VE Day had come and gone on the 8th May 1945 and I had entered married life on the 25th of May; all was well with the world!
From my sheltered life with the Communication Branch at RE Barracks at Brompton, Gillingham, I was drafted as Yeoman of Signals (?) to a Hunt Class destroyer, HMS Calpe, standing at Chatham. My new wife and I found digs at nearby Gillingham.
I returned to the Calpe - which was still alongside – and had a lot of catching up to do: getting acquainted with new messmates in the PO’s mess, and those of the officers who were aboard. Others would join later. I also had to get to know some of the ship’s company; the V/S department and I had to get to know each other. A great deal would depend on us working together, and we hadn’t yet worked as a team, so it was Speed, Discipline and Co-operation. There were watches and duties to be allocated for certain occasions i.e. Action Stations, Yellow and Red Alerts, etc., though we were virtually in peacetime at home. What seemed to take up so much of our time – tedious but essential – was updating our books and records from outstanding signals and corrections.
Of course the inevitable day arrived when the Calpe was seaworthy and ready for action. The sailing orders arrived and we slipped away from the dockyard, sailing down the River Medway, passing Sheerness and the shore-based HMS Wildfire where my RN career had started, a hundred years before, into the North Sea and down to the English Channel.
We eased our way around the south coast, past Land’s End, and out into the Atlantic. It had been an uneventful passage with no enemy action, but we amply made up for it with our own mock Action Stations, drills and evolutions. We had to start working as teams under pressure. The war in the Pacific was still with us.
Summertime – and the living is easy! No way! Being forewarned of pending storms, we headed into the Bay of Biscay with everything battened down. Lifelines were rigged along the upper deck fore-and-aft as we were shipping heavy seas. It was eventually obvious that we were not in very good shape. Signals were exchanged with ships in company, and we were soon heading back, limping into Devonport dockyard.
Whatever the outcome of the findings, the Calpe had to undergo repairs lasting a number of days. Local leave was given and my immediate reaction was to send a telegram to my wife at her parent’s address. The message was to get her down to Plymouth – being careful not to breach security – and to ‘bring some money’ as I was broke as far as ready cash. I also managed to arrange accommodation for us in readiness.
At the appropriate time, I went to Plymouth railway station to meet the only train expected, it being ‘wartime’, but my wife wasn’t on it! After some time I had to face the fact that she hadn’t made it and I caught a bus back to Devonport. As the bus approached my stop, I made my way to the rear platform and jumped off whilst it was still in motion; one could do that in those days, before ‘elf and safety stepped in. It was then I heard the most frantic scream, and a pair off arms attached to a familiar voice grabbed me.
The phrase ‘My Heart Leapt’ comes to mind. It was one of those unbelievable, fantastic moments of elation. My wife’s version of her experiences and the amazing coincidence of events is even more astounding. A veritable Comedy of Errors with a happy ending. From a bemused audience we walked away to pick up her suitcase that she had dropped some yards away.
As we walked to the accommodation address, which I had arranged, my wife told me that she had alighted at Devonport station as advised by a fellow traveller, a Chief Petty Officer, who was returning to his ship. He convinced her that Devonport was the place for a sailor to meet his wife. As I was not there to greet her, she went to the dockyard where information was difficult to obtain. However, she did manage to learn that I was ashore on leave, but where?
Thinking that I might be at a cinema, and aware that there was a system available for recalling service personnel by projecting messages on the screen, she was about to catch a bus into Plymouth to do the rounds of the cinemas. She was lugging her suitcase along to the bus stop when she saw this stupid matelot about to break his neck by jumping from a moving bus!
The Calpe was under repair for 10 to 14 days, during which time we treasured every minute. I was allowed ashore every night, returning to the ship early morning, until … of the ship’s company, I alone was allowed leave ashore until 4am.
We dared not go to sleep, but agonisingly watched the few hours tick away. It was a most emotional experience. Tearing ourselves apart in the early hours was such a tearful, harrowing affair.
This time HMS Calpe successfully negotiated the Bay of Biscay and proceeded on her way out to the Far East where the war against the Japanese was still raging. We joined up with the fleet working out of Tricomalee and Colombo. Although we were forever in a stressful state, and tension was high from the threat of being close to an enemy again, there was a definite lack of the heated skirmishes I’d experienced in the Med. I hadn’t expected the same concentration of enemy submarines as the U-boats had presented to us, but I thought that there might have been more in the way of air and surface attacks. As Calpe was a small Hunt Class destroyer, she might possibly be nippy enough to evade any Kamikaze attack. This possibility was never put to the test.
Most of my off-duty time I spent writing letters home, in particular to my wife. Sometimes a few of us would go ashore to the base canteen with our ration of beer tickets.
Looking back it might be assumed that with the dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Okinawa on the 6th and 9th of June 1945 respectively, the war in the Far East was virtually over. Instead of which, many more lives were lost until the final surrender of the Japanese on 15th August – VJ Day.
We were at sea when the news of the Japanese surrender was broadcast throughout the ship. The PA system was open and soon voices were passing messages to mates in other parts of the ship until eventually it all changed into a sing-along. When order was restored, we went about our business, then the heavens opened to drench everyone in the open. In fact all of those who could do so came on deck to celebrate in this welcome warm downpour.
The World War was over from the 15th August 1945, but there was a sudden flare-up of hostilities on Java and Sumatra, which required our attention. We became involved in bombarding strategic positions and eventually taking off refugees – mostly women and children – and transferring them to safety.
Throughout that period I had remained aboard the Calpe. My History Sheet showed that on October 1st my pay ledger was transferred to Pembroke IV – where I had started with HMS Calpe in Chatham – this should have indicated my return to the UK. On October 11th, however, I was drafted to HMS Mayina, a shore base, where I remained for 9 days.
From the camp I received a draft chit to the Flagship HMS Sussex. This cruiser had done sterling work during the conflict out east, and many of the crew were seasoned veterans. There was a noticeable difference in the life-style aboard. Whereas I was used to crewmembers smoking duty free cigarettes or an occasional pipe, these guys were smoking and chewing on fat, green Dutch cigars.
When we lay off Singapore, I stayed aboard writing letters! For some reason the place didn’t draw me. When the ship anchored offshore from Penang, I saw the most striking example of a true watershed. The waters from the River Perak flowed into the sea at such an angle to produce a perfectly visible boundary line separating the fresh water from the seawater.
Twenty-seven days after joining HMS Sussex I was again drafted to Mayina camp. As I left the cruiser, our signal office messenger presented me with the last signal with which I had been involved.
After 3 days in the camp, on 20th December, I was boarding a small converted aircraft carrier, which was serving as a troopship, transporting troops back to Blighty.