How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On (17 page)

William Climie, London

The scene was a seaside villa near Catalina in Sicily and men of 2 Troop (Heavy Weapons Section), 3 Commando had just returned from a raid on the Italian mainland. Even after
this traumatic experience the commandos still had one chore to complete: a weapons inspection by a young second lieutenant.

When the officer reached Ginger Hodgson, a tough Yorkshireman from Leeds, he was offered Hodgson’s Colt .45 pistol.

‘Bad barrel, Hodgson,’ said the young officer in a disapproving voice.

‘Yes sir,’ barked Hodgson, ‘. . . in the sea at Vaago, sir!’

He was referring to a famous commando raid which took place in Norway in December 1941.

‘Oh I see,’ said the officer and continued down the ranks as the men behind him sniggered.

Moments later the penny dropped: ‘Wait a minute, Hodgson, you weren’t at Vaago.’

‘No sir, I wasn’t. But the pistol was.’

Frank Smith, Luton

In the week leading to D-Day, I was serving as an eighteen-year-old ordinary seaman on the light cruiser HMS
Scylla
. We were all keyed-up awaiting the great day when we
would sail across the Channel to begin the invasion. The ship would put to sea most evenings on exercises and most days we would be at anchor outside Portsmouth Harbour. Our days at anchor were
spent keeping the ship in readiness for battle, and on one of these days I was detailed to paint part of the superstructure behind the forward funnel. The colour of the paint was, of course,
battleship grey. The main object for me to paint was a vent that carried stale air from a compartment below deck. The top of this vent had a stout wire mesh to stop objects falling into the
compartment below. A heavy lid on a hinge was at right angles to the opening, which would be closed and battened down at sea to act as a blackout and also to stop sea-spray entering.

I had painted the air vent and had started on the lid, putting the gallon paint tin on the wire mesh so that I could reach it with the brush. Eventually I came to a very hard-to-reach part that
involved me getting myself in a very awkward position. In my eagerness to complete the task, I lifted the catch holding the heavy lid upright to paint behind it. The lid closed with a very heavy
bang and, while still using the last brushful of paint, I was confronted with a terrible sight.

In front of me stood the chief cook, covered from head to toe in a mixture of custard and battleship-grey paint. His face, including his beard, unrecognizable under this mess. It suddenly dawned
on me what I had done. On closing the lid, I had forgotten that the paint tin was beneath it. As the lid slammed down, it smashed the tin through the wire mesh, sending it falling at least twenty
feet into a large vat of hot custard being made ready for lunch in the galley below.

The chief cook and some of his staff, all of whom happened to be standing near the vat, were covered in this mixture of custard and paint. Awaiting a burst of anger and having visions of
spending weeks in detention quarters, I gazed at the paint-covered cook. After what seemed like an eternity, and to my great relief, the chief cook burst out in a fit of laughter and beckoned me to
follow him to view the devastation below. Still laughing, he showed me the galley covered in the slime and when I offered to help clean up, he advised me to get to the other end of the ship when
painting in future.

Needless to say, the news quickly spread throughout the crew and no one had an appetite for custard with their pudding that day. I was immediately christened ‘the Custard King’ and
was subject to good-natured banter for days afterwards.

William Foulds, Haslingden, Lancashire

I was in the merchant navy and served on several ships belonging to various companies. One of these was of the T & J Harrison ‘Hungry Harrison’ Line of
Liverpool. As the nickname implies, rations were of the minimum and when, as often happened, we had to sail off-course because of suspected raiders in the vicinity, they grew even less.

On one occasion, a grumbling able seaman said: ‘On every other ship after two or three weeks at sea, I always dream about luscious women. On this one, all I dream of is pork
chops!’

Things got so bad that a delegation went to see the captain, taking with them a tray of food. Eight men asked whether it was right that they should have such meals. Thinking that they were
complaining about the quality rather than quantity, the captain picked up a knife and fork and tucked in. When the plate was clean he looked up and said, triumphantly: ‘There was nothing
wrong with that, was there?’

‘Maybe not, sir,’ came the reply, ‘but that there food was for the whole ruddy watch!’

Kenneth S. Allen, Northwood, Middlesex

In 1944, I was at the School of Technical Training at RAF Locking. Every Thursday was what the officers called ‘Domestic Evening’, although the rest of us called it
‘bull night’. Each airman had to polish his bed space and this polishing got to such a fine art that we used to tie pieces of rag under our boots to help polish the floor and avoid
making any scratch marks.

On Friday when we were in the workshops, the CO and his retinue, consisting of adjutant, flight lieutenant, station warrant officer, flight sergeant, orderly sergeant and, bringing up the rear,
the hut corporal, did the inspection. When we got back to the hut at lunchtime, there, pinned to the table, was a note that read: ‘The occupiers of this hut will stay in tonight and re-clean
it.’

Everyone in the forces knows that you obey the last order, and argue for ‘redress of grievance’ afterwards. So, after tea, we got stuck in and cleaned the hut again, without much
enthusiasm. Eventually we collared the corporal and asked which part of the hut was causing the problem. We thought it was as clean as most others and better than many that had not had to be
re-cleaned.

After a while the corporal said: ‘Just get on and clean everything. I’m not having the CO come in here and saying again, for everyone to hear, that this hut is beyond
reproach.’ I don’t think that a hut corporal had ever got so close to being murdered.

George Godfrey, Bridgend

When a baby arrives in the family of a crew member, it is the custom, if the ship is in a home port, for the baby to be named on board, in the presence of the ship’s
company. If acceptable to the parents, it is traditional to bestow the name of the ship on the child – ‘Penelope’ for example. But, of course, not all parents wish to do this, and
often have deep family reasons for making an alternative choice.

Chief Petty Officer Henry Chew and his wife duly presented themselves, complete with infant, on the quarterdeck of the ship at the appointed time. They handed over the baby to the tender arms of
the ship’s padre.

With the child held correctly and firmly in his left arm, he dipped his right hand into the waters of the font, turned to the parents and, with due ceremony, asked them: ‘What is the
chosen name for the child?’

The Chews replied: ‘Iris.’

Padre: ‘And the second name of the child?’

Parents: ‘Elizabeth, sir, after our dear queen.’

The padre dipped his hand into the waters of the font, made the traditional mark on the child’s forehead and said: ‘I herewith name this child Elizabeth, by which name she shall
forthwith be always known.’