Og's Blog Pt. 07

Og's Blog Pt 07

Og becomes a civil servant. Part 03 Training Courses

Author's Note: Because of the Official Secrets Act, this has to be regarded as a fictionalised account and names will be omitted or changed. Any names given will not be the names of real people.

Please note that Parts 01 and 02 of Og's blog are transcripts of posts made on the Authors' Hangout and typed directly as a response to other posts. Og's blogs 03 onwards have been composed at leisure and edited. Where there are discrepancies between accounts in Parts 01 and 02 and subsequent parts the later version is likely to be a more accurate version because I have had time to consult my records.

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After the panic of the Cuban Missile Crisis I and Graham resumed our formal training. We were expected to be supernumerary for training for the first two years as ANSOs. As supernumeraries we might cover for other ANSOs on annual or sick leave and that cover would be considered part of our training.

The Naval Stores Department had taken six people who had passed the written examination to join the Civil Service. Two, Graham and I, were based at Portsmouth. One was at Chatham dockyard, one at Devonport, one at Rosyth and the last at the headquarters in Central London.

Training courses were arranged for us six, sometimes joined by recently promoted clerical officers who had passed promotion boards. I. at 18, was by far the youngest of the six. Most of the others were in their mid-20s. The former clerical officers were even older, late 20s to mid-30s.

Aircraft Spares

One of the first courses was at an Aircraft Spares depot in NE England. Like many Naval Stores depots we would visit over the next year it was in a remote location with few facilities around. We had to stay in a cheap Bed and Breakfast house because there was no hotel within ten miles of the depot. That was often the case for every course over the next year.

The difference between Aircraft Stores and other naval stores was the treatment of used parts. Everything had to be recorded with air hours of use. Beyond a certain number of hours, which varied according to the criticality of the particular spare, the part was scrap no matter how much it had originally cost.

Also, it depended on how many of a particular aircraft was in service with the Fleet Air Arm. If a class of aircraft was withdrawn from service, all the parts for that aircraft was scrapped, but if one was still flying, all the spares were kept. Aircraft Spares were very expensive and too much was scrapped every year. But the Fleet Air Arm's aircraft had to be constantly updated to be of any use in a fighting war. The navy remembered that the attack on Taranto and the sinking of the Bismarck had to be done with obsolete Swordfish aircraft, slow biplanes that should have been replaced years before.

That first course established a tradition for all subsequent courses. Naval Stores was one of three similar departments of the Admiralty -- Naval Stores; Armament Stores -- ammunition and guns; and my father's department Victualling Stores -- food, catering equipment and clothing. All had different traditions for alcohol intake. Those in Armament Stores tended to be reasonably social drinkers. They couldn't afford to be drunk because of the nature of the items they dealt with. Until the late 1950s Naval Stores and Victualling Stores had tended to be similar with a large number of heavy drinkers who could get access to duty-free booze. But then Victualling Stores had appointed a Deputy Director in charge of personnel who was a Plymouth Brother. He disapproved strongly of 'the demon drink' and tried to promote within his department or bring in by transfer from the other two departments those who didn't drink or were very light drinkers, and export to Naval Stores those who drunk more than he thought they should.

The result was obvious. Victualling Stores officers drank very little. Armament Stores officers drank slightly more. All the heavy drinkers were in Naval Stores and many were drunk within an hour of the 'sun being over the yardarm' i.e. twelve noon.

[Aside] His superiors weren't stupid and had a wicked sense of humour. They could see what he was doing. When he was finally promoted to Director, they made him Director of Naval Stores -- the department of drunks. He took early retirement as soon as he could.

But we were Naval Stores officers. Every social event we attended was likely to over-supplied with alcohol. We had to have a reasonable capacity for drink and able to work with hangovers or even when drunk. So on that course and all subsequent ones the training officer arranged an official vehicle -- usually a truck with bench seats -- and an official driver for a pub crawl every evening in which we sampled the beers local to that area. I, although by far the youngest, soon demonstrated that my capacity was almost limitless. My flatmate and office colleague, Graham, had the smallest capacity, and was considered only just acceptable for Naval Stores. He could manage if he paced himself and made a pint last twice as long as any of mine, but he knew he couldn't compete with the rest of us. But he enjoyed his beer so perhaps he would do.

Possibly the real difference was that I was by far the largest of us six at 300 lbs. of muscle and seriously fit. When in Portsmouth I was weightlifting at a gym three evenings a week. Graham was a slight man of about five feet eight to my six feet two.

The next course was wholly underground in a stores depot impervious to nuclear attack. There were about fifty miles of underground passages and ventilation was critical not just for those who worked there but also to keep the stores in good usable condition. Dampness and mould had to be fought continually. We went underground before dawn and didn't emerge until after dusk. Then after each evening meal in the Bed and Breakfast house, we went pub-crawling again in a different area to sample the local beers. We found that all the local beers were awful. For those unused to the beers, they produced the runs after the first two evenings. By the third, our systems could cope but we didn't want to return, or horror of horrors, be posted to that depot.

In between each course we would spend a week or two with one of us sitting with the ANSO in charge of a section. Each had a range of different items that his (always 'his' -- no woman had ever been an ANSO except for a few temporarily promoted for the duration of the war and reverted on VE Day) section had to ensure that there was adequate stock for. Each section had to look after more items than the complete range of items in a large DIY store. The procedures were similar but each had its own peculiarities such as the use of super feet and Petrograd standards for timber for example. The interesting part of each week was a visit to the relevant storehouse to look at the actual items.

But there were some specific tasks which the ANSO had to undertake personally, usually the annual stocktake to make sure that the official record and the items held matched and if not, why not. One such stocktake had to be performed in February. The responsible ANSO was an older man, close to retirement and slightly disabled from being injured during a bomb raid in 1940. He asked me to do the stocktake for him. He was responsible, among other things for the stock of ships' oil fuel.

There were sixteen oil fuel tanks and the quantity in each had to be measured. To do that, I had to climb up a vertical steel ladder with no guard rails, walk across the top of the tank, unscrew an inspection access point and lower a brass tape measure to the top of the oil. But it was February. The rungs on the ladder were covered in ice which I had to chip away. The inspection access point was covered in snow and frozen solid so I had to melt the ice and snow with a blow torch before I could unscrew it. Finding the level of oil was easy. The oil was solid. But after taking the measurement I had to lower a thermometer to measure the exact temperature because the volume of the oil fuel would vary according to the temperature. Back in the office we had to consult tables to work out what the diameter and depth of the particular storage tank was, adjust for the temperature and calculate what the oil fuel quantity would be at 15 C. It took me three days to do all sixteen and I was frequently frozen stiff. There was no way the ANSO in charge of oil fuel could have actually done it himself. Before the oil fuel could be used, the tank and the pipes leading from it would have to have been steam heated for 24 hours to make the contents liquid.

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A diversion from the time scale: Much later, in the August, I had an embarrassing incident with oil fuel. The offices normally worked Monday to Friday, a normal office day. But someone had to be on duty at the weekends. This was usually arranged by rota among the ANSOs. Whoever was on duty would be on call from the closure of the office on the Friday evening, in the office all day Saturday and Sunday, and on call all other hours until the office opened again on Monday morning. Usually it would be a very boring time with nothing to do but there were also storehousemen on duty for urgent issue of stores. The Navy operated 24/7 so the dockyard had to be capable of 24/7 too.

In August it was school holiday time. Many married ANSOs with children would be on leave, and those that weren't wanted to spend the weekends with their families. Graham and I had been the only ANSOs unmarried with no children. I had been duty officer for the first weekend of August, Graham for the second, and I was on duty again for the third weekend. The first two had been very boring with nothing happening. But for the third, I expected some action. A major NATO exercise would be taking place in the Western Approaches. Some ships would arrive in the dockyard at the weekend and they might need urgent stores.

However things didn't happen quite like that. There had been a major and unexpected storm in the Western Approaches on the Thursday and the rest of the exercise was cancelled. All the ships expected to return to the dockyard at the weekend had arrived during Friday and were now alongside.

But one Dutch destroyer had been unfortunate. It had been due to refuel at sea from a fleet tanker but the weather made that impossible. Late on Friday evening it sent a signal to Portsmouth dockyard asking to be refuelled there -- on Saturday. Without fuel it couldn't return to Holland.

That signal was on my desk when I arrived on Saturday morning. I rang the oil fuel depot. Could they refuel a Dutch destroyer? In theory -- yes. In practice no. They had an oil tanker alongside discharging aviation fuel. There was just about enough time to finish that before the tide got too low for the tanker which would ground and be damaged. Once the tanker had gone it would be too shallow for the destroyer.

"OK," I said. "Is there enough depth for the destroyer to come alongside and outside the tanker?"

"Well, yes, there would be for about two hours either side of high water. But..."

"Could you pump oil fuel across the tanker's decks to the destroyer?"

There was a loud intake of breath.

"That could be very dangerous, sir. Aviation spirit is very volatile. One spark and..."

"But that is true even without hoses for the oil fuel, surely? And you will be very careful, won't you?"

"Sir, yes, we could do that. But I will want your written orders and you will take responsibility?"

"Yes. My written orders will be with you long before the destroyer is anywhere near Portsmouth and I will state that you are acting on my orders, OK?"

"Yes, Sir. We will do our best."

"Thank you."

I sent the written orders by naval motorcycle despatch rider and signalled the Dutch destroyer giving instructions on how and when to approach the oil fuel depot who would direct movements once the destroyer was close.

Three hours later I was relieved to see the Oil tanker and the Dutch Destroyer leaving Portsmouth, refuelled. I rang the oil fuel depot to congratulate them.

"That was seriously scary, sir. I am relieved that both the destroyer and tanker made the tide. Now I need a tot of Dutch gin. The destroyer captain gave me a bottle and one for you. I think he and the crew are sinking the rest of their supply."

My bottle of Dutch gin arrived by motorcycle messenger within the hour.

When I arrived at work on the Monday morning the training officer was worried.

"You have an appointment with the Department Head at 11 o'clock. I don't know why."

Even he rarely saw the department head. All I knew was that the Head had been at a cocktail party on the Saturday on an aircraft carrier to celebrate the successful end of the NATO exercise. Neither he, nor any senior officer, had been available when I arranged the refuelling of the Dutch destroyer. At the time I knew I was wholly on my own.

I arrived in his secretary's office a couple of minutes early. Normally her attitude to the caller gave you some idea of what the Head's reception was likely to be. I was worried because she obviously was too.

The head's first words were worrying too.

"What am I going to do about you?" was his rhetorical question. "You authorised the breach of long standing safety requirements for the handling of aviation spirit and put that in writing so you can't retract it. If something had gone wrong? You might have set the oil fuel depot on fire, exploded the oil tanker and destroyed a quarter of Portsmouth."

Now I was seriously worried.

But then he laughed, reached in his desk drawer and produced a bottle of fine single malt whisky. He poured out two glasses and handed me one.

"I know that the sun isn't over the yardarm but we need this."

When I had sipped and enjoyed the taste he went on:

"Why?"

He left that hanging for about twenty seconds.

"When I arrived at work this morning I had two urgent signals. One was from the Port Admiral. He doesn't normally send a signal, usually a memo."

[The Port Admiral is the senior member of the Royal Navy based in Portsmouth.]

"He sent his congratulations to my department for our actions in refuelling the Dutch destroyer, promptly, efficiently and said it was 'in the best traditions of the service'.

That was a surprise. He normally moans at us for bureaucracy and delay. So we are now in his good books -- for a day or so. Thanks to you."

The head showed me the signal.

"The second signal, received about half an hour later, was from London, and not just from London but the Admiralty Board and signed by the First Sea Lord."

[The First Sea Lord is the professional head of the Navy. The First Lord is a politician who is part of the Cabinet.]

He topped up my glass.

"That signal tells me that the Dutch Ambassador telephoned the First Lord at the House of Commons on Saturday evening. First thing this morning the Ambassador presented the First Lord with a formal letter of thanks on behalf of the Dutch Government. The First Lord gave that letter to the First Sea Lord with his thanks. Apparently on Sunday that destroyer was due to have an official visit from the Dutch Royal Family. If the destroyer hadn't been refuelled that visit would have had to have been cancelled with much embarrassment."

He gulped his drink and refilled it.

"So now, not only is the Port Admiral very pleased with my department, so is the First Lord, the First Sea Lord, and the government of a NATO ally -- all because of you."

"No, sir," I replied. "It would have been impossible without the officer in charge of the oil fuel depot and his staff."

"Thank you. I know. They will get a unit commendation. But you were responsible. You would have been blamed if things went wrong -- which they could have, so you deserve the thanks and not the reprimand that might have been appropriate. I can't discipline you for taking too many risks, but equally because you did, it will have to be kept quiet. Neither a reprimand nor a commendation will appear on your record. All I can do is privately express my thanks, and..."

He reached back into his desk drawer and produced a full bottle of the single malt we were drinking.

"Keep it to yourself. It hasn't paid duty. Thank you."

I left clutching the bottle hidden in an official brown envelope.

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Back to the time line.

The next two weeks were boring as the two of us spent the weeks with other ANSOs taking copious notes of the particular requirements of that range of stores. But we were going to be sent to Chatham for a week, specifically to HMS Pembroke, the Navy's catering school. We should take our formal evening suits. Neither of us could understand why. HMS Pembroke, and the catering school were relevant to Victualling Stores, not Naval Stores.

After arrival we soon found out why we had come. It wasn't to train us, except in how to behave a formal occasions which both of us already knew, but as practice for the trainees at HMS Pembroke. During the week we would attend several cocktail parties, formal breakfast and lunch meetings, and five full scale mess dinners with an eight course menu. We ate well, too well, and had to manage with extensive place settings. We didn't have to mark or assess the trainees -- that was done by their instructors -- but we had to behave as if we were naval officers or important civilians being entertained by the Navy. Since my experiences as a child in Gibraltar and First Class on the MS Willem Ruys on the way to Australia I was totally at home with the setting. Graham was sometimes at a loss but I was able to advise him.

As usual, as Naval Stores officers, we were expected to drink in the evenings. Three nights were in HMS Pembroke's wardroom, one night in a pub crawl around Chatham and one evening the training officer took Graham and I out in his 1930 8 litre open Bentley to a famous countryside public house. It was (and is) the Ringlestone Arms. At the time the landlords were two eccentric old ladies. They were famous for their professional handling of craft beers (almost unheard of then!) and also for their attitude to customers. If they didn't like the look of you, they might fire a shotgun loaded with rock salt in your direction. But they saw the training officer as a friend and frequent visitor. The beers at The Ringlestone Arms were the best local beers I had in all my time as a trainee, even if I had to watch carefully that I didn't upset the landladies who kept their shotgun on view.

At the end of our time at HMS Pembroke I had put on seven pounds in weight. Even Graham had acquired five. I had to work hard in the following weeks to shed that.

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[Author's Note] From now on I will assume that you are aware that between training courses we spent more time with different ANSOs so I will omit those. So now an account of non-work activities.

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Graham and I were occupying a large flat in Southsea that was really too large and expensive for us. It could house six and we were only two. Our landlord had been offered six dockyard apprentices so we agreed with him that we two would move out elsewhere. We found bed and breakfast places, Graham in South Portsmouth and I, just across the water in Alverstoke, an easy walk to the ferry that deposited me within yards of the dockyard gate. I was staying with the wife of a Navy Petty Officer, She had a two-year-old son and I often babysat for her. We had to be careful because I was a single young man and she was an attractive young mother only a couple of years older than me. We were able to keep it as a professional relationship for the months I stayed in her house and I was her friend as well as her husband whenever he was home from sea.

While in Southsea, Graham and I often went to Southsea Pier for dancing. I used to buy tickets for events at Portsmouth Town Hall. Two stood out. One was for a concert by Frank Ifield, then starring in the UK's top ten record releases. It was difficult to hear him because of the screaming teenage girls -- for Frank Ifield! The other was for the first ever performance of an organ concerto by a Czech composer, playing his own composition. That was fascinating but the total audience was three people, one of whom was the music correspondent of a national newspaper. I, as usual, had bought one of the cheapest tickets, high up at the back. Before the performance started the composer asked all three of us to come down to the front row.