‘PLYMOUTH TO NEW ZEALAND IN 39FT YAWL. YOUNG LIEUTENANT SAILS IN MONTH’. So the Western Evening Herald proclaimed to the world. We had no option now but to go through with the venture. However, armed with the confidence that goes with youth, I was feeling reasonably relaxed about the undertaking. In its planning and the attention needed for its successful execution, I had benefited greatly from serving in one of Her Majesty’s vessels. In this regard I was fortunate in having a co-operative executive officer, he who is second in command to the ship’s captain. Eagle’s executive officer, known by his rank as the commander, was the late Peter Hill-Norton, destined to achieve the highest pinnacle of his profession. The commander was interested in what I was doing and that made not a little difference. One of my concerns was how to tackle the crucial, if not the crucial question of provisioning and all that that entailed. What had to be arrived at was a best guess at how much of what would two hungry men consume in the way of non-perishable foodstuffs over nine or ten months. The intention was to store fully before we left Plymouth, and it had to be assumed that space would be found on board Tern to stow it all away, as it was recognized that boats of that era and type were not expecting to make long passages between stopovers. A matter for particular consideration in my situation was where and when to purchase our stocks, and moreover where to accommodate them in advance of being able to get them on board Tern. Associated with storing a large quantity of tinned produce was the requirement to preserve it against the ravages of a sea air environment over a considerable period of time. Perceived wisdom was to remove the labels, paint on the tins the code reference for the contents and then apply a couple of coats of varnish. It could be argued there was a case for not removing the labels. When inevitably these came off, the contents of the cans would then have constituted a mystery. The unexpected results would have presented a challenge to the cook, adding interest to what might otherwise have been a less exciting meal, its preparation entailing an excursion into the unknown. The can treatment operation required space to lay it all out. If I had been living ashore this would have been more straightforward, but I was faced with the limitations of shipboard life. However, all was to be well.
We were due to call in to Gibraltar for fuel and stores replenishment. This could be the time to lay in my own stores. The commander demonstrated his co-operation with, ‘You can have the cabin that young soldier never used and keep your grub in it for as long as you like’. When the marine contingent had come on board at the time of our commissioning in Belfast, there was included in their number a subaltern of exceptional dimensions: thin and excessively tall; so much so that the standard bunk fitted in cabins was far too short. As it was impracticable to lengthen the bunk in his allocated cabin, or the bunks in the other available cabins, the shipbuilders constructed especially for him a cabin with a bespoke bunk. This was to my advantage. I now had a space large enough to store all my tins and, moreover, with room to spread them out for the preservation treatment to be affected. Eagle was a large ship and a stable platform, so all those loose tins would not be all over the place in a seaway.
By now I knew what had to be purchased, having spent some considerable time studying what various ocean voyagers had written about their provisioning experiences – good and bad – including detailed suggestions on what to carry on a long ocean passage. I assumed Peter was not pernickety about his food. I was right in this assumption, but what I did not know was that I was to benefit from having a good cook on board – something that I was not. Peter had been living a bachelor’s life for some time and during this period had acquired a culinary skill of some note, having developed an interest in that art. To have someone in a small-boat’s crew who knows about cooking is, I have learned over the years, an asset beyond price.
I had further support from the commander (S), head of the department responsible for what we would know today as ‘services’ and that overworked word, ‘logistics’, the ‘S’ after his rank standing for ‘supply’. He, along with the supply organisation as a whole, was known universally as the ‘pusser’, the successor to the original ‘purser’, the old name for individuals appointed to dispense pay, provisions and clothing in naval vessels. In doing so, these grace and favour appointees, known also as ‘paymasters’, were all too frequently more in receipt of opprobrium than approbation, many becoming very rich men at the expense of the unfortunate common sailor. Until reforms, stemming back to Samuel Pepys, gradually came into place, much of the unrest in earlier naval times could be attributed to the flexible way the purser dispensed in practice the Admiralty-laid-down scale of daily rations. Happily, the modern breed of pusser is looked upon with more favour and affection. The improved grading in the villainy scale is evidenced by the word ‘pusser’ coming into use as a synonym for the adverb ‘proper’.
Stores and general provisioning being very much within his authority, our pusser was happy for me to ride on the back of the ship’s storing programme, lumping in my requirements, albeit miniscule in comparison with the ship’s orders, on the shoreside supplier, and moreover enabling me to enjoy the bulk purchase price spin-off. The trader would also deliver my goods at the same time as those for the ship. All I had to do was pay for mine. Everything was dropping into place. There would appear to be advantages in being a member of the naval system.
They were interesting days and rewarding ones. My sailing plans were coming to fruition and I was enjoying serving in Eagle. She was very much under scrutiny throughout the fleet and her performance closely watched. An occasion for this was the Home Fleet regatta held at Invergordon, the centrepiece of this being highly competitive intership whaler racing. Ships carried the Montague whaler as their sea boats, these being slung out in their davits and ready for immediate use at sea as safety boats for such emergencies as man overboard. Twenty-seven foot long, clinker built of wood and with no engine, they were pulled by five oars. This was a carry-over from an era when manpower was considered more reliable in an emergency, when the chips were really down, than this newfangled motor power. Additionally equipped for sailing with a standing lug yawl rig, they were used both as working boats and for recreation. They came into their own at regatta times and, being of standard design, provided keen competitive racing. Each ship entered pulling crews to represent individual departments, including wardroom officers’ crews. Rivalry was intense, and winning was of great importance to the ship’s complement, from the commanding officer down.
Because of her status, in no ship within the fleet was it of more importance to win than in Eagle. This was doubly so for Hill-Norton. To win the regatta was not only a litmus test of the organisation and training given the crews, but a highly visible indication of the ship’s spirit and morale. A large measure of this was generally considered to be attributable to the executive officer. Success in the regatta could only serve to assist him up the promotion ladder. Ours took a keen interest in the training of the various crews, with a particular focus on the wardroom crew, of which I was a member, pulling at number three. Having him as our cox, we were to feel the full effects of this interest, with training sessions at every opportunity, the ship’s routine being made to suit. Taking it one stage further, out of his own pocket he had arranged to be made for each of us Nelson-era sailors’ outfits, and for himself an officer’s rig of the times, complete with cocked hat. We had no option but to win.
The great day came and late in the forenoon our moment of truth was upon us. Over the ship’s broadcast system came the pipe:
‘Away wardroom racing whalers crew. Man your boat!’
Down the gangway we filed to be met with a no-nonsense look on the face of our cox. We pulled out to the starting line and went on to win. The ship, moreover, won the regatta overall. Hill-Norton was on his way up the promotion ladder and we had helped to put his foot on the next rung up. He was to end up Admiral of the Fleet Lord Hill-Norton, and I, for one, was happy for him.
It was party time in the wardroom and quite a party it was too. The commander being the president of the mess meant there was little difficulty in keeping the bar open. Late in the evening someone was heard to remark, ‘Anyone seen the commander recently?’ No one had, so a manhunt was mounted. In due course, there, behind an anteroom settee, was a recumbent figure, flat on its back with a happy smile on its face. As the winning crew we were given the honour of carrying its owner up to its cabin and putting it to bed. It was a kinder variation on the traditional practice of the successful crew throwing their cox over the side. It had been a good day for the commander, as it had been for the rest of us. Next day it was business as usual.
In my own personal world, my act was beginning to come together. Boat and crew were now in place and the bulk of the provisioning complete. It was now time to put in some details on the passage plan, which currently consisted of not much more than showing a departure point of Devonport, England, and arrival in Devonport, New Zealand. There was some filling in to be done. Primarily, what would call the tune was, of course, the wind. To be taken into account was the risk factor of the likelihood of tropical storms, but the overriding consideration was to choose a route and time to make the optimum use of the wind patterns in the two oceans we would be traversing: the North Atlantic and the South Pacific. In view of the time I had available to me, the clear choice of routes was via the Panama Canal. First off, to ensure enjoyment of the so-called Portuguese Trades, fresh northerly or north-easterly winds blowing down the Iberian coast, a yacht should aim to leave English shores by the end of August. Much later than this the frequency of gales starts to rise, as does the greater likelihood of south-westerly winds. This timing fitted in well with the temporary cessation of my naval activities. A non-stop run to Madeira, and then a period in the Canaries before making the Atlantic crossing in the north-east trade wind belt, would ensure we arrived in the West Indies after the hurricane season had pretty well run its course. On entering the Pacific at the beginning of the following year, the Doldrums belt should be narrow, allowing us to get through them fairly quickly, and thence into the south-east trade winds on the eastern side of the ocean. By the time we arrived in April in the region north of New Zealand and east of Australia, the cyclone season should have expired and the South Pacific winter conditions should not have yet developed. Accordingly I advised the New Zealand Naval Board that I would leave Plymouth at the end of August and arrive in Auckland at the end of the following April. With the uncertainties of sailing, and in particular long-distance voyaging, this confident prediction might have been seen as being unrealistically precise, with more faith than certainty. But we certainly aimed to meet this timetable, even though adjustments were to be needed en route, to the passage plan.
There were two doctors on board, one of which, Surgeon Lieutenant David Perrins, was of gynaecological fame, and was a personal friend and member of the family in that well-known British institution, Lea and Perrins, with their unrivalled Worcestershire sauce, ‘The Original and Genuine.’ He assumed the role of medical adviser to Tern’s crew and set about assembling a medical chest so comprehensive that every ailment and physical misfortune that could possibly overtake us would be catered for with no difficulty. With the contents went detailed instructions on how and when to use them. These guidelines were incorporated in a copy he edited of the Ship Captain’s Medical Guide, the 1946 18th edition. It was a small, plain, closely printed, modest publication and totally unlike the glossy, colourful version of today. The first edition had been produced in 1868 at the behest of the Ministry of Transport to help masters of vessels not carrying a doctor. That was us. Apart from invaluable advice on all manner of ills, it contained a wealth of helpful observations such as: ‘How to detect horse flesh... The carcase of a horse can hardly be mistaken for that of an ox’. And again, what every young sailor needed to know: there was a full description of making ‘cunji water for an invalid’. Inside the front cover David had included various observations of his own: ‘You will find the book suggests a purge for nearly every condition; this is a relic of the old empirical days and is not considered very important these days.’ He ends on an encouraging note, at least for the faithful: ‘The Almighty is the best physician and nearly all conditions will eventually cure themselves in the end.’ As it happened, except on just one or two occasions, we did not have to open the lid of this medical treasure trove or seek divine assistance but we were well set up. We needed to be, as with no radio communication to call for help as one would today, we were very much on our own, medically speaking, both at sea and in many of the places where we called.
I was also helped in other ways. To avoid dragging a fixed-bladed propeller, with the consequential loss of miles made good, I fitted a self-folding type. Not particularly efficient and pretty hopeless when going astern, but it certainly improved sailing performance. The design of the boss of the new propeller required the remachining of the existing propeller shaft. Where else but Eagle’s extensive machine shop? In the course of going on board to check on progress I was to overhear the machinist, a senior engine room artificer, complaining to a mate nearby about having ‘to turn on Tern II’s f****** propeller shaft’. I was very happy to hear this. It has long been a navy adage that ‘when Jack stops complaining is the time to start worrying’.
This was followed by yet another call on the ship’s capabilities. One of Tern’s wrought iron floors, the heavy metal straps that secured the boat’s frames to the wooden keel, had wasted badly over 50 years. Through the floor went a bronze keel bolt, with the result that galvanic action had caused the iron to corrode. I procured some bar stock and made a template from which the ship’s blacksmith forged a new floor. It fitted perfectly.
In the context of attitudes prevailing today, I suppose there would be accusations of misuse of government resources and I would have faced a court martial: at best thrown out on my ear, being marched out of the dockyard gate, medals and buttons ceremoniously ripped off, to the slow roll of a drum. In those days there seemed to be a more relaxed attitude to such matters. The navy was then always referred to as ‘The Service’ and this was a meaningful expression. Personnel of all ranks had a great sense of belonging to something bigger than oneself, transcending personal interest. The Service came first but in turn was expected to look after its own. To balance this unstinted dedication to the concept of service, perhaps a little something coming back on occasion could be condoned. Fanciful rationalisation perhaps, but then again perhaps not.
To get halfway across the world, covering two oceans, a knowledge of nautical astronomy was self-evident, and this is what I did not have, being an engineer officer by specialisation. Officer cadets, joining the navy in what was known as the Special Entry Scheme, underwent the same initial training, but this did not embrace the intricacies of celestial navigation. This so-called black art I now had to address. At that time there was no way of finding one’s way over the world’s open seas out of sight of land other than by deriving the ship’s position from sextant observations of the heavenly bodies. There was, of course, no shortage of textbooks on the subject, including the easy-to-read Admiralty Manual of Navigation: Volume 2. These all explained the theory adequately enough, but I felt the way to drive it into my head was to practise worked examples over and over again to become as proficient as possible in converting theory into practice. To achieve this I needed to be disciplined, and the way to do this, it seemed to me, was to take a correspondence course, which would involve receiving a string of questions which had to be answered and numerically worked, thence to be sent back for marking. I selected a programme run by Captain OM Watts from their upmarket chandlery in London’s Albemarle Street. It was excellent value for money and gave me a grounding in a subject that I found fascinating, imparting a deep interest in astronomical navigation which has remained with me ever since. The wealth of exercises involved the working up of the full gambit of sights of the sun, planets, stars and the moon, leading me to become word perfect, as it were.
Watts himself was something of a legend. A young master mariner, bright and enterprising, he had left the sea in 1927 and, in the early 30s, in conjunction with Thomas Reed and Co, compiled, edited and published Reeds Nautical Almanac. The choice of publisher was a good one. The family-owned business, later sold to Adlard Coles Nautical, was generally accepted as being the world’s longest-established nautical publishing house, dating back to its founding in 1782 by the original Thomas Reed. For many years this was the principal almanac for home waters. Containing a wealth of accurate data, it was used by the great majority of yachtsmen as well as commercial craft. It reigned supreme. In addition to coming out with the ubiquitous almanac, Watts produced one of the best books around on the sextant, entitled The Sextant Simplified. This was a worthy companion to the Watts correspondence course and is still in print today. Additionally, I was to get practical help from Eagle’s navigating officer, who loaned me a sextant to get a feel for using this vital organ. Ignoring the inevitable snide comments from onlookers, seemingly with nothing better to do, I gained invaluable practice in the actual taking of sights. In using the flight deck as an observation platform at sea I was well aware, however, that this would be appreciably easier than using a sextant on the deck of a yacht jumping up and down in a seaway, but I got the idea. I subsequently worked the sights up on graph paper in the privacy of my cabin away from prying eyes. Astronomical navigation I was to find a deeply satisfying experience. There is beauty and elegance in the process of determining one’s position out at sea by commune with celestial bodies. They are part of a system which, being of ‘God’s creation’, has a soul which cannot exist in the man-made world of satellites.
With departure time near and the work programme completed on Tern, I moved her round from Mashford’s yard to the basin in Plymouth’s Barbican, where Peter joined me to live on board. All stores had been moved from Eagle and stowed on board our new home. Miraculously they all went in, filling every conceivable space, with nothing left over. The poor old girl’s waterline vanished, not to be seen again for some time, becoming home in the meantime to marine life.
Shortly after the move into the basin, and when we happened to be below, there was the slightest, gentlest of bumps alongside, with a voice hailing us, ‘Are you on board, sir?’ Emerging on deck I found the admiral’s barge from Eagle alongside. The barge was, if anything, bigger than Tern, all gleaming dark blue and white enamel with impossibly bright brassware. The owner of the voice, its impeccably turned out petty officer coxswain, delivered a message from the admiral requesting our company to take tea with him in his quarters on Eagle. Our programme that day was somewhat busy, with goods being delivered and a long list outstanding of jobs to be completed. I sent a message back to the great man explaining, as respectfully as I could, that we were rather busy and it was not convenient to accept his invitation. The barge departed to the sound of the roar of powerful engines and the crew, with guardsmen-like precision, going through their ceremonial boathook drill.
It was then it hit me what I had done! A request from an admiral is synonymous with an order, but here was a mere lieutenant saying to an admiral ‘thanks very much for the thought but I have not got the time to see you’. The arrogance of youth! In a very short time the barge was back, and for an anxious moment I thought it would be the bearer of a short, sharp message from him. But no. The same sparkling clean coxswain handed over a large package and a letter. The admiral fully understood the urgency of last-minute pre-departure preparations and wished us well with our forthcoming adventure. The package was presented with his compliments but with the stern admonition that it was not to be opened, unless in dire emergency, until we arrived safely in New Zealand. It turned out to be a case of champagne. As it transpired, the barge was to make yet another trip round to Tern, this time with the admiral in it. On the immediate eve of our departure he came out to visit us, coming on board to have a look at the boat and to convey personally his best wishes. I was somewhat flattered at this and further much relieved as it confirmed we had been fully forgiven for having stood him up over his invitation to tea.
As the Home Fleet’s Heavy Squadron flagship, Eagle carried an admiral. Vice-Admiral J Hughes-Hallett was a formidable character. Tough and uncompromising, he had a tendency to give those immediately under him a hard time. He was, however, a very hands-on senior officer, and although not directly in charge of what went on domestically on the ship – that was the captain’s backyard – he nevertheless wished to keep in close contact with the ship’s affairs. To this end it would seem he did not want to have everything filtered through the captain. The tactic adopted was for the admiral to invite small groups of the younger officers in turn to join him for dinner. Instructions were given to his steward that glasses were never to run dry. As the evening progressed, tongues became loosened and gossip flowed. The admiral was in touch with the ship’s deep pulse.
Although a strict disciplinarian, Hughes-Hallett was an appealing personality, exemplified by an occasion when we were alongside in Portsmouth. Called to London for a meeting at the Admiralty, he decided, rather than take the train, he would use his own car, this being carried on board. It was lifted out onto the jetty, but neither his driver nor he could get it started. Likewise, the full resources of the ship’s extensive engineering department were unable to persuade the engine to behave, the commander (engineering) losing some face in the process, having been summoned to take charge personally of the situation. Undaunted, the admiral ordered his motorcycle to be hoisted out. Despite the unfriendly weather – wind and driving rain – he would ride to town. Reappearing in full bikey gear – leathers, boots, goggles and leather helmet, the lot – he was piped over the side for the second time by the full quarterdeck staff under the officer of the day, with the captain and commander in attendance. Mounting his big, powerful machine, he kicked it into life and roared off to London. One could imagine that if his motorcycle had in its turn not performed, he would have purloined ‘postie’s’ bicycle and set off across the Portsmouth cobbles to London town.
After leaving the ship and before facing up to the relative inconvenience of life living in Tern, I needed a few weeks of living ashore. Once again the service looked after me. On the edge of the dockyard in the Devonport suburb of Keyham was located the Royal Naval Engineering College, HMS Thunderer, in which, sometime earlier, I had undergone training. The captain of the college very kindly provided me with accommodation in the staff house, where the instructing officers lived. It was an enjoyable time, as had been my earlier experience in the establishment as an OUI (Officer Under Instruction). It was sad to learn that some years later, as part of the restructuring of the armed services with the advent of the Ministry of Defence, the long-standing college was closed down. The rationale was that efficiency gains would result from the amalgamation of technical training within the three services into one scheme. It could only be hoped that the destruction of an integral component of what comprised the Royal Navy was to be to the combined operational good and not just a cost-saving measure. I have my doubts, though. The soulless, faceless MOD, riding over the wishes of many senior officers, would no doubt claim it had all worked out nicely.
Whilst indulging in the comfortable, relaxed environment of the staff house I took the opportunity to renew acquaintance with an old friend from past times. The college maintained a boathouse on the banks of the Tamar close to the dockyard, in which was kept a variety of recreational sailing craft and dinghies of one sort or another. In my time at the college I had kept a private dinghy in this boathouse and as a result had got to know well the chief petty officer pensioner in charge. He was still there and it was good to meet up with him again. He was a product of the pre-war navy and typical of the type of senior rating who had made up its core. He had known no other working life apart from the service. It was his world and he was devoted to it. He welcomed me with great warmth. He had heard about my forthcoming trip and said he had something for me. From a cupboard in his little office he handed to me a plain, unvarnished box bearing on it a plaque with the German eagle and swastika. It was a sextant. A Plath, a top-of-the-range make, issued to U-boat commanders in the recent war. It was in perfect condition. The chief did not comment on how he had acquired it and nor did I ask. I was very moved.
At the end of hostilities, the German Navy’s fleet of submarines surrendered and were escorted to the west coast of Scotland and taken into care by the Royal Navy. A member of the receiving team was Mike Richey, who subsequently became director of the Royal Institute of Navigation. He was also widely known later as the last owner of the famous, ill-fated, wooden, junk-rigged Jester and an early fellow member of the Ocean Cruising Club. An article written by him in more recent times for Yachting Monthly magazine throws some light on what was no doubt the background to my sextant.
‘...One of my duties was to be present during the interrogation of the captains. Another was to take charge of the navigational instruments. Some of these were of great ingenuity... but it was the sextants that caught my eye: black, beautifully machined, very light and with an enormous horizon glass. The instruments (in the interests of protecting British nautical-instrument manufacturing) were all destined for destruction, but I was able, more or less with official connivance, to “liberate” – to use the cynical expression then fashionable – a single sextant, the centring error zero and the swastika emblazoned on the index arm. It was the finest instrument I have ever used and I used it for close on 45 years. The last time I saw it was amid the sodden debris of Jester’s final knock-down.’
What the tortuous path had been that had ended up with my taking possession of one of these sextants I know not, but it came into a good home where it resides to this day. I have used it for years and it was a joy to do so. Like Mike, I had the same experience of finding it light, easily read and virtually error-free. Certainly over the years it never gained any index error. It did all it could to make the life of this particular navigator as pain-free as possible.
Our departure time was nigh, and on the scheduled date of 30 August 1953 we sailed, there being no game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe that had to be finished. The event of our leaving was recorded in a letter home which I wrote later from the Canaries.
‘We cleared the Barbican after a hectic week of final preparation, storing, watering and showing the boat to what seemed a ceaseless stream of visitors and friends of both of us. There was a very large contingent out of Eagle, from the admiral to my chief ERA (Engine Room Artificer), who had worked so closely with me on the flight deck. I was delighted that he had come out to see us. He supplied us with enough vegetables for three weeks, refusing any question of payment. We eventually got away after lunch, accompanied by a press boat taking photographs and bearing a host of friends and relatives.’
The boat stayed with us as we crossed Plymouth Sound, only turning back as we approached the point which in navigational terms we would take as our ‘departure’, the eastern end of the breakwater. It was a wise decision on their part. We were to discover yet again as we emerged into open waters that the sea harbours no sentiment of kindliness to those who invade its domain.