Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
When we were forty days at sea
The captain took to buggery
His only joy was the cabin boy
In the North Atlantic Squadron.
The cabin boy's name was 'Nipper'
A dirty little ripper
He stuffed his ass with broken glass
And circumcised the skipper!
After the 'excitement' of my year with the Canadian Army Reserve Forces I decided to change my military career to the Royal Canadian Naval Volunteer Reserve. Colonel Warren seemed to be in good humour when I met with him to receive his confirmation. Perhaps his mood had been affected by our victimization by Sarcee Camp the previous spring culminating in our mutual consignment to the Belcher Hospital.
'I gather you cut a pretty wide swath in the army ranks last year,' he said with a sardonic smile. I had to bite my lip to keep from saying how much the entire mindset of the Army pissed me off in a 'major' way! In the navy, instead of lining up like zombies to be shouted at as we had done in the army, we convened in one of the University auditoriums and listened to a sub lieutenant give laid back lectures about naval practice.
'I've got a sheet of paper here dealing with the collection of funds to buy cigarettes for the boys overseas. I'll have it passed around and anybody who wants to contribute just needs to sign his name and say how much he wants to contribute. It'll be deducted from his pay in due course,' we were told.
That evening at dinner I had the needle out for our beloved Company Sergeant Major, the same individual who had helped to make my army life such a pain in the ass the previous year.
'Let me tell you how it's done in the army,' I said. 'Several hundred of us are lined up at attention and the 'Order Shouter Outers' are glaring at us. A staff sergeant with a list sits at a table while our names are called out one at a time and we are required to march up to the table.'
'"How much do you contribute, soldier?' the CSM shouts.
The intimidated individual mutters an amount.''"Louder! We can't hear you!"' shouts the CSM. No one else in the dining room was speaking by this time, all listening to my critical interpretation.
Meanwile, the CSM's complexion was gradually becoming more coloured as he listened to my comments. I proceeded without compunction. After all, he had started it all with his boastful commentary on how much more money than the other services the army had raised.
'That's the basic difference between a sensible democracy and an arrogant autocracy,' I said.
This final comment pushed him over the edge. 'I'm telling you once and for all to shut up,' he said, exceedingly provoked. He dropped his fork on his plate with a loud clatter as if to emphasize his statement. I looked across at him with the hint of a smile on my face.
'I think you've dropped your fork,' I said innocently. 'Are you going to shut up or am I going to have to come over there and shove your knife and fork down your fucking throat?' he said, baited beyond endurance.
This threat of violence was not anticipated. I sat studying his furious countenance and decided I had pushed him far enough; it seemed like an appropriate time to desist. After a long, tense moment I said, 'Yeah, I guess I'm going to shut up!' He was not prepared for this change of behaviour; I assumed that he must have felt like a man who prepared to lift an extremely heavily loaded bag only to find it empty. After sitting sullenly for a moment he rose and went around the end of his table. At first I thought he was planning to attempt putting his threat into action but he walked past our table and out of the dining room. His roommate told me later that my disputant had gone directly to the bathroom upstairs and vomited into the toilet. The subject of cigarette contributions was not discussed at dinner again. In my Junior year I made the mistake of asking the same individual for his opinion about whether I should run for election to President of the Student's Union. He sternly admonished me not to make the attempt; he claimed it would be futile. I found out later that he had similar aspirations. At any rate, I decided to run and subsequently won. He never spoke to me again for well over a year.
There was a subtle but significant difference between the navy reserve and the other part-time military organizations. Both the army and the air force had a routine of enlisting the students on a part-time basis. When the spring training was concluded they discharged them. If they flunked out, they were enlisted again in whatever service they chose. The navy enlisted us permanently, if one of us flunked out we were already in the service and the transition was more orderly.
It was a minor distinction, but I still have a waterproof document entitled 'Certificate of the Service of Ronald Munro Helmer in the Royal Canadian Naval Volunteer Reserve, Official Number V 73509'. There is a triangular section in the upper right hand corner of the Certificate that reads: 'The corner of this Certificate is to be cut off if the man is discharged with a 'Bad' character or with disgrace, or if specially directed by the Department of National Defence (Naval Service). If the corner is cut off, the fact is to be noted in the Ledger.' My character is shown as 'V. G.' in every report period. I was obviously a 'very good boy'.
The record shows that I spent two weeks at H.M.C.S. Naden in Esquimalt on Vancouver Island in May of 1944 and two weeks from May 6th to May 19th of 1945. My buddy had been with the U.N.T.D. from its outset in the spring of 1943. He weighed only a few pounds over one hundred so I was not surprised when he refused to eat the food supplied to us in the mess hall. We had been 'messed' with the crew of the 'Nabob' and they were 100% English Cockneys. A typical 'breakfast' comprised slabs of beef liver that was tough and had large green depressions in it, 'red lead' (tinned tomatoes) and a yellow-tinted suspect-looking potato salad. For breakfast? The only moderately appetizing items were the crusty buns in a large container but they became less appetizing when we reached the point where butter was dispensed.
We lined up at a serving counter where the food was doled out by anonymous sailors standing behind it. A sliding wooden partition had been lowered so that their upper bodies and heads were concealed. I still have a mental picture of the butter patties floating in a large stainless steel container together with a few cubes of ice. The individual standing behind the counter had obviously been working on heavy machinery because his fingernails and knuckles were black with grease of some kind. He would reach into the bowl and pick up a handful of patties, then, with his thumb, flick one or two at a time onto our outstretched plates like a youth playing 'knuckle down' marbles.
There were two 9,00 ton cargo vessels, the 'Puncher' and the 'Nabob' that had been converted into aircraft carriers and were operating out of Naden, manned by the 'Limeys'. I thought I had seen the lowest of the low, but the sailors from the two Canadian-built 'flat-tops' were, I presume, like the men collected by the 'press gangs' for Nelson's Navy. The only adjective they seemed to know was 'fuckin'!' They even said things like 'pass the fuckin' fuck!' when they meant 'pass the butter, please!'Billy would last two or three days on liquids only before he entreated me to join him on a trip to the Poodle Dog Inn in Victoria for a steak dinner. Maybe he was just a picky eater! A visit to the Army and Navy club for a few beers was 'de rigueur' any time we planned a meal at the Poodle Dog.
We arrived at the Army and Navy club several hours ahead of our usual time one day and as a result were more than a little 'snapped up' when we arrived at the Poodle Dog. We were shown to a side booth and before long one of our many casual naval acquaintances, a lad called Jimmie, slid into the booth for conversation.
'Gotta go for a leak!' Billy slurred shortly thereafter and lurched off in the direction of the men's room at the back of the restaurant. In due course our steaks arrived and Billy's food gradually cooled off as our casual acqaintance and I carried on with our rambling conversation.
'Maybe you'd better go and check on your buddy,' Jimmie suggested after Billy's absence had extended to nearly half an hour.
'I'll be right back!' I said, heading for the toilets. I entered the washroom and spotted Billy immediately, slumped on one of the toilets in the row, the compartment door wide open. Billy was asleep and 'slumped' was not exactly the correct description for his placement. His body had, in fact, jacknifed and slipped down into the ceramic bowl so that his bum was probably drawing water. His arms and legs were dangling limply down along the sides and front of the toilet bowl, his head bent forward, resting peacefully between his knees. His sailor hat was still in place.
'Billy! Wake up, your steak has arrived!''Yeah, yeah! Okay, I'm jush fine---be right there!'I returned to the booth and continued to attack my steak, at the same time telling our friend jokingly about Billy's temporary complication. I turned for a moment to check the condiments and to pull some paper serviettes from the dispenser.
'Hey!' said our friend, 'did you see that? Some guy just scuttled by on his hands and knees!''Was he wearing a sailor suit? Was it Billy?''I couldn't see his face but he was wearing a sailor suit, all right!' I went back to the washroom and it was vacant so I assumed the 'escapee' had been Billy. Jimmie was not hungry because he'd already eaten and I was able to return the extra steak without complaint. I didn't see Billy again till the following morning.
'What the hell happened to you?' I said. Billy wandered up to the morning muster on the parade square looking as though he'd just crawled out of a disinterred coffin.
'I ran into my old pal 'Stubby' at Robert House and we decided to go for a few more drinks, then 'Stubby' decided it would be a good idea to go for a boat ride.'
'Where the hell could you rent a boat at that time of day?''We couldn't! We decided to 'borrow' a rowboat from in front of the Empress Hotel.'
'Where were you planning to go?' I said skeptically.
'We didn't have any plan; we just rowed around, until we lost one of the oars, that is, then we had to row around in a circle!'
'Why didn't you retrieve it?''It was pitch dark, that's why!'
'So what did you do then?'
'I don't remember! Just doodled around until 'Stubby' got tired, then he paddled us back to shore, I guess!''So where did you sleep, do you remember?'
'On a park bench somewhere; it was colder'n a bitch, I remember that!'
'I'm not surprised---sounds like you had a memorable evening!''Actually, I don't remember a fuckin' thing !' Billy said wearily.
We were required to fall in for roll call on the parade square every morning after breakfast. Frankly, I suspected that we were a pain in the ass for the regular navy as they tried to figure out what to do with us next. One day after dismissal we were still milling about when several WRENS ran past us heading for some other assignment. To my astonishment I saw a young girl after whom I had lusted for three years at high school.
'Gerry!' I cried.
'Ronnie!' she exclaimed and flew into my arms. Gerry was tall and shapely and extremely good looking. In her WRENS uniform she looked impossibly desirable. She was one of the two girls I had invited to the annual 'Top Hat' dance at the Palliser hotel one Christmas. Regrettably, they had both accepted my invitation and it required a miracle for me to wangle my way free.
'Imagine this! What are you doing here anyway; I thought you were at university!'
'I am, I'm just here for a couple of weeks of summer training.'
'I'd just love to see you again!' she said breathlessly. 'Maybe you could get a room at a hotel downtown somewhere and we could get together!' Was I really hearing this?
'Great idea! I'll get a bottle of rum and we can have a party!'
'I can hardly wait! By the way, you don't really need a bottle of rum!' I'm assuming that my brain waves got crossed and the nerves fried out because my memory is completely blank from that time forward. Did I find out where to contact her? Did I see her again? I haven't got a clue! Honest! It's possible that the grumbling amongst my fellow trainees was so great that I forgot to find out where to find her. The thought of her waiting yearningly for my non-existent contact has bothered me ever since! Each of the two years I was in the U.N.T.D. (The Untidies) we were moved to Vancouver via train from the Edmonton CNR depot. Did we have sleepers? I don't remember! We were obviously stressed out! When we arrived in Vancouver we went on to Esquimalt on the ferry. A part of that I do remember. When we embarked it was a lovely sunny day and several of us were sitting out by the fantail later discussing nonentities in our dark blue woollen uniforms. The usual contingent of gulls was hovering just back of the ferry waiting for refuse. Occasionally one of the birds would fly forward and hang just above us; occasionally such a bird would also let fly with a shot of white refuse of its own! Incredibly, we all remained untouched, even with our dark blue uniform targets so clearly displayed.
At one point a middle-aged gentleman bent on conversation decided to come and sit amongst us. We never learned whether he was bent in any other way. He was impeccably dressed in a gray flannel suit and wore a white Panama hat. Naturally he received the next shot all down the front of his suit! He left amongst a combination of commiserative comments and muffled laughter. To our surprise he returned a quarter of an hour later wearing a light blue cotton suit. Undeterred, he was once again ready for stimulating conversation. Moments later an ostensible volunteer flew forward from the pursuing flight and took dead aim on the unfortunate fellow. This time the load was split between the Panama hat and the suit. The gentleman used some expletives we had heard before as he left for the second and last time. The fact that we all remained unbesmirched was of interest to the more superstitious members of our group.
As I've said before, the Canadian Navy seemed to be hard put to find worthwhile activities for the U.N.T.D. One year we were loaded aboard an ancient steamer (the 'Temeraire'?) and sent up the Strait of Georgia between Vancouver Island and the mainland. The oldtimers aboard claimed the vessel had been sunk at least twice in World War I! We had the questionable opportunity to emulate at least part of the essence of Nelson's ship 'Victory', since the Ordinary Seamen (like ourselves) and the stokers all used one large messroom and at night we all slung our hammocks ('micks') from the overhead beams for the night. God knows what chaos would have eventuated had anything gone amiss!Nanaimo was touted at the time as having something like twenty-one beer parlours in a mile-long main street. Its name is based on an old Indian phrase meaning "big, strong tribe". An Indian phrase meaning "lots of pubs" might be more appropriate. I'm sure we stopped there; why else would I remember?The only thing I remember about Comox was the 'commando' training course which included a large 'rope-climbing' structure comprising a couple of sturdy uprights at least fifty feet tall connected at the top by a crossbar twenty-five or thirty feet across. Ropes knotted at four or five foot intervals hung down from the crossbar. I must have been in good shape then because I clambered up one of the ropes until I reached the top where I heaved myself up onto the crossbar. A glance down shook me up considerably. I was overcome by a sudden attack of vertigo and came close to toppling from my high perch. I eventually pulled myself together and cautiously descended on the rope, taking only two or three times as long as I had taken on the way up.
The rest of our time at Naden was spent in edifying lectures on various destructive naval devices that were available to the navy or were under development. My most memorable recollection is of an experience I had one day when we were coming out of a demonstration lecture on ASDIC, an electronic system for hunting submarines.
As we left the building we were held up by a group passing along the roadway. A man was being escorted by armed Shore Police, presumably to a secure location, a high security jail, for instance. Stockily built, about five ten in height, he was dressed in white canvas pants, a white canvas pullover without embellishment and his head had been completely shaved. He was looking down but his face was a combination of malevolence and resentment. He was manacled and the chain between his leg irons was connected by another chain to the one between his wrists. This guy was virtually hobbled but managed to keep up with the guards. I couldn't believe that anybody would require this kind of security unless he had committed a really horrendous crime. Maniacal multiple murders? Terrorism? Egad! Probably theft aboard ship!A low humourist in our group suggested that the scenario could have been staged deliberately to make sure we all behaved ourselves. Ha, ha! That was completely unnecessary. Ancient tales of 'flogging around the fleet' and 'keelhauling' were sufficient to make me behave.
The second year we went to Naden the organizers were ready for us. I was immediately assigned to duty on board the MLQ 123, an under-powered 112 foot L.O.A. vessel with a couple of officers and a crew of about a dozen seamen. 'The ML' stood for 'mine layer' obviously but I've been unable to assign the 'Q' to anything meaningful. It carried two Cadillac engines which were undoubtedly effective but the size required had been underestimated. They were destined never to become motor torpedo boats! Nevertheless, I doubt if the 'Q' stood for Questionable performance! I'm doing a bit of research to see if I can find a description of the vessel. It's possible that it's an American-built vessel because of the Cadillac engines and the fact that it had sleeping bunks!
I think maybe the 'Q' stood for 'Queer'! The MLQ 123 was a convalescent sanatorium in a sense; virtually all of the crew had been involved at the landings in Sicily or some other beach where there was action that required subsequent R&R resulting from severe stress. I sometimes wondered if we had been specifically assigned for any particular reason! There was an ongoing game of blackjack being played in the mess near my bunk and the sound of laughter and raucous yelling was continuous, yet I remember sleeping like the newborn in spite of it. There was no cash evident , probably because no one had any, so all of the wins and losses were recorded as I.O.U.'s. One of the players owed another something in the neighborhood of $1500, a substantial debt in those days. I'd call that 'queer', wouldn't you? Probably never paid! I assume knowledgeable persons of my age will be aware of the irony of my being posted to a vessel of war in May of 1945! It was unusually quiet on the morning of May 8th. Everyone seemed to be sleeping in. I was awakened by the sound of some drunken gibberish being shouted by an intoxicated individual as he attempted to climb down the steps in the companionway. 'It's all over!' he was crying, 'It's all over!'
'It's all over!' I thought, what's all over? Horseshit on the streets? The party he's been on? The drunk finally made his point; the "WAR" was over! He was not alone in his celebration; when I went on deck I saw another celebrant stretched out along the foredeck. That is to say, he was partly on the foredeck and partly hanging down toward the water. He would have been in the water and conceivably drowned if his ankle and foot had not become wedged in one of the fairleads. Do you know what a fairlead is? It's not in the dictionary. Anyway, it's a massive piece of iron fixed to the deck on either side of the bow and looks like a large grommet with the top section removed so that mooring ropes can be lifted free when necessary. If you don't know what a grommet is, look in the dictionary.
Once the original celebrants had been led quietly away the executive officers took command and we set out for a cruise. I was under the impression that one of the seamen said we were near Beacher's Bay but all I can find on the map up the coast near Esquimalt is Beachey Head; I presume that's what he meant. When I looked into the wheelhouse there was not an officer to be seen. When I asked the ordinary seaman where the officers were he said that they were all in the wardroom having a party. He claimed that a detail had rowed the ship's boat ashore earlier in the day and picked up some ladies who had been awaiting the boat's arrival. I later found out that on less testosterone-driven occasions the officers sent a detail ashore to dig out and return with a pailful of clams.
Everybody on board was drunk by this time. When I stood beside the AB at the helm who had unilaterally taken the 'con' he asked me if I would care for a beer. I agreed readily and he reached down and grasped a couple of bottles of beer.
'I've got a bottle opener around here somewhere,' he said.
'Never mind, just give them to me,' I said boozily. My plan was to pop the top off of one of the bottles using the other bottle as an opener; I had done it successfully many times. Unfortunately this was not one of the times. The previous booze had affected my wrists in some way, making them more limber than usual. As a result the bottles smacked together and both exploded; I was left standing in a sea of beer foam and broken glass, holding two vestigial beer bottle necks. I gave my pal a Mickey Mouse guilt smile instead of a bottle of beer.
'Too bad; that's all there is!' he said. It was a blessing in disguise. He was already driving the boat like a drunken sailor (which he was!), swerving the Fairmile back and forth between the round rocks emerging from the shallow water we were moving through. I had to believe that there were some rocks between the outcrops which didn't quite break the surface and impacting one of these at our speed would have opened the vessel like a sardine can from stem to stern. The court of inquiry would have been interesting!Now that hostilities had officially ceased, at least temporarily, we became accordingly bellicose and were taking turns firing the WWI Lewis gun off the side of the vessel. It's either a miracle or a shame that no one was shot. At least no one returned our fire. The rest of our visit was more of a holiday than a training course and everyone walked around as if they were thinking of something else.
En route to Calgary following our dismissal my buddy was keen to sample the nightlife in downtown Vancouver. His college sweetheart 'just happened' to be in town and he wanted to show off, of course. If I accompanied him I'd have the time of my life and he guaranteed he would have his girl friend line up a 'knockout' date for me. Surprisingly, she turned out to be quite pretty. Only the best would do! The 'Cave' was the night spot in Vancouver where all the 'in' people went to dine and dance. Therefore, he thought, that's where we must go. I can't remember who was featured but they were in the habit of bringing in stars like 'Fats' Domino and Cab Calloway. We dined well, naturally, and had our photograph with the girls taken at what I considered to be considerable expense. Billy was intent on impressing his girl friend; I was impressed, too, but only on the amount of money we were spending. When the check for the evening's enjoyment finally arrived I was embarrassed to have to empty my pockets for the miserly amount of cash we finally left as a tip.
Back in Calgary I spent the rest of the summer 'goosing' guys up to finish the work they had promised to do for the Freshman Introduction the following autumn. I think they call it 'expediting'! I think this was the summer I worked at the Nitrogen Plant for a month then switched to the Imperial Oil refinery because they were paying two cents an hour more. Nothing too thrifty about me! Brother Bob had married one of the Keir girls in 1942 then volunteered to join the Navy.
'What education do you have?' the recruiting officer asked Bob.
'I've got a degree in engineering,' Bob said.
'Really?' the alert officer said, 'What kind of engineer?'
'Petroleum,' Bob said in his characteristic laconic manner.
'Great!' said the officer, 'you're just the man we're looking for.' Bob ended up as the Fuel Officer in the naval base at Prince Rupert, a ridiculous, boring assignment in his opinion, a great safe place to be, in my mother's opinion.
Meanwhile, back at the 'real' war, brother Lloyd was writing to me occasionally with his cynical comments about life in the Canadian Navy. He was acting as the coder on the corvette 'Lindsay'. I can't remember clearly whether some of my information was gleaned from letters or from conversations with Lloyd following the war.
His vessel was on what was called 'the triangle run' initially, from 'Newfie John' (to distinguish St. John's, Newfoundland, from St. John, New Brunswick) to Bermuda to the Azores and back. (Al claims it was from "Newfie' John to Halifax to New York and back.) I remember Lloyd telling of the thick ice forming on the superstructure which they had to chip continuously to prevent the vessel from turning turtle. He was either in the North Atlantic or on the Murmansk run.
I was getting thirty-five dollars a month from home for room and board but I remember sending Lloyd five dollars on one occasion. When he recovered from his surprise he wrote me a 'thank you' letter.
Apparently Lloyd had several opportunities to take officer training but he preferred to be 'one of the boys'. He wouldn't even accept promotion to 'killick' (leading seaman) status. H.M.C.S. Lindsay was moved to Milford Haven on the west coast of Wales, nearer to the Channel area as D-Day time approached. He claimed that there was a lot of activity in the Channel every night with corvettes and motor torpedo boats everywhere. Due to the extreme torpedo threat there were strict orders for no vessel to stop at any time to pick up survivors.
'One night we were in the Channel when a tanker was hit and on fire; there were survivors in the water but we were not allowed to stop to pick them up. It was sickening to cruise by while our own guys were in the water crying out for us to stop and save them. Some of our own crew were crying from distress. The second time we passed the fuel oil was on fire and starting to approach the lads in the water. The skipper finally made a decision and said 'Break out the rifles!' Several of us were allowed to stand near the taffrail and shoot the guys in the water as we cruised past.
'Jesus Christ! How could you do such a thing?' I said.
'What would you do if there were guys like your shipmates about to be burned…alive and begging us to shoot them before the flames reached them?' he said grimly.
'I take your point,' I said quietly, thinking how grateful I was never to have had to make the decision their skipper did on that agonizing night.
I don't think Lloyd bothered to tell the folks about that experience. I remember sitting in the family living room as Lloyd was telling our parents of his not-so-dangerous exploits. Mom was not too pleased when he described the collision incident.
'I was sitting in the code room one night when there was a terrific jarring crash and I expected us to start sinking shortly thereafter. When we were still on an even keel after five minutes I decided we weren't going to sink afer all and quit trying to figure out which way to run. When I looked up I saw stars! That's strange, I thought, I don't remember being hit on the head! As it turned out, we'd collided with another ship in the blackout due to which we were missing part of our topsides!'
'Jesus!' I said, 'you coulda been killed. I thought they had radar to prevent things like that!'
'Don't tell me about it,' he said, 'I was only a coder! 'Sides, you tryna wreck my story or somethin'?' When the war was over his corvette returned to its base at Milford Haven in Wales and everyone carried on with the celebrations. He was six feet four inches tall at this time and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds, not a fellow who had to take any sass from anyone. He was running from one place to another for some reason. As he rounded a corner he literally ran into a huge black American Shore Patrol individual.
'This bugger was at least two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than I was and he must have thought I was escaping a disturbance because he whacked me in the mouth without asking any questions. I flew back and measured my length flat on my back on the sidewalk.' Dad was leaning forward in his chair, listening with great interest.
'So what'd you do?' he said.
'Needless to say, I was infuriated by his unprovoked attack. I got to my feet, measured him with my eyes,--- then turned around and ran away as fast as I could!' I could see that Dad was slightly disappointed in his son's behaviour but I was amused. Lloyd had done the correct thing in my opinion.
'I think you were wise,' I said, 'you saved yourself a crack on the skull and and a night in the brig, in my opinion!'
'I'm glad someone agrees,' he said with a smile.
— The End —