“Russell, Sidney Leonard, deck boy,” shouts the hassled looking man behind the counter. It has protective metal bars running up almost to the ceiling. I am in the shipping office in the Port of London, situated at the beginning of the King George V dock. There are lines of ships moored as far as the eye can see. Huge cranes, looking like a swarm of praying mantises, were swinging their arms out over the ships. Tractors pulling rows of trolleys were busily hauling to and fro along the wharves. They vanished into the giant warehouses. Their open doors were like the gaping mouths of monsters demanding constant feeding. Dockers were shouting and sweating as they manhandled frozen carcasses out of the cargo lifting nets and onto the jitney trolleys. It was Bedlam but organized Bedlam, if there could be such a thing.
“Russell,” the call echoed again. I was still standing by the window and was fascinated by what I was seeing and lost in thought. I came back to life with a startled, “Here, here, I’m here sir.”
“Over here, boy,” he replied. I picked up my holdall and scrambled over to him. I handed over my precious discharge book. He already had my letter, which I’d supplied when I’d come in.
“Right, Russell, here’s a job for you. Deck Boy on the Highland Monarch and you’re off to Argentina. You’ll be away for eleven weeks. The shore supervisor will be signing the crew in the first class dining room at ten o’clock in the morning,” he barked. “The first mate will be there to check the deck crowd.”
“Where do I go?” I managed to stammer. I felt that all eyes were upon me and knew I was a first tripper.
“You go straight down the KG V dock on this side. You’ll find her down there. She’s on berth nine.”
He handed me a shipping office appointment docket.
“Give this to the First Mate or the Bosun. You’ll be okay, now get along.”
So I joined the madding crowd. I was very pleased to have left the shipping office; the atmosphere in there had been pungent. Smoke had hung heavily in the air, competing with other unpleasant odours. Most of the seamen who were hanging around in there looking for jobs appeared to be suffering from hangovers and looked much the worse for wear and very unkempt. A few of them, mainly the younger ones, were smart and well dressed. Like me they appeared to want to get a ship and get out of there as soon as possible. I set off down KG V looking for my first ship. I felt pleased with myself and assumed a swagger as I walked. In my ignorance I expected a short stroll, how wrong I was. Dad’s holdall soon started to feel heavy. I dodged trolleys; I dodged dockers. I avoided great swinging hooks gouging into big bales of wool. It was go, go, go, on the London Docks. The holdall was cutting into my palm and I had to keep changing it from hand to hand and keep moving in this maelstrom of activity. I felt like I had tumbled into a mad, noisy and strange world that probably couldn’t exist in the same universe as Mill End. My nostrils were picking up strange new smells from the oily water splashing against the wharf pilings. This mixed in with the aroma of various foodstuffs and spicy products being unloaded by the swearing, sweating dockers. They were a breed of men completely alien to me. They were the real East Enders and proud of it. They were tough men doing a tough job. Remember this was all prior to the containerisation system introduced in the mid-sixties. A system that completely changed the way goods were shipped and cargoes were handled. I struggled on. I must have looked a bit strange in this environment. There I was, decked out in my full Teddy Boy regalia and humping a huge ex-army holdall. The spectacle drew plenty of good-natured comments from the dockers and stevedores as I passed. The ribald cockney humour followed me down the dock, from shed to shed, from crane to crane. Some of it very original, alluding to other heavy ugly bags I must have carried the night before! I managed to muster a smile in return, but any vestige of the original swagger I had assumed when starting this walk, was now completely gone. Then I was saved from further torment. I saw a great big ‘NINE’ painted on the sidewall of a massive warehouse. With huge relief I dropped the holdall like a hot brick. By now I was gulping air like a drowning man. I turned and looked up and there, towering above me, was the great black iron plated hull of a moored ship. At last and very tired I had found her, my first ship. Painted in large gold letters on that great black hull I read the words that were a harbinger of a new life - Highland Monarch.
“You look like the new Deck Boy,” were the words that greeted me as I struggled to the top of the gangway. Dad’s old army holdall felt twice as heavy now, but I tried not to let that show. From now on it was imperative that I hid any weakness.
“First trip?” he asked.
“Yes, the man at the Pool office sent me, here’s the letter he gave me.”
I was talking to a smart, handsome, youngish man of about twenty-four or so. He was dressed in a crisp, white sailor’s uniform. He was sun-tanned and confident. Unlike me who was pale, skinny and nervous. I needed to change that. I discovered later that he was a Quartermaster who regularly sailed on the Royal Mail Line ships. The QM’s as they were known were a part of the Deck Department, enjoying a slightly exalted position above the rest of the deck crowd. They had special duties some of which required them and only them, to wear the traditional sailor’s uniform, even though we were Merchant Navy. Ah well, I was used to weird rituals; I’d been a caddie at Moor Park. The QM’s were always to be found on ships that carried passengers. They manned the gangways, generally did most of the steering and bridge duties, particularly if a pilot was on board. Often, they were also used as window dressing in functions to do with passengers, posing in their crisp white uniforms and sailor hats. And yes, we were a bit jealous of them. Maybe that’s where the saying ‘all the nice girls love a sailor’ comes from; they say it’s all in the uniform.
“Right,” said the QM, “go along to the Deckies Mess Room for’d.”
This was sailor speak for ‘forward’ as opposed to ‘aft’. I had picked this abbreviation up from my time at the Vindi and I had been addressed in sailor speak for the first time and understood it. It felt like that was a good start. He pointed, along the working alleyway.
“Keep going along to the fo’csle. The mess room is in there, you should find the Bosun then, or just ask; he won’t be far away. And good luck,” he added.
Maybe he remembered his own first trip and the trepidation that went with it.
“Watch yourself, look out, look out,” a docker was shouting as he struggled through the throng. The starboard, working alley was a hive of activity with people hurrying and scurrying. Dockers pushing through, no beg your pardons here; everybody in a hurry. I was to learn that this was always the way of things in the days prior to a ship sailing; the tempo building up the closer it got to cast-off time. ‘Let go forward, let go aft.’ This was the shout we all anxiously waited to hear, some with more reason than others to put England and the laws of the land behind them. I still had to find the Bosun. I had to get signed on and be assigned to my shared cabin. However, we were sailing and those matters were just procedural. I was leaving the shores of my homeland for the first time. Somewhere in the shadow world that accompanies me, an umbilical cord had been cut.
This Bosun, whom I hadn’t yet met, was to become a great influence on me during the next twelve months. The Bosun was the main man onboard as far as the deck crowd was concerned. He was the law, the Sergeant, he who must be obeyed. Even the officers deferred to him. Imagine a company Sergeant Major in the army; our Bosuns enjoyed roughly the same status and respect. I was to find that he could make the trip good and exciting, or if you foolishly crossed him, he could make the trip a nightmare. I was lucky; the Bosun on Highland Monarch at that time was a good one. I was to do three trips down to Argentina on this Royal Mail passenger cargo liner with him. Unfortunately during the last one we suffered a major accident in which the Bosun lost his life. The longer I was on ships, the more I realised that accidents at sea carried far more danger than the equivalent on dry land with their nearby hospitals. In this one the Bosun paid the highest possible price with two more of the able bodied seamen very badly injured; in fact one was crippled for life. We treated them on-board, as we carried a doctor and a nurse and headed for Buenos Aires, the nearest place with adequate hospital facilities, but we had to transfer them ashore and leave them there. I was very lucky to escape the accident. The Bosun had sent me up on deck to help out there. I had been working in the ‘tween decks with the Bosun’s gang, where the accident occurred. I was eighteen at the time and I can only assume it wasn’t meant for me to be one of the injured or dead. Fate, or just dumb luck? I believe it’s fate, but of course we can’t prove it either way.
As my confidence at sea grew I really started to enjoy the South American run. In all, I did five trips down there. Apart from the one in which we had the accident, they were great fun. I made friends in Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro. They were very hospitable people. I was shown their great cities away from just the dock areas. I got very close to one family, but they suddenly disappeared. I was given to understand that the father had been arrested on some political charge. Argentina was a politically turbulent place at the time. The Peron problems were still fresh and the Police and the Army were an intrusive and ever-present aspect of Argentinean life. I called again to try to see my friends, but their neighbours advised me to stay away. I often wondered how they fared. I hope they were okay, they were very nice people, but the country was littered with the victims of political abuse from a repressive regime.
Our first port of call was always Vigo, one of the harbours on the west coast of Spain, to pick up hordes of Spanish immigrants bound for Argentina. They were looking for a better life, the driving force that feeds all emigration everywhere. We usually took them on board in the Spanish port of Vigo. This was no luxury liner for them. They were crammed into dormitory type accommodation. The men and boys separated from the women and children. Some parts of their accommodation were situated under the waterline in the stern of the ship. I saw the hope for the future written on the faces of the adults as they streamed excitedly on board. I hoped that it was enough to overcome the disappointment of the cramped, difficult conditions they were being herded into. I was to learn that this had been the fate of all assisted migrants since these great population shifts started. They didn’t’ really care how they got to their new worlds; the thing was to get there. I realised that like me, they had dreams of a better life awaiting them. And if you think about it, this was probably exactly the same impulse that got our distant ancestors out of Africa all those hundreds of thousands of years ago and out into Europe and eventually the whole world.
The ship’s siren was starting to sound. This was the first of the warning calls that we should soon be sailing. The next siren blast was repeated a bit louder and longer. This was the last call for the crewmembers not on duty, who had gone ashore to slake their thirst. It was the last opportunity for about eighteen days to do so on dry land and perhaps to spend a little time with one of the senoritas who were readily available in the waterfront bars. Many a young British sailor enjoyed and supported these bars. Remember that the average age of the deck crew was only twenty-one, at most twenty-two. Remember how you, the male readers behaved at that age; but probably without the temptations and opportunities that presented themselves to us. One more blast on the siren. It’s getting urgent now, so the second officer has been sent ashore with a couple of QM’s and the Bosun to round up the stragglers. Most of them were very much the worse the wear from drink. Once they were rounded up and led on board and the new stores taken on and the cargo loading finished we were ready to depart. The deck crew were battening down everything and making ready for sea. The Bosun and First Officer took their supervisory positions on the foredeck. The last minute shrill calls on the ship’s siren were blasted out and we were going. We Deckies would take our positions to release the great thick ropes and wire hawsers that bound us to the quay. The engines came to life with a thunderous roar. The ship vibrated, the tugs had taken up positions fore and aft and the gangway was up now. “Let go for’d,” came the cry; the bow starts to swing out. “Let go aft,” called to the second mate in charge at the stern. We drifted out into the stream, the tugs fussing around us, carefully heading us towards the open sea. Outside of the harbour we turned and set course into the Atlantic. We steamed onwards, down to the warm climes of the equatorial Atlantic Ocean.
That first trip was an experience that has stayed with me all my life. I was to go on and make many trips to a multitude of countries and locations, but during my first trip, full of innocence, I was hypnotised and captured by the balmy days, sunshine, blue skies and the clear green ocean. I remember it now as if it were yesterday, standing in the bow and watching the stem of the Monarch cutting through the water. I was captivated by the porpoises as they played their seemingly choreographed game. They were cutting dangerously close across the bow of the ship in unison. Then diving and leaping as if in a dance. I could feel their joy. It was as if they knew they were performing for a very appreciative audience and perhaps they did. I can still feel the sunshine on my body and hear the seagulls wheeling above the ship as if to music. Every waking moment, in every day, was a new experience that I couldn’t wait to savour. I would get up early in the mornings and join my shipmates in holystoning and washing down the decks. My naivety and enthusiasm for this new life knew no bounds and made it into something so very special. So much so, that now, fifty-three years on, the impressions it made were so strongly etched that I can relive those wonderful days. Perhaps joyous memories are life’s greatest riches.
We were heading for the east coast of South America. There we would visit exotic countries such as Brazil and Uruguay and then head for our final destination, the great city of Buenos Aries and the capital city of Argentina. What a magnificent experience for seasoned travellers, let alone a seventeen-year-old boy from the lovely, but hick, town of Rickmansworth. We started on what was called the deep-sea dive down the east coast of South America. We were calling into such fabulous ports as Rio de Janeiro and Santos, in Brazil, then Montevideo in Uruguay. I was to sail into many ports on my future trips, but few had the same majesty as Rio de Janeiro. I was woken by the Charley the Senior Ordinary Seaman of the four to eight watch. “Come on,” he said, “We’ll be in Rio in an hour and the Bosun wants you on deck.” It was about five o’clock. I scrambled, bleary eyed, out of my bunk, grabbed my shorts and a tee shirt. Charley was still trying to wake the other two lads, both Junior Ordinary Seamen. If it were a competition they could have slept for England. I made my way up to the foredeck and reported to the Bosun.
“Okay, young Russell,” he said, “I want you to stay with me and be my runner.” He broke off the conversation to give an instruction to one of the AB’s. Turning back to me he said, “Just don’t get in the way when we start to go alongside in Rio. Stay behind Steve and do what he tells you.”
Steve was the lamp trimmer, a hangover name from earlier days of sailing ships.
“Steve’s on the main winch. Stand behind him and help coil the heavy rope as it comes off the main drum.”
The Bosun, whose name was Allen, was a man of about fifty, he was an impressive figure. He was slim and tanned from a lifetime at sea. He had, like most seaman of his age; served through the war years and he had been torpedoed twice, one time having spent six days in a lifeboat on the open ocean before being rescued. Allen was a hard man, but a fair one. He was a classical music fan and well read, as the bookshelves in his cabin attested. He enjoyed the respect of all. He knew his job and an air of confidence surrounded him. He and his type were the sort who held everything together, particularly when under pressure. They were the cement that held together a great nation and empire. They contributed as much as the great generals, governors and explorers who were the ones who enjoyed all the acknowledgement and fame. I believe that their achievements, however great, were built on the backs of people like Allen, the Bosun on the Highland Monarch.
By now it was about six o’clock in the morning. We were steaming for Guanabara Bay and it was like an inland sea. The capital city, Rio de Janeiro, as it was then, was built around a river that flowed into that huge bay. The city took its name from it, the River of January. As we were reaching for the city, the amazing Sugar Loaf Mountain came into view. What a spectacle it was. This was Rio’s calling card; you could compare it to The Statue of Liberty in New York, or The Golden Gate in San Francisco, or as I was later to find out, Rangitoto Island in Auckland Harbour. These iconic features, which are so recognisable, serve as inviting butlers for those great cities. After that spellbinding sight, towering above the city, one sees the Corcovado Mountain rising two thousand three hundred feet high. It is topped by the magnificent statue of Jesus with outstretched arms, one-hundred-and-thirty feet tall overlooking the city and harbour. What a statement it made. The sight of it was mighty impressive, but the intended message was probably more so. In 2007 that monument, the ‘Christ Redentor’, was named as one of the new Seven Wonders of the World. It gave me a secret pleasure to know that I had been privileged to see it as a very young man and recognise its grandeur then and know that I was seeing something so very special.
I had run a couple of messages for the Bosun and I’d got back in time to support Steve on the big forecastle winch. We had picked up the pilot and he guided us into the port and to our berth. Steve, who was very experienced, handled that heavy rope on the winch drum with great expertise. He had to hold the tension when instructed, holding it steady on the big winch drum, or else be prepared to feed it out quickly if called upon. This was a technique that only came with experience. Steve had plenty of that and I felt safe behind him. There have been accidents during that manoeuvre of coming alongside. The man on the main winch had to be alert for a sudden swing of the ship. A swing could easily be caused by a current. Sometimes it could be an offshore wind shift. Or even possibly a sudden pressure from the tugs. If that first main hawser wasn’t released quickly enough and snapped, it cracked like a gunshot and snaked across the deck with tremendous force. That happened on a later ship I was on. Luckily the result wasn’t fatal, but the AB had his leg very badly fractured. We had to pay him off and leave him behind in a local hospital. Such is the way with accidents on ships.
Later that day, when we had some time off, a few of us went ashore together. Some of the guys had been there before and knew where to go. I was very surprised not to be led to one of the red light districts. We all piled into a couple of taxis, happy and enjoying some time on land after the sixteen-day dive to Rio. We had a rattle of a ride seeing parts of the city and then we were dropped off at the famous Copacabana Beach. I hadn’t heard of it and maybe in 1955 not too many others had either. We settled into a waterfront bar and were served with icy cold local lagers. We sat outside in a comfortable seating area. The beer was so different from the warmish English ale we were used to. It was so cold that it made me feel like I had a steel band tightening around my forehead. We sat there in the balmy late afternoon sunshine. Lovely bikini-clad girls with their boyfriends walked the gorgeous beach. Family groups were casually strolling together. Some were enjoying games of football. Some a hand tennis game, rather like deck tennis. It seemed a very sophisticated and comfortable lifestyle. I almost wondered if I had died and gone to heaven. I sat there and sipped my lager and knew that I had been transported into a different world. This first look at Rio was however balanced out more evenly on subsequent trips. Like most great cities it also suffered from extreme poverty, which was not to be seen around the upmarket Copacabana district. We were urged to be very careful where we spent our time ashore. It was dangerous to wander in certain districts on your own. We always travelled in groups and there were always a couple of guys in the crowd who knew the ropes from previous trips.
I think we only spent two quiet nights in Rio. This was acting to a pre-prepared plan, whereby we had all agreed to be good boys and save our money for a magic time in Montevideo. This plan had been instigated by a seaman called Ginger, who claimed to have amazing contacts there from his last trip. His graphic descriptions of the pleasures that awaited us had fanned us young guys into a lather of sexual expectation. We stuck rigorously to the plan while in Rio and saved our pennies. We withstood some intense provocation and pressure from very beautiful Brazilian working girls, which was remarkable given we had been at sea for three weeks. We didn’t have the normal restraints that would have applied in our hometowns.
We cast off from Rio and I think it is fair to say that we four young seamen carried out our duties with even more enthusiasm than usual. As we cleared the port and turned into the river we slapped each other on the back laughing and joking about our planned debauchery, which was now close to hand. A quick trip into Santos, a day’s steaming down the coast; berth there for one day and then on to our Latin American ‘Nirvana’ where Ginger’s girls awaited us.
We had just steamed down the river and were about to turn into the Bay. We four were leaning over the rails having a cup of tea and boasting about our (mostly illusory) prowess with the ladies and past conquests. I remember turning to Ginger and saying that when his girl saw me she would probably ditch him and I doubted that I would have to pay either. This boasting young man’s talk all came to a shuddering halt, literally. We had run aground. The whole ship shuddered, the rails we had been leaning on shook. Allen, the Bosun, reacted very quickly. Without instruction from the bridge, he quickly marshalled the deck crowd. He detailed us to return to our berthing stations and await further instructions. There wasn’t much we could do at that point, but his action made sure that we were spread around the ship evenly and were available for a quick response if needed. All thoughts of “Monte” and the girls disappeared; this was serious business. We were taught very early and continually, that a condition known as ‘safety of the ship’ took precedence over all other concerns. While this turned out not to be a major incident, it could well have been. The main danger to a ship, which runs aground, is the very strong possibility of significant holing below the water line. While there was no panic, an air of determination and resolution involving all hands could be felt. Nothing is left to chance in safety of the ship situations. Fortunately this grounding was to prove a minor one damage wise. Groundings though are considered a very serious business and an official enquiry will always follow.
The bridge immediately ran up warning flags. We were in a busy shipping lane and our plight had to be signalled as clearly as possible. The decks shook as the powerful engines were thrust into reverse, in the first attempt to free ourselves. The slow build up of power from the engines could be felt vibrating through the soles of your feet. The roar of the engines, the shaking of the sturdy steel handrails, the reverberation of the steel bulkheads. All this left us in no doubt that we were well and truly aground and could not be shifted under our own steam.
The girls in Monte would have to contain themselves for an extra couple of days. We were eventually freed by a battery of heavy tugs and commenced our journey down the coast. We kept to our planned itinerary and stopped overnight in the port of Santos. We went ashore that night for a look around and a couple of drinks. Eventually we found ourselves in a street called General Camara Street in the red light district and we settled into the Midnight Sun Bar. We were instantly surrounded by giggling girls wanting us to buy drinks for them. They were offering every sexual practice ever heard of. They were very skilled in the art of persuading sailors upstairs. They positioned themselves erotically, sitting on the edge of the tables. It was as though they were on a perch, with their feet on the chairs, blatantly crossing and uncrossing their legs. They mesmerized us, flashing tantalizing glimpses of their inside thighs and more. I had never seen the like of this in the Cart and Horses in Ricky. (On the other hand, although not done so artfully, the basics of it were probably practised often enough in Liverpool.) However, they were very pretty girls and it’s hard to blame them for their scornful abuse of us. They couldn’t really be blamed for calling us Senorita Boys. Still, we stuck determinedly to our plan of saving ourselves and our money for Monte. “This better be worth it,” Ginger was told, “otherwise you’re in the barrel.” This threat is well known to all as the sailor’s greatest fear since time immemorial. Beware Ginger.
We cast off early in the morning and headed south again. We were well down in the South Atlantic Ocean now. It was balmy weather. Everybody was in high spirits; Monte and Buenos Aries were ports that all the crew enjoyed. Not just for the women and the bars. The restaurants were a great attraction, along with the markets, theatres and generally laid back atmosphere. A good time could always be had here, regardless of your persuasion. We cruised on for two more days eventually arriving at and then entering, the estuary of the mighty River Plate. We steamed into Montevideo, in Uruguay; where the famous ‘Battle of the River Plate’ was fought. When British ships called in to Monte there was always great excitement. The older hands were happy to air their knowledge, pointing out where the badly damaged German Pocket Battleship, Admiral Graf Spee, lay. She was scuttled by her Captain, Hans Lansdoff. Apparently he preferred that fate, rather than facing the waiting British ships stationed just outside Uruguayan waters. These ships included the New Zealand light cruiser Achilles, which although badly damaged, had acquitted herself so well alongside the Royal Navy Heavy Cruisers Ajax and Exeter. The Royal Navy ships and the Achilles were all heavily damaged from the ferocious exchanges. Although badly outgunned, they had managed to inflict enough damage on the German ship that she was then forced to run for shelter in Montevideo, a neutral port. The Battle of The River Plate was the stuff of legend amongst all Brits and Kiwis, particularly for a seafarer. Being there and feeling the moment gave me a great surge of national pride. This opened huge possibilities for me. Having been there and actually seen the scuttle site first hand I had a tale to regale my friends with back in Rickmansworth and later in New Zealand. I certainly did that and I used it to bolster my growing reputation as a man of the world.
The tugs nursed us alongside. Heaving lines were thrown ashore. We busily tied off our ends to the heavy hawsers. The guys on the docks took up the strain and pulled in the heavy securing lines as we fed them out. They were grunting under the strain as they pulled in the heavy waterlogged ropes. They heaved them up onto the dock then placed the spliced holding eyes onto the bollards. We were secure and the pleasures of Monte awaited us. We finished our tying up tasks and made ready the ships derricks and lifting gear for the Dockers. All was ready and we were free for a few hours. There was always a day or two stay here in Monte. “C’mon, let’s go boys, the steaks and girls are waiting for us,” urged Ginger, the cockney lad, who had been on a previous trip and was busily and excitedly organising us. There was no inkling then of what lay in store. We were off to enjoy a real steak meal. Something that we hadn’t had a lot of in post-war England. It sounded a great idea to me. A steak that really did cover the huge plate, with a couple of eggs on top, yes please. This gastronomic adventure was then washed down with large jugs of icy cold ‘cerveza’ the local lager. To me and my colleagues, this represented fine dining at that stage in our young lives. How things would change. I recall that this was the famous ‘bife de lomo’ (a dish so beloved by us, we ate it on every trip ashore). We ate it in both Monte and Buenos Aries. Looking back I think the bife de lomo was almost, I say almost, enjoyed as much as our happy times with the ever available ladies who haunted the bars and dance halls around the dock areas. Remember, I had it on good authority that these ladies would be waiting and they certainly were. We four made our way ashore. Ginger, having assumed complete control, led us. We wandered around a market and brought a few souvenirs. “There it is,” cried Ginger. It was a garishly decorated, run down bar close to the Docks. Ginger assured us we would be royally entertained by the ladies of the house for most of the afternoon. Thanks Ginger, we were. As we departed, the ladies waved ‘Good-bye’; I secretly hoped I had not purchased an, ‘unwanted souvenir’.
The plastic covered tables, the wooden benches we sat on, not particularly designed for comfort or appearance said everything about the dockside café come restaurant we had stumbled into. We were served by a pretty waitress with long black hair and deep black eyes. I secretly hoped that she was only interested in me. Unfortunately the other three each thought they were the chosen one. As you can well imagine this was starting to cause a bit of friction between us. She flirted with us all so cleverly as she glided around the table, constantly smiling. Her long black lacy skirt creating a tempting, swishing sound. As she brushed against us Isabella often found the need to lean over us and across the table, given the way we positioned and moved the egg yolk and blood stained plates left over from our meals. She was quite alert to what we thought so clever and humorous a trick and just smiled as she stretched across us well aware of the impression she made with her breasts so easily visible in their entirety inside her low cut lacy top. “More drinks?” she asked, with a knowing smile on her face. How could we possibly refuse her anything? At this point she owned us. Four tipsy eighteen-year-olds panting for her. “Yes, yes, more drinks, Isabella,” we called in unison each of us vying for her sole attention.
‘Tarpaulin muster’, was shouted. This was a seafaring custom calling on all present to turn out their pockets and pool their money for the greater good. How easy it must have been for Isabella. This was a game she would regularly have played with naive young sailors of all nationalities. The cruzeiros were scattered on the table along with some English pounds. Whatever currency you had, it all went into the muster. The money was counted out. We had enough left to pay our bill and have another round of beers, plus some to spare. Isabella had been closely watching proceedings and made it plain that she would happily take one of us upstairs for the balance of the money. Now we had a problem. “She’s mine, I put in more than the rest of you,” seemed to be the uniform position. In our youthful naivety none of us was able to mount a better argument than the monetary one and since we couldn’t be sure who had put in what in our tipsy state, we reverted to the age-old practice of drawing lots. The drawer of the short straw was to get this much-desired prize. The great draw had captured the attention of other customers and Isabella’s boss. They were now all crowding around our table. Carlos, the owner, who was obviously in on everything, magnanimously offered to conduct the draw. Meanwhile a couple of drunken gay stewards off our ship had minced into the bar, tsk tsking disdainfully at the scene confronting them. They soon changed their attitudes and joining in the spirit of things offered to act as umpires. One of them called himself Grace, the other was known to one and all on board as Beulah Peach. Beulah was really getting into the swing. So much so that after downing some very large rum and cokes he was loudly offering to go upstairs with anybody who wanted him, for free. He was also loudly claiming that he was better in bed than any ‘Dago whore’. There were no takers for Beulah; we had different fish to fry. The contestants were getting into a right excitable state, like boxers about to enter the ring, or matadors about to enter the bullring. I don’t know about the others, but I swear I could clearly hear the trumpet’s call to the matadors, ringing loudly in my ears. Belatedly, the ship’s siren, which had probably been sounding for some time, now found some receptors in my brain. A sensible seaman would have answered the call, but we were seamen under the spell of Isabella. It’s like that old Greek myth of Odysseus stuck on Circe’s Island - I really should be sailing home, but fuck me, look at her breasts. Sailors had been delayed by this sort of things for thousands of years before us.
Carlos had now cut the straws under the watchful eyes of Beulah and Grace. The great casting of lots was about to take place. The contestants were highly and visibly excited. Carlos was caught up in the moment. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced as if compere of a boxing match (which he nearly was). Then an elegant pause; the showman inherent in all Latin males coming to the fore. “For Christ’s sake get on with it, cut the bullshit,” yelled out Scouser in a frenzy of excitement. Crash, right at that moment the doors to the bar were thrust open and there stood the second mate surrounded by QM’s, the Bosun, the Lamp Trimmer and the Boson’s mate. Talk about an anti-climax.
“Okay boys, that’s it, back now or we’re going without you and that’s straight from the Captain,” he said, marching purposely forward.
“Fuck me,” yells the disappointed Scouser, “we’re about to have the big draw for Isabella.” Ever the gentleman in the tradition of his hometown, he turned and looked at her as he said this. She caught the drift of things and quickly exited. Carlos, never one to miss an opportunity, grabbed the money off the table. He then turned to the Second Mate and demanded he got us out of the bar. Further he decided he wanted to lay a complaint against us and wanted damages for breakages. Scouser was incensed at this turn of events and rushed at Carlos swinging wild punches. A melee started. It was quite a scrap, but the combined force of the Second Mate’s team, ably supported by Carlos and his bouncer, was too much for our band of brothers. We ended up outside on the street bruised and battered. Our money gone, but our pride not diminished. We were well led by Scouser and we’d left a few bruises of our own on the bodies of the combined and much more experienced opposition. And Isabella? Well her name is an old Hebrew one that means “a promise from God”. I’m not sure how accurate that is, but the name cropped up again in my life some years later.
The second mate and his team herded us back down to the docks. We were accompanied by the gay stewards, one of whom had honourably obtained a black eye joining in on our side. We were by now feeling not too bad. Scouser once again took the lead and started bellowing out the ribald version of the old Liverpool anthem, Maggie May, the lyrics of which had a certain appropriateness to the evening. The song tells the story of a well-known Liverpool prostitute who specialised in robbing young sailors she’d enticed onto her Lime Street patch. It’s a song that every Scouser I ever sailed with would sing sooner or later, depending on his state of inebriation; and to this day I’m a bit prone to hum it quietly myself if I’ve had a couple of drinks and there’s an Isobel, or a Jezebel, or just about any belle in sight.
Back on board arguments raged about whose fault it was and who she really would have fancied. We had received a dressing down from the First Mate and a warning as to future behaviour. It was to his credit, however, that he gave it to us with a twinkle of good will in his eye. We later heard that the Second Mate had given a good account of us, largely blaming Carlos and Isabella. The story had done the rounds with the first class passengers and the Captain’s table and had filtered down to the rest of the deck crowd. They mostly expressed regret at not having been there for what became known by all as the Second Battle of the River Plate. Many of them later claimed to have been there and taken part.
An amusing side to the story was how the skirmish grew and got exaggerated in the telling. On a subsequent trip to Argentina, the following conversation took place. I was on the twelve-to-four watch, acting as lookout up in the bow and I was waiting to be relieved by Eddie, the senior ordinary seaman of the next watch. It was going to be a lovely morning; it was just starting to get light. It was already warm and the sea was as flat as the proverbial millpond. I was looking down watching the bow cutting smoothly through the water, which can be almost hypnotic. Sometimes it’s just too nice to turn in and I often used to find a secluded spot and watch the dawn breaking. I really appreciated my good fortune and the freedom of the life I was living. I would never have experienced any dawns as fine as this in good old Mill End. Eddie, a nice guy and a regular on the Highland Boats, joined me. He had developed a little habit of taking a mug of tea on watch and sometimes one for me if he was running a bit late in starting. It was an opportunity to have a chat and a smoke, before trying to get a few hours’ sleep in. We were enjoying the balmy conditions and talking about what we would do and where we would be going ashore when we made port. The conversation turned to Montevideo.
“Don’t talk to me about Monte,” said Eddie, “that’s a crap place; you have to be very careful there, they really don’t like the English.”
“Is that right, Eddie,” I said, “why is that?”
“Don’t you know about the Highland Monarch Four,” he asked incredulously. I said I’d vaguely heard about them and invited him to tell me more.
“Well they were four ordinary seamen on a shore run; one of them was a mate of mine.”
“Really, which one?”
“Ginger,” he said, “Ginger from Tottenham.”
Well I had to give him that one. He carried on.
“They were in this bar minding their own business, when one of them went to help some woman called Isabella who was getting hassled by some drunken German tanker men who were tossing up coins for her. Anyway a massive brawl started and they wrecked the bar and put two of the Germans in hospital.”
“Did they really?” I said.
“Yep, the trouble was everybody knows that they like the Germans in Monte, but don’t like the English; something to do with the war. Bloody unfair really,” said Eddie rather philosophically. “Anyway they got arrested after another scrap with the Police. They were held in the local jail for a couple of days where they got a really rough deal from the police who were in the fight.”
Eddie embellished a bit further and told me he was in Monte on the MV Desiado, a Royal Mail ship, at the same time.
“I was lucky,” he said, “I was supposed to meet the boys that afternoon. Ginger being a good friend.” He carried on with the story. “Yes, I visited them in jail when I heard about the strife they were in and I took them some ciggies and made sure they were all right.”
I told him I thought that was top deck of him.
He said “Well you have to help out your mates when they are in trouble, don’t you?”
I guess so Eddie and what better way to help than by pushing our little escapade up into a full-blown South Atlantic legend. Seaman’s scuttlebutt just keeps growing so I suppose at some point we ended up taking policemen hostage and breaking out of jail in Monte, looping back to the bar and spiriting Isabella away with us on the ship.
But among the real participants the story didn’t so much grow as fester. Whenever the incident was brought up and the issues and combatants discussed, poor old Scouser would completely lose his rag. Scouser would only ever refer to Carlos, as Carlos the Bastard, as if that were his full name. Like say, John the Baptist. Not a lot of logic to it, but Scouser pretty much blamed anything bad that happened to him after that on Carlos the Bastard. And I can’t say we ever reached agreement about Isabella’s preferences, although Isabella, wherever you are – thanks for the insight into how bars and the ancillary industries that feed off them operate. I put what you showed me to good use a few years later.