The Naval Reunion

Never let it be said that when things get downright depressing something always comes along to cheer us up. And sure enough such a surprise arrived in the post. It was an invitation from an old school friend of mine who had kindly invited me to join him for his 65th birthday celebrations. Not only that I had the great distinction of cutting the birthday cake along with singing a few of the party songs. The sort of thing that eccentrically minded lunatics always like to sing - such a ring-a-ring-of-roses and playing silly little games like postman’s knock and not forgetting of course, pass the parcel.

The history to my friend’s background is that he had served in the Merchant Navy as a communication officer, sailing under many a different flag and a numerous number of companies. It must be remembered however that the man is an expert sailor and navigator. He even had the nerve to tell me that he had single-handily sailed round the world in the tiniest of boats, battered by giant waves and against all the elements. But in reality the nearest he got to such a feat was a dip in the paddling pool in a rubber dingy. Anyway having retired some years ago, along with a bit of scrambled egg on his hat; he now spends his time would you believe making models of famous battleships.

So there I was sitting in his house, rooted in an armchair, and eagerly waiting for proceedings to begin - when who should walk in but my sea-faring friend called David. Shuush! But wait for it secretly disguised as Crichton the butler. In he walked holding up a highly polished silver tray and bearing on it a beautiful birthday cake, together with a superb selection of sandwiches and biscuits, plus a beautiful china teapot. Bought I believe for only ten dollars at some obscure establishment in Hong Kong.

“Pray sir, for who ringeth the bell, and does sir want his served in the east wing or will he be retiring to the smoke room again,” my butler friend enquired in a rather shaky, old boy, public school accent.

“For heaven’s sake man,” I shouted, “take that ridiculous butler’s uniform and give us the tray over here, I’m famished.”

By gad, what a lucky chap I am to have such an eccentric fiend for a friend. Well I am warning you people out there that the poor man’s, well and truly, demented. Lowering his heavy-laden tray on the coffee table, we both felt a good scoffing session was high on the agenda.

“Look, shall I start pouring the tea out and cutting the birthday cake?” I said, “I think it’s my turn to be mum again,” smiling away. And like all good mums I delighted him with a cup of his favourite tea, The Bay Jonk, as it’s affectionately known, which according to ancient traditions is the only tea on planet that put hairs in the most embarrassing of places.

“Well, if you really insist on being mum my friend grumbled, ruddy well, get down to the ablutions and give the thing a damn good clean out.

“No thanks; I’d rather pour the tea out, not the least bit interested in cleaning out toilets.”

“Come on, man, drink your tea up before it gets cold,” I nagged.

Gentle placing my cup down on the coffee table, I’d noticed a letter, addressed to my friend but still unopened, and being the nice chap as I am, I passed the letter over to him. With care he opened it up and I could see by the look on his face he found the contents to his liking.

“Well I never, look at this; it’s from one of my fellow officers I served with at sea and apparently there’re holding a banquet in Oxford for next Friday, a sort of grand reunion get-together. My friend has kindly enclosed two tickets and it says I could bring a friend along. Look here, I wondered if you would like to accompany me. It will be a fantastic evening with plenty of plonk and a first class meal thrown in for good measure. The problem is the invitation states that one should be impeccably dressed with the appropriate attire. Now the thing is do you have a suit to wear?” He asked.

“Well, no, not really,” I replied back, “you see I tend to dress in casual clothes.”

“Look I tell you what, we’ll zap into town tomorrow and I’ll get you fixed up with something suitable.”

The following morning I was hastily ushered into town and thereby we entered a huge department store, believed to be the finest store for miles around. Up and up we went in the all-glass elevator to the fourth floor which happened to be the gent’s outfitters department. Browsing through the hundreds of suits on display, I came across this nice little grey flannel number, priced at a mere £135. On showing the price tag to my friend, he seemed not the slightest bit concerned.

“Stick it on my account,” he proudly boasted to the shop floor assistant. My friend looked frightfully funny in a sort of silly way. He reminded me of one of those army officers speaking to one of his men. You know the sort thing. The stiff upper lip, head held back, body rigid, then bringing himself to attention by banging both heels together. He addressed the assistant like some sort of private in the army on his first day of joining up. Beckoning the assistant over with his little finger, a rather unpleasant barracking noise came from the vicinity of my friend’s mouth.

“Oi! Come here you horrible little bleeder and let’s be havin you my son. Atten-shon, come on get those shoulders back, legs up, left right, left right, taarrr-harhaar, left right, left right, heeyaaaaar. Come on man, buck up, let’s get packed up and shipped out of here,” my friend yelled.

“Oh, just coming sir,” the petrified assistant replied.

We left the store feeling like a couple of grumpy old squaddies that had just put some poor innocent bugger on a charge, and I couldn’t help noting the look on his face, that smug sinister smile of his. “You have to treat these civvies with a bit of cold steel,” my sergeant major friend sniggered.

Spoken like a true army officer, I thought

So there I was superbly kitted with a top-notch suit in readiness for the banquet, thanks to my friend’s kind generosity.

The day of the banquet had dawned near and nigh. I had arranged to meet my old shipmate as per instructed - and that was to rendezvous with the old sea dog at precisely seven o’clock outside the famous Randolph Hotel in central Oxford.

So with this in mind I left my home at around the mid-day mark. First catching the X2 coach to Bedford. Changed. Then boarded another bus to Oxford. Quite a pleasant journey till we reached the town of Buckingham, when a most unpleasant character got on, drunk and refusing to pay his fare, thus putting an additional ten minutes on my journey time. Luckily though, I still managed to arrive in Oxford for six thirty.

Oxford is famous the world over for its universities and historic buildings, and for centuries or more it has been home to lecturers and scholars. Today, it is a thriving city with a mixture of ancient and modern attractions. Away from the busy bustling streets was a concoction of narrow cobbled roads and back-lanes that led by half-timbered houses. Magnificent colleges that teemed with ramparts, pinnacles and gaping towers. I strolled past ye old tea rooms and shops selling souvenirs. And how could one forget the endless stream of students going about their business in a most dignified manner. The whole atmosphere seemed to give an air of graciousness about the place.

By coincidence, I heard the town hall clock strike its chimes dead on the stroke of seven. Even more incredible I found myself standing outside the steps of the Randolph Hotel, for indeed, I was somewhat privileged in fact. You see the reason for my sentimentality was this. The Randolph Hotel had previously been used in the making of the famous TV detective series called, Inspector Morse.

But who should come haring round the corner at the wheel of a 1947 Austin Ruby? You’ve guessed it; it was my old sea-faring friend, David. With a wave and a smile I quickly made my over to his car. Thereupon I was greeted to a gripping handshake followed by a ferocious cough. But it was however with raised eyebrows I witnessed the hilarious sight of my odd-ball of a friend breaking out in one of his Monty Python sketches, the one and only Ministry of Silly Walks routine. I was particularly drawn to my friend’s gigantic strides, though in fairness I must point out that his attempts to do wheelies and cartwheels were way beyond the dithery old codger. Returning back to some sort of sanity he abruptly broke into his customary seaman’s role.

“Hello, shipmate, he saluted, “are we away anchor yet me old hardy,” he growled, at the same time mysteriously leaning backwards.

“Aye, captain,” I saluted back, “but will you first give me a couple of broadsides.”

“It’ll be an absolute pleasure, old boy, I am lighting blue touch paper, stand by to repel all borders.”

“I say, old bean,” being slightly puzzled by my friend’s shabby looking uniform, “are we sound as a pound tonight or are we one short of a six-pack? Ready for the function, are we?

“Not half,” was his reply.

Making our way to the safety of the car, the first thing that hit me was the overbearing smell of mothballs, which noticeably came from his uniform.

“I say, number one, what’s that disguising smell.”

“Ah, well, that will probably be my mothball repellent. You see I always douse myself in the ruddy stuff before a big bang, so as to keep my fellow officers on their toes.”

“Mmm,” the perfect way to make new friends and acquaintances, I thought.

Just a short walk from George Street was situated the old town hall which would be the venue for tonight’s bash. Waiting outside to greet us was the usher, who, with charm and courtesy politely asked for our invitation tickets.

“Ah, yes, gentlemen, I’ll show you to your table, but first I’ll announce your arrival to the other guests.”

“My Lords, Rear Admirals and gentlemen, please welcome the right honourable Mr David Archibald Throgmorton. And accompany him is his good friend, Timothy Tucker.

A waiter of Spanish origin escorted us to table thirty two, and there placed on gleaming white tablecloths, were our names, encapsulated on tiny badges, so we knew exactly where to sit. The mighty hall was packed to capacity with well over a hundred guests or more, dressed to the hilt in full naval regalia. Dithery old codgers that boasted a dazzling display of medals that dangled form their battle-weary uniforms.

“By George,” David gasped, “look over there Timothy that chaps managed to get some scrambled egg of his hat, lucky bugger.”

The speaker requested that we sit down, as dinner was now boing served, and afterwards, wine, cheese and coffee, followed by after dinner speeches. The meal I must mention was splendid, the company fantastic.

“Fellow naval officers, your attention please,” the speaker urged, banging his gavel down as though he had just sold something of great value.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Who’ll be the first to come up and take to the rostrum and give us a little speech and account of their past naval lives? Yes, you sir, down there with the eye patch and gammy leg, please step forward and join me.”

The first candidate rose from his chair and slowly made his way towards the rostrum, at the same time wiping his forehead in nervous anticipation

“Pray sir, may I ask your name and what your position was round about the time of the last war.?”

“My name is Captain Bentwater and I was captain of a huge battleship throughout the Second World War.”

Captain Bentwater carefully took hold of the microphone and began to reveal his salty tale. “I first want to say a big thank you to my fellow officers who served with me on board HMS Henry, affectedly known as the old boiler. Ah, I can remember it well lads, that eventful day on June 5th 1942. There I was gentlemen, standing the bridge of my ship, minding my own business, when the overpowering stench of enemy Fokkers came over me. Gentlemen, there was Fokkers here and Fokkers there. In fact the place was full of the Fokkers.

“Oh, excuse me for asking,” a gentleman from the back row interrupted, “but precisely how many Fokkers were there, Captain Bentwater?”

“Well, as I recall, there was at least two of the Fokkers if my memory serves me right. Anyway, I gave the order to open up with six-inch guns and twenty-five-pounders, plus unload as many mortars and depth charges as I could get my hands on. By George, we give em a right good pounding, didn’t we lads.”

Fellow officers began shaking their heads in disbelief, hissing under their breath and angrily pointing the finger at Captain Bentwater. A gentleman from the front row stood and said. “Captain Bentwater, if I remember, weren’t you still tied up Portsmouth Harbour at this so-called battle of yours, and for the rest of the war, Captain, you were banged up in a military prison, on a Court Marshall, I do believe.”

“Oh, yes, well, we won’t go into that right now,” a very embarrassed and disgraced Captain replied. Captain Bentwater left the rostrum, a stinker and bounder of a man, to a chorus of boos, hisses, and bloody scoundrel.

“But who else would like to take the rostrum and give us his tale of the sea?” The speaker urged, making a passionate plea for more volunteers.

“Yes, you sir, down there, please step forward and join me.”

A biggest chap rose from his chair and crept towards the stage whereby he introduced himself as Midshipman Melrose who explained to everyone he served on board a destroyer in the Second World War.

“So there I was gentlemen,” Mr Melrose started off, “somewhere in the North Sea just off the coast of Denmark. I was in a group of some twelve ships, two destroyers as cover with the rest made up of merchants, in other words a convoy. We received a signal from the Admiralty on the morning in question, stating that a large formation of Stukas and Heinkels had been spotted at a distance of some twenty miles away. As usual, the Luftwaffe were up to their old tricks and presusedly out in force. I can remember the occasion quite vividly. At the time I was standing on the bridge when through my binoculars I spotted a large formation of enemy planes at ten o’clock high. The noses of aircraft were tilted forward as they made their final run-in to bombard the convoy. The undercarriages of the aircraft revealed a deadly cargo of bombs and incendiary devices. I immediately gave the order to open up with our anti-aircraft guns. All of a sudden there was utter pandemonium. Through the smoke and chaos of the battle, bombs and bullets reined in from every conceivable angle. Suddenly, to my port side there was a terrific explosion. A bomb had landed to our stern which caused a devastating series of ripples hat shook the ship to its foundations. Lads, it was terrible, bombs were leaving the bellies of the enemy aircraft flying through the air with deadly accuracy. The air was consumed with a thick blanket of black smoke with flying bits of debris that whizzed past my head. I could hear the sound of bullets and shells ricocheting off the burning metal of the ship. My God, the poor chap next to me has been hit, and by the look of him he’s bought it I’m afraid. I jumped on his anti-aircraft gun and took over. I immediately opened up and could see the tracer bullets leaving my gun, travelling towards the Jerry planes. I hope I get a Stuka or two before he gets me? To my delight smoke appeared from a burning plane. I’ve got one, I screamed. I’ve downed me a Stuka and then a Heinkel, and another, and another. Out of the sky they dropped like a ton of bricks. One by one they went crashing into the sea. Across to my stern I could see smoke bellowing from a burning tanker. She’s been hit badly and the fire crew were trying to put out the blaze. And so the battle raged on. Our destroyers managed to down twelve enemy planes with the rest of the Luftwaffe, hightailing it back to Berlin with their legs between their tails. And that gentlemen ends my true story of how I served my time in the Second World War, from 1939 to 1945 in the Royal Navy.”

“Let’s give this very gallant gentleman a rousing good handclap,” the speaker insisted

“But who else would like to come forward and give us an account of themselves? Yes, that gentleman over there with his hand up, please step forward, sir, and join me. Can you please tell us your name and rank while serving in the Royal Naval?”

“Good evening, fellow officers, my name is Hargreaves and I served my time in the Royal Naval as a Petty Officer aboard a first-class frigate called HMS Sternfast. It must have been around October time 1943, when the Admiralty despatched our frigate to sail for Norway with orders to track down and destroy a wolf-type pack of U-boats. The admiralty concluded that any threat from the Luftwaffe was minimal. The biggest worry however was the heavy build-up of U-boats that were operating in the area.

On arrival at our destination, a force ten was blowing up at the time and visibility down to nil. At this rate we’d be lucky to stay afloat as the ship was being thrown about like a rag doll. It was then my radio officer picked up a distinctive signal which came from distance of some twenty miles away with an estimated speed of eighteen knots. And that gentlemen is what we were looking for, U-boats, and lots of them. Our orders were to follow with caution and then attack when the conditions were right.

The next day on a lovely calm morning with the storm now passed, we proceeded with care to tail the submarines. Dogged by a series of false alarms my radio gave me this message: “sir, we are in direct contact with the U-boats.”

“Then quite dramatically our sonar equipment went bananas. It had picked something up that blasted out from the scanners.

“Peee - yinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.”

“Peee - yinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.”

“Peee - yinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng.”

“Gentlemen of the audience, have you any idea what that sound represents?” Mr Hargreaves inquisitively asked.

“Yes, I know what it means,” a heckler from the front row shouted. “It meant you and your crew were near a Chinese take-away, and you’d just ordered Chow Mein with Prawn Balls to follow.”

“No, no, no gentlemen, “it meant the blasted U-boats were right under of the belly of the ship.”

“There’s one thing that really puzzles me, Mr Hargreaves,” the speaker interrupted. “Where the hell were your hedgehogs, man? A good officer’s duty is to throw his hedgehogs overboard, before going into battle.”

“Ah, yes, our dear friends the hedgehogs. Bit of a prickly situation was that, but yes, we did manage to throw a few of the little perishes over the side, before going into battle.”

“Please explain to the audience whet a hedgehog is? Mr Hargreaves.”

“Well, a hedgehog is a naval term for a depth-charge, identical to the conventional depth-charge. However, with this particular one it forms a cluster of explosives, specifically on the contact with metal, namely a Germen U-boat. I’ll continue if I may. Actions stations were sounded, and then came the piercing voice of the captain, barking out his instructions over the intercom. Drop depth-charges immediately. The attack began and raged for an hour or more. Just as things were hotting up I looked through my binoculars and could see a thick oil slick floating on top of the surface. Horrified, I saw something rise out of the water about to the surface. I at once recognised it as a Class-1V11C, German submarine. Gentlemen, I was just about to give the order to open up with our anti-aircraft guns, when I saw a German officer waving a white flag at us, thus the U-boat surrendered. The result of this battle, gentlemen, was two enemy subs sunk, one captured, with two more escaping. In all, not a bad day’s work.”

“Thank you so much Mr Hargreaves for that mouth-watering story and account of your gallant deeds. Let’s give this gentleman a rousing big hand,” the speaker insisted.

“We’ve got time for just one more person to say his piece,” the speaker said.

In nervous anticipation, David, my sea-faring friend put his hand up in hope of a call. Amazingly, the speaker called out his name. Making his way to the podium he quickly undone his briefcase and pulled out a document, which he held up for everyone to see.

“Fellow naval officers, it gives me the greatest pleasure, to inform you all, that today, I have just received the most fantastic news from the admiralty. It would seem, because of my past naval record, the hierarchy have shouldered me with the responsibilities of becoming the overall Commander-in-Chief of the entire Pacific Fleet”

Fellow officers in the auditorium were shocked by this sudden announcement, with cries of....

“Harr, harr hooray”

“Top hole, David old boy. You’ve finally cracked it, old man.”

“Damn lucky bounder.”

“Does that mean?” the speaker queried.

“It means sir, I’ll be taking my beautiful hand-built dreadnought down to the local serpentine and thereupon I will unleash a devastating display of awesome fire-power, thereafter, I will sink and destroy anything that comes into sight, in addition to this, I will blow any little fart of a schoolboy’s boat to smithereens.”

“Oh, yes, well done, sir. Let’s give this very brave and courageous man a round of applause. Bloody Nutter!”

After the many gallant speakers had told their extraordinary tales of the sea, the function was sadly was coming to an end. David, my friend, leaned across and asked me for my thoughts?

“It was absolutely brilliant,” I said, “I’ve never enjoyed myself so much in my life.”

“Well,” he smiled, “there’ll be plenty more functions like this, as I get invited to lots of these reunions.”

Our last duty for the evening was to give a toast to all those brave men who gave their lives at sea during those terrible years of conflict from 1939 to 1945. So with that we bade our farewells and made our way back to our respective homes, ending a most enjoyable day.