and I suddenly felt his hand on my arse! The little bastard was trying to pull me!

“Gerroff yer dirty bastard,” I yelled, pushing him away into the gutter, “fucken bum bandit.”

The cabbie slunk away, presumably in search of someone a little more willing.

The nightclub we had arrived at was a bit like something out of the old movie, Casablanca, but without Humphrey. An abundantly proportioned woman wobbled her way through a belly dance while we sat drinking beer, and wondered what else there was to do in town. In general, it was all a bit depressing and we drank in silence, waiting for someone else to suggest it was time to head back to the ship.

The following morning it was business as usual, except that I had to serve the local Arab tally clerks breakfast and lunch in the small duty mess just opposite the galley door on the port side. Great pains were taken to ensure that no pig products were fed to the clerks as it was against their religion. I set the table for breakfast and completed it with a cutting board, bread knife and fresh loaf, and left the four clerks to their meal. When I went back later to clear away I was disgusted that they had ignored the bread knife and torn the loaf apart, spreading crumbs and bits of bread all over the place. The knives and forks were also unused, and the tally clerks had eaten with their hands. I now had a full scale clean up on my hands, rather than a quick wipe down.

I made it my business to serve lovely cold roast pork rolls for their lunch, which they stuffed down their necks as fast as they could, presumably to prevent someone else eating more than their fair share.

“Yeah, chew the lumps outa that, ya bloody rag head bastards,” I thought.

During make and mend that day, the crew were playing soccer on the quay. I was never much of a soccer fan, but thought I’d join in, as there wasn’t anything else to do. I was going down the gangway, and was almost at the bottom when the ball came my way, and a shout came over, “Yours Billy.”

I jumped off the remaining step of the gangway, and raced toward the ball. One of the deck hands was chasing from the other direction, and we both gave it a mighty kick at exactly the same moment. The ball instantly became an immoveable object, and the sudden stop, combined with my momentum, converted me into a projectile! I sailed through the air in a graceful dive, and instead of rolling with the fall, hit the concrete with both arms straight out in front. The pain was excruciating. Both elbows were badly damaged, and the swelling began immediately. I had no grip in either hand, and couldn’t move my arms. Both shoulders, elbows and wrists competed for best pain champion, with the elbows clearly way out in the lead.

I was way too hurt to scream. My breath frozen in my lungs for a minute or so while my eyes came back into focus.

“Shit, you Ok Billy?”

“C’n you do it agen Billy, I missed it the first time.”

“Fuck, I wish I’da had a camera, that was funny as a shit fight.”

I realised that my eyes were beginning to bulge so it was clearly time to breath again. I expelled my trapped air in an unintelligible moan.”Fuunooohhaarrgghh…………..”

Gradually my compatriots were realizing that I was hurt, and they helped me to my feet by pulling me up by the arms. The additional pain immediately powered my legs which soon had me in a vertical position. ”jeeeezzusssss.”

Perhaps vertical wasn’t quite right. I was hunched over like a gorilla, arms hanging uselessly by my sides. I decided that I wouldn’t play the second half, and tottered off up the gangway for an aspirin and a lie down.

After a couple of hours it was time for me to turn to again, and the thought of a few days off injured appealed to me a lot.

Tiny was in the galley already. “Wotsamadda wiv yew den?”

“I’ve stuffed me elbows cook, can’t use me ‘ands either.”

“Well, yer gonnerava ‘ard job scrubbin’ ‘em pots aincha, bedda gerron wiv it.”

“But cook, …”

“Shut yer gob, ain’t my problem yew godda self inflicted wound, gerron wiv yer werk”

 I found that I could just barely hold a scrubbing brush in my right hand, and by moving my upper body; I found I could manipulate the scrubber left and right. Carrying the rosie down aft was shear bloody torture, as was scrubbing out with the deck broom.

That night when I finally finished my work, about an hour later than normal, I finally managed to undress myself amidst much merriment on behalf of the other two in the cabin. Having showered, I very much wanted to sleep and planned to bed down on the daybed as I had no idea how I would get up to the top bunk. Alas, there was another party going on in the cabin, and if I wanted to get my head down, I would somehow have to find a way to get into my own bunk. I stood on the daybed and somehow managed to jump high enough to land on my bum, on the top of the chest of drawers. From there, I wriggled around in to a kneeling position, and managed to climb over the end of my bunk, and crawl into my pit. The concern for my well being, shown by the others in the catering crowd was touching!

We sailed sometime during the night.

The next morning, the night watch AB came into the cabin to wake us as usual, and as usual, grabbed my elbow and gave me a shake.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH Piss off you bastard.” I was awake, and sitting wide eyed, and bolt upright!

For the next week, every movement was sheer agony, but never once was I allowed to forgo any of my chores including carrying supplies up from the cool rooms, or scrubbing decks.

Our next port was Malta. This would be my fourth time there, having sailed there twice during my last trip on the Cavallo. We arrived in the afternoon, and as if by a magnet, were drawn directly to the ‘Gut’ as soon as we got ashore. Who knows how many tiny bars with names like The Trafalgar, The Nelson, Pompey etc there were? Certainly I never managed to go to them all. The “entertainment” was always lewd if not downright bawdy, and I think I can say that most British sailors managed to have one hell of a good time there, even if in most cases, they found it difficult to remember them.

Malta was only a one-night stop, and we were on our way again by the afternoon of the following day.

We sailed under bright sunshine, with glass like seas, and I transferred my duties out on deck whenever I could. Every day I had at least one fifty pound bag of potatoes to peel, so I’d run them through the peeling machine and take them out bucket by bucket to my little posi in the sun to finish them off.

After thirty-five years I have finally realised that I never knew any of the deck hands nor engine room blokes, and the only part of the ship I saw, was those parts pertaining to my job. I just never had time for anything else. Looking back now, I suppose that we must have carried a stewardess to look after the twelve passengers we had, but if we did, I never saw her, nor heard anything of her.

After about three days at sea, we were anchored off Limassol in Cypress. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot ashore, a small town with tiny, whitewashed houses up on the hills. Nevertheless, a liberty boat was put on and we were informed that it would leave the ship at 2000hrs. This presented a problem for me as I generally finished my work anywhere between 2000 and 2030 hrs. All I could do was to get a wriggle on, like a cut snake, and hope I could make up a few minutes. It was a waste of time asking either of the two stewards or the cooks to give me a hand. I just had to do what I could.

Despite the continuing pain to my elbows, I was making up time, fortunately for me, most of the passengers had decided to forego dinner, and had gone ashore almost as soon as we’d dropped the hook, so there were far fewer dishes in the pantry for me. I wouldn’t have time to eat, but by the time I knocked off, I’d made up about quarter of an hour, and I had five minutes before the liberty boat was due to leave.

My two cabin mates had showered, and changed leisurely, whilst having a cool beer. I dashed in, ripped off my working gear, ran to the khassie and splashed some water on my face and hair, threw on a shirt, and was still combing my hair as I stepped aboard the boat, across the widening gap of water, as it pulled away from the ship.

Sweat was pouring off me and I dare say I may well have stank, but I’d made the liberty boat. There were a couple of things I hadn’t done, but I would rather cop a bollocking tomorrow, than miss going ashore tonight.

When the boat got to the dock, everybody went their own ways, and it became apparent that I was surplus to requirements, so I made my own way into town and headed for a bar. I had a beer in a couple of places that night, and eventually found the second cook chesting a bar, and chatting up the attractive barmaid. He was doing alright too by the look of it. I ordered a beer and was about to walk away when Mick called me over. Now this was a surprise, Mick had never gone out of his way to be friendly, but I was glad of the company, even if it was with a phony bastard.

“Orright Billy?” asked Mick, “like yer ter meet Sophia.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

Mick leaned toward me conspiratorially, and asked, “jew want sum nooky ternite?”

“Wot with ‘er?”

“Nah, wiv ‘er mate, she wants me ter bring a mate back wiv me, to ‘er ‘ouse wen she knocks off.”

“Well, what time will that be, the liberty boat goes back at eleven?”

“Oh we’ll ‘ave ter miss that, an’ get the first one back in the mornin.”

“I’ll be right in the shite then, I don’t get any free time as it is, how the hell am I gonna catch up if I turn to late?”

“Come on Billy mate, you gotta be in this, I’ll miss out too if ya don’t come.”

I allowed Mick to buy me another beer and talk me into missing the boat, it was always hard to knock back strange nooky when it was on offer, though I wasn’t too certain about the rather curious arrangements.

Sophia knocked off at about eleven so we hung around taking the beer slowly. As she was knocking off, she pushed the two of us into a waiting cab, burbled something Greek or Turkish to the driver, and told Mick she’d see us later. I felt that we had been stitched up for sure, and wondered if Mick still had his wallet.

After a short cab ride, we pulled up at a house hanging precariously on the side of the hill. A woman came out to greet us as Mick paid the driver. She was a small woman, wearing the obligatory all black costume that every woman over about thirty seemed to wear. She couldn’t speak a word of English, so communication was by way of sign language as she ushered us inside.

Mick and I sat quietly in the house, nervously sipping the beer the old woman had presented us, until Sophia arrived about twenty minutes later.

I had to admit, I hadn’t expected to see her again and had been waiting for a couple of heavies to come barreling through the door to do us over.

Sophia introduced the older woman as her mother, and I was idly wondering when the other girl would show up, when it suddenly dawned on me that mama WAS the other ‘girl.’

After some stilted conversation it was time for bed. Mick and Sophia were already rather heavily engaged, and their clothes were coming off quite quickly.

The four of us stood up and went into the only bedroom the house possessed. There was only one bed, a double, which was occupied by a very young girl of about three or four years. Sophia said the girl was hers.

So, there we were, Mick and Sophia on one side of the bed, then the little girl, then me and mama.

I figured that sleeping here would be far preferable than trying to find the dock on my own, late at night, so prepared to do my duty. I shut my eyes and thought of England!

By about 0600 hrs, Mick and I were settled in a cab, and on our way back down to the dock. Mick said that a boat would probably be going out quite early to take the wharfies out to the ship as we were discharging into lighter barges. Fortunately, Mick was correct, and it was only about 0630 or perhaps a little later that we were back aboard, and changing into working gear.

“Decided to come back ay?” said the second steward, “I hope you’ll still think it was worth it in a couple of weeks time when you start pissing razor blades sunshine.” My mind went back to the Vindicatrix and the lecture we’d had by the Visiting Medical Officer, on the symptoms of various Venereal Diseases. “I hope so too.” I thought.

“You’re gonna have ter go like shit off a shovel if you’re gonna get yer alleyways done before Tiny turns to.”

“Yeah sec, I’ll be right there.”

The alleyways usually had a full scrub out every morning, but I figured they could get by with just a “round the coast job” today. I wet the mop, put one edge of the mop under the edge of the plastic runner, and went for a walk the length of the alleyway. At the end, I turned the mop over, placed it at the edge of the wet line I’d just made, and walked back to the bucket. “That’s one alleyway done.” I thought. In this way, I managed to make it look like all alleyways had received their daily clean, and I’d managed to catch up the half hour or so I had been behind in my work.

The stewards’ khassie received a “spit and a promise” not forgetting the dab of O’Cedar on the shit house seat, and I was ready for the galley.

Just a few hours away, around the coast was Famagusta, our next stop. We were there to deliver ammunition to the British Army, and during make and mend, I took time to have a look at the unloading proceedings, and had a chat with a couple of the squaddies who were there to receive the cargo. They were from the Royal Inniskillen Fusiliers who were stationed on Garrison Duties. There had been a bit of trouble lately they said between the Greek and Turkish communities. They also told me that there was a nice beach nearby, so Tom, Barry and I went to soak up some rays, have a dip in the oggin, and pretend we were tourists for a couple of hours. All too soon our time was up, and we had to return to the ship for our afternoon duties. The rest of town would have to wait until we came ashore again in the evening.

The Andy Cap Bar was empty save for the woman behind the bar. I was alone as usual and being hot and sticky, decided that it would be a good idea to have a cool drink, in air-conditioned comfort. The joint was perhaps twelve feet wide, and twenty feet or so long, with a lino floor, two or three wooden outdoor chairs and a juke box. I collected my beer, and walked away from the bar to take a seat next to the jukebox. Boy ratings seldom put money into jukes as eventually someone else would, and this time was no exception. The lady came around the bar, inserted a couple of coins, and punched some buttons. A popular English tune came on. The barmaid began to gyrate to the music, and came nearer to me until she was standing above me, on my left side. As the music played she continued to gyrate, flicking her skirt up every now and again. Obviously subtlety wasn’t working on this young fella, so she lifted her skirt quite deliberately to advertise the fact that she wore no underwear. She was still gyrating and gradually moving her pelvis toward my hand, which I had cocked up in the air, as I was resting my elbow. Naturally, I was keen to see where this was all going so remained in my position while she impaled herself on my hand, all the while still gyrating and moaning softly. By this time, I had become rather embarrassed, this was not the kind of behaviour I was generally used to in the coffee bars of Watford, and was concerned that someone would walk in. I finished my beer about the same time as the music stopped, and although the lady seemed to think I would follow her out the back, I shot through, out the door, to see if I could find the rest of the crew.

A short while later, I found a nightclub, from the bowels of which emanated the drunken calls of British Seamen. I went inside.

Almost the entire crew, were at tables around the front of the dance floor, and I was informed that they had just witnessed a great strip show, with another couple of acts to follow. I stayed with the others and we had quite a good night, perhaps, the best night of my trip so far. I was being included in the conversation, not to mention the drinks round, and when it came to my turn to shout, one of the deckies insisted that I miss the shout because everybody knew that boy ratings couldn’t afford to mix it with senior ratings. It was strange that the deckies were more kind to me than the people with whom I was working.

I wasn’t about to fight for the right to buy a round so sat back and proceeded to get myself well and truly shit faced.

We had been hearing on the news that the Israelis and several Arab nations had been in serious discussions which seemed to be breaking down, to the point where we weren’t certain if we would get to our last port, which was Haifa. We had finished unloading in Famagusta so off we went to Israel, arriving the following day. A submarine and a surface warship guarded the port, and as we sailed into Haifa harbour, it appeared to me that we had just gone through a time warp, back to World War Two.

Across the harbour, on our port side as we steamed in, there were oil storage containers which had six or seven sets of Bofors and other Ack Ack guns dotted around to protect them. The port was packed with warships of every kind including landing craft.

Someone, possibly the British Embassy warned us to keep a head of steam up, so the engine room crowd continued their sea watches just in case.

We had been told not to go ashore in small groups so half a dozen or so of us decided to go to the local bowling alley for the evening. We piled into a couple of cabs, and shot off, through the city. Everywhere we looked people were in military uniforms carrying sub machine guns. Prior to coming ashore, we had been told that if anything happened, we were to head back to the ship as fast as we could get there.

In the bowling alley, life seemed to go on as usual, although it appeared that everybody over about eighteen was in uniform and had a weapon. We played a couple of games of ten pin and got into conversation with some young Israelis.

“Aren’t you afraid that this lot might end up in a war?”

“No, lets do it, lets get it over with.” Seemed to be the general reaction.

It was all a bit unnerving so we decided to get back to the ship. Being in Israel during that period of time, on a ship named the Egyptian Prince, probably wasn’t a good idea.

The next day, we had been unloading for some hours when we were given the word to drop our ropes and head for the open sea without delay. We were under way within about half an hour, and the deck crew closed the hatches and dropped the derricks whilst we were at sea.

Only a couple of hours later, we learned that the surface warship, which had been guarding the harbour, had been hit by a missile, and sunk with all hands. The Egyptian Air Force flew a bombing mission to Haifa harbour to bomb the oil tanks, and the Six Day War of 1967 was under way.

Our ship was sent back to Famagusta to complete our unload.

By the next day we were on our way back to London. I was told to soogee all the bulkheads from my four alleyways. The greasy diesel smoke from the funnel was sucked in through the alleyways, leaving its residue all over the bulkheads. Before coming home each trip, the galley boy had to clean it all off. The work was done after hours over two or three days, and during this time, I worked on my own, whilst the usual party continued in my cabin. It would be about 2300hrs before I knocked off, and I’d have to creep around whilst preparing for bed, lest I wake the higher beings that were my cabin mates.

One night, after the soogeeing episode was behind me, we were all in the cabin after work. I was lying on the daybed, the usual visitors not having arrived as yet. Suddenly, the lower half of my body went into spasm as both my hamstrings, calves and feet decided to cramp at the same time. Tom and Barry thought it was wonderful entertainment and laughed their heads off as I screamed for help. I rolled off the daybed and dragged myself to the alleyway where I knew I could use the handrail either side to pull myself up, and try to straighten my legs. I suppose that the spasms lasted for around half an hour, during which time no one came to my assistance. That was the end of my party, and I went to bed, pretty well pissed off with my shipmates.

A couple of days from home, Tiny got a bee in his bonnet about the state of the galley deck, insisting that it wasn’t clean because of the white build up around the outer edges of the ribbed tiles.

“But it won’t come off Tiny.” I said

“Don’t give me that shit, “ he said, “come back ‘ere during yer make an’ mend sarftanoon, an’ I’ll bloody show you it’ll come off.”

“Yes cook, “ said I dejectedly.

After I’d strapped up in the pantry at lunchtime I went to Tiny’s cabin as ordered, so he could show me how to scrub a galley deck.

We went into the galley where I saw on the workbench, a container of Harpic toilet cleaner, and something else that I think was probably Draino or something similar.

“Chuck lots of lovely soapy water down boy.” I did as required, while Tiny walked around sprinkling Harpic on the tiles. Having done that he went around with the Draino.

“Now, scrub boy scrub.”

I started scrubbing and as the two chemicals mixed, I could see a feint mist rising from the deck.

“See, that’s the white stain dissolving.” Yelled Tiny.

By now, I was coughing quite heavily, a severe tickle in the back of my throat, rapidly becoming worse. My eyes were beginning to burn, and breathing was almost in the ‘you gotta be jokin’ category.

I stood up, and leaned the handle of the deck broom against the workbench. “That’s it for my money Tiny, you c’n stay ‘ere if you like, but I can’t work in ‘ere any more.”

“Come back ‘ere ya little shite,” he called, giving a little cough himself. “It’s not so bad once ya get used to it.”

“Yeah, well, I have no intention of getting used to it mate, I don’t give a shit what you do or say, I ain’t going back in there until the fumes‘v gone.”

Tiny was almost on the verge of apoplexy, but the necessity to breath forced him out of the galley too.

We both stopped coughing about a couple of minutes later.

“Piss off to yer shit pit.” Snarled Tiny, “An’ don’t be late turnin’ to or I’ll ‘ave yer.”

“Righto Tiny,” I smirked as I turned on my heel. Despite the raw throat, I was made up to have been there to see Tiny show himself up as a dickhead.

About ten or eleven days after leaving Famagusta, we were back in sight of “The old Dart,” and I was so excited about getting the hell off this ship that I had the worst case of “The Channels” I was ever to experience during my time in the Merchant Navy. Tomorrow’s pay off couldn’t come quick enough for me.

I wasn’t asked to return for the next trip which saved me the trouble of telling them to shove it where the sun don’t shine, and soon enough, I had donned my go ashore clobber which had been hanging in my wardrobe since the day I first came aboard. They hung off me like Salvation Army Handouts, and even though my belt was on its last notch, my pants had to be continuously hoisted northwards, a tricky, one-handed operation as I carried my suitcase. I weighed myself on the train platform and was shocked to discover that during the six-week trip, I had lost one and a half stone.

Nothing mattered. I was on my way home to Watford, with twenty-two pounds, seven shillings and five pence jangling in my pocket, another eighteen pounds allotment safely tucked away in my bank, and a weeks leave.

About eight or nine days after I got home, there was a phone call for me.

“Jew wanna go back next trip on the Egyptian Prince?”

“You gotta be joking avenchew? I got the arse anyway.”

“Yeah, I know, but they’ve changed their minds, they can’t get another boy to join ‘er an’ said they’d take you back.”

“I’m not surprised no-one will join ‘er,” I said, “an’ I’m not about to let myself in for another trip of purgatory either mate.”