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I was sixteen years and 2 months old, fresh from NSTS
Gravesend and proudly clutching a discharge book stamped Catering Trainee
“badge of merit awarded”. What a feeling, after standing on the ‘ f’castle’
at the Sea School on so many foggy mornings watching magnificent liners, a
wall of lights easing out of the lock at Tilbury, at last the prospect of
actually being on one loomed closer.
To this day that wonderful sound of a ship’s foghorn makes the hairs at the
back of the neck stand up. More about fog horns later…
The officer at the Shipping Federation said “P&O passenger ships for you
son, go round and join the union, then go home and wait for a telegram”.
Telegram! Blimey! It seemed at the time that only important people who had
either won the pools or whose uncle in Scotland had died and left them a few
bob, got telegrams!
Home for four or five days, a proud Mum telling anyone who’ll listen, that
her son was a 'Merchant Seaman', and furthermore was waiting for a
Telegram! Almost too much sophistication for the East End in those days!
They say you could almost sense the arrival of the telegram boy on those red
BSA Bantams. Perhaps it was the distinctive sound they made, or did the
‘bush telegraph’ exist in Leytonstone E11 in those days too?
Anyway that morning I sensed that this might be “the day” and found many
excuses to walk the ten paces to the front gate. "Well that certainly
sounded like a bantam; it looks like a bantam, yes its stopping at our
gate and then, THE question Mr. Murray?"
The rest is a blur of excitement. Talk of Travel Warrants. Working By?
(Whatever that meant) Tilbury Docks, reporting to the Second Steward. Slops
Locker? Etc.etc.
There’s a sort of 'dead smell' on a ship when it’s empty and tied up
alongside for a long period of time. The s.s. Orcades was no exception.
Fresh paint, stale bunker fuel, penetrating oil, various stuff used in
maintenance, basic cooking smells, all added to the overall atmosphere. What
seemed to me, to be miles and miles of corridors leading to God knows where.
Steel doors leading down to the bowels of the ship, (some of which remained
a mystery even after five years.) all contributed to the feeling that no
matter how long I would be on this ‘thing’ I’d never ever find my way with
much confidence. Let alone master all the nautical terms that seemed to roll
of the tongues with such ease of some of the older crew.
How we must have looked with our striped ‘piss-jackets’ as yet un-ironed,
straight from the suppliers shed in the docks. (The name escapes me). Four
or five new bellboys all trying to look confident about what we were doing
but feeling anything but. Then the call to the Chiefs Stewards office, those
who were to sail were called out, those not required went home to await yet
another telegram! I was selected to sail and so my five ‘formative’ years
were to begin on my new ‘home’.
We sailed out of Tilbury after embarking 1800 passengers on the 30th
September 1963. The stamp in my discharge book read “Nth America and AUST
Mails” Captain Riddelsdel commanding. The ship now had a different smell, it
had come alive!!
In the Midships Bellboys cabin were eight “first trippers” all trying to
look as confident as possible in non-starched new slops. Two older hands
were telling tales of wondrous ports, unbelievably large 'dropsies' from
American ‘bloods’ and possibly even erotic experiences to come.
An hour after sailing one new bellboy who had been assigned to the bureau
was given an envelope marked “Urgent Sailing Orders” and was told to
deliver it with “all speed to the Bosun, who could be found in his cabin
next to the billiard room on B Deck.” Naturally the lad was both thrilled
and proud to be given such an important task on his first ‘real’ hour at sea
and so took off with great enthusiasm.
He’d been told that if he should get lost, he was to ask any member of the
crew in uniform and they would direct him. It transpired that he had worked
up quite a sweat. So many of the crew he had asked directions to the
billiard room had said, that he had “come the wrong way” and was to go back
down two decks and head for’ard up one deck and then ask again etc. You can
picture his thoughts. ” This bloody message is urgent and all the people I
ask directions from seem to think its funny, I hope I don’t get in trouble
over this”.
The thought of that lad getting more and more tense as his apparent failure
to deliver such an important message was looming still brings back laughter
after all these years. Some kindly soul eventually let him off the hook and
pointed out the futility of searching for the ‘billiard room’ on a ship.
“Bastards” he said after it was revealed as a wind-up. Other old hands might
be able to tell me, was this, a standard ‘first tripper” wind up on P&O
boats?
No doubt all of us who spent our early days at sea will remember that unique
thrill, which sadly can only occur once, of the very first foreign port.
Mine was Le-Havre the next morning. How can a country smell different? Well
this one did! Of course we all know now, that they do anyway, but back
then the sights and sounds and smells of a new country were a totally unique
experience. I remember standing on deck looking down at things that were so
unfamiliar: - Peugeot vans, Renault lorries, foreign writing on everything.
French dockers actually wearing berets and smoking those terrible fags they
smoke… such great memories.
Of course, a few really exotic ports later and you start to get a bit
blasé but there is nothing to compare to that ‘first foreign port’ feeling.
This brings me to the point of the story: -
We left Le-Havre at about 1600: and it was characteristically damp and
foggy. One of the older Bellboys who worked in the chief steward’s office
had typed up a ‘dodgy ‘ roster for ‘Fog Watch’. This gave instructions that
the boy rostered-on had to go to the f’castle at the appointed time wearing
a life jacket. (Bricks of cork in canvas bags designed to break the neck in
case of emergency. I’m sure we all remember) and his P&O issue boat hat and
white stewards jacket.
The reason given was that the English Channel was the busiest sea-lane in
the world and the more eyes the ship had on lookout the better? The
instructions further went on to say, that upon seeing any other ships or
lights the lad was to turn and face the bridge (obviously too far away to be
heard), call out in a loud voice. “Ship on the port side” or, “Light on the
starboard side”. Etc.
Thirty odd years later, I still have tears of laughter well up as I recall
being huddled together just outside The Pig on the Well Deck that night with
another twelve ‘Spotty Herberts,’ listening to the plaintiff cry of that
lad. ”Ship on the port bow, Oh shit no, sorry I mean starboard bow, no I
mean side, Oh shit” etc.
It was one of those funny, harmless memories that live with you forever.
Ray Murray
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