WW2 Memoirs

The adventurous life of Peter Hammond, Part 1: 1923 - 1946

Peter Hammond, Bernard Hammond

• Publisher: Books on Demand
• Year: 2018
• eBook ISBN:
  9783752853940
• Print ISBN:
  9783752841442
• Edition: 2

In Part 1 of his memoires Peter Hammond describes the growing pre-WW2 tension in day to day life in England, his time in London as a fire-watcher during the German bombing raids, his adventures as a "head-ache" operator listening to enemy communications in the Royal Navy and being stationed in post-war Germany as a naval intelligence officer interrogating Soviet spies.Peter Hammond, born 1923 in Rotterdam, moved to England at the age of 11 after his father died. At 16 he left home to start an apprenticeship in London and during the nights he was on fire-watch duty to extinguish the blazes caused by German bombs. He then joined the Royal Navy and was stationed on several ships as a "head-ache" operator. Speaking Dutch, he quickly learned German and decoded transmissions from enemy vessels attacking the Royal fleet. After the war he was posted to Cuxhaven and describes the desperation of the beaten German people and the search for Soviet spies in the occupied country.

Episode 5: The Royal Navy

a. Skegness – 1

(18^th August – 24^th September 1942)

I stepped off the little "Puffing Billy" from Firsby at Skegness station as the clock struck 9 on that eventful morning of 18th August, 1942. At the end of the platform I looked around for other "lost souls". A Naval Petty Officer came strolling over, glanced at the label dangling from my case and told me to wait a moment while he tried to spot any of the other 150 new entries expected that day. It turned out I was the only one to arrive by the early train; so I was entrusted to a "Wren" who beckoned me to board her "Hillman" pick-up van. After a 15 minute drive through the flat Lincolnshire countryside we entered what had once been Billy Butlin's Holiday Camp and was now the vast Naval training establishment named "His Majesty's Ship Royal Arthur".

As we drove past row upon row of wooden chalets I observed squad upon squad of smartly dressed sailors being marched to and fro', while others were doing P.T. and yet others were splashing about in a large swimming pool. Here and there a pompous looking officer cursorily acknowledged the salutes of passing sailors as he haughtily contemplated the scene. I shuddered! I was told to jump out of the van at one of the huge dining halls.

A jovial Chief Petty Officer came over and asked me whether I'd like some breakfast. He told me to sit at one of the long wooden tables; and immediately several sailors appeared with plates, cutlery, a cup of "Chai" (Naval term for tea) and some very welcome food. It seemed too good to be true! When I'd finished my breakfast the sailors cleared the table and the "Chief" led me out to one of the chalets in the "New Entries' Row". He gave me a little handbooklet on "HMS Royal Arthur" and told me to wait for the others to arrive. It wasn't long before a group of new recruits from the north of England showed up; and from then on fresh batches kept arriving throughout the day.

The new recruits in my intake were predictably from all walks of life and all social strata. They looked generally wholesome and they seemed to be quite a pleasant lot. Nothing much happened that first day. We just flocked into the dining hall when meals were "piped"; and spent the rest of the time wandering about and questioning "older hands" about what was in store for us.

The following morning things began to move in earnest. After a succession of roll-calls we were divided up into "classes". I was allocated to "Class 19" and a friendly Leading Seaman (Naval equivalent of Corporal) named Davey was introduced as our class instructor. During the following three days Davey marched us about to the various points on our "joining routine", at each of which we were made to stand in line until called forward to be dealt with individually. Thus our civilian identity cards and gas masks were withdrawn and replaced by Pay Books (serving also as Service identity documents) and superior quality Service gas masks. At the Sick Bay we were medically and dentally examined, inoculated and vaccinated. We underwent further psychology and intelligence tests, which were followed by interviews with the Training Commander. We were issued with our kit bags, hammocks and uniforms (I was rather disappointed at getting a "fore and aft" style artisan's outfit, rather than the conventional seaman's rig). We were also issued with "Station Cards", which had to be surrendered when proceeding "ashore"; and we were each given an advance of pay of 10 shillings. A Padre lectured us on welfare and the perils of Venerial Diseases; and we were given a talk on "the Lower Deck" (or the lifestyle of "Other Ranks")

The Training Commander was the authority who determined to which professional branch of the Navy new recruits were to be allocated. In exercising his authority he was assisted by a civilian psychologist, seated by his side. When it was my turn to appear before this "tribunal" I was coolly informed that the results of my intelligence and psychology tests had indicated that I was not cut out to become a Wireless Mechanic. This not only nonplussed me; it also struck me as being something of an insult! In the ensuing momentary pause I mumbled something about being rather disappointed, as I'd always been fascinated by electricity. The Commander turned to the psychologist and, in hushed tones, they consulted their papers. Then, addressing me again, the Commander announced that, in view of my declared interest in electricity, I would, on completing my initial training at "Royal Arthur", be sent to "HMS Vernon" in Portsmouth on an Electrical Mechanic's course. With immediate effect I was to be designated a "Junior Probationary Electrical Mechanic", or "JPEM" for short. (This was all too confusing! How could I be found mentally inadequate to be trained as a wireless mechanic, yet be taken on as a trainee electrical mechanic? Where lay the difference? Was it possible that my test results had revealed what an utter technical nitwit I was?)

Immediately following our interviews with the Training Commander two or three of the better educated members of Class 19 quietly disappeared. Davey later explained to us that they had been selected to become "CW Candidates", which meant they would be given separate training elsewhere to prepare them for Wartime officers commissions. While under training they wore ordinary sailors' uniforms with white bands round their caps.

In the course of our "joining routine" we had moved out of "New Entries Row" and into the chalets we were to occupy throughout our period of basic training. There were three occupants to each chalet, my chalet companions being: a tall and tough-looking former member of the East Ham Boys' Brigade named Len Rowlands; and another young Londoner named Ken Foster, who was rather less powerfully built than Len and had been a clerk with the Imperial Tobacco Company. They had, unlike me, both been deemed by the Training Commander to be endowed with the necessary IQ to become Wireless Mechanics; and they had consequently been kitted out with conventional seaman's rig. We coexisted in our little chalet in perfect harmony - and we even went "ashore" together.

Our basic training programme, which got under way as soon as we had completed our "joining routine", consisted mainly of periods of instruction in seamanship, squad drill and physical training. Each day the succession of events on the daily timetable were "piped" (broadcast) through strategically placed loudhailers. (A "pipe" consisted either of a bugle call or of the sound of a whistle being blown, followed by the appropriate announcement).

The trainee's day thus dawned with the penetrating sound of the familiar "Reveille" bugle call, which was closely followed by the duty Petty Officer striding up and down, loudly banging on each chalet door with a heavy wooden truncheon and shouting "Wakey wakey, rise and shine; shake a leg; heave 'o, heave 'o!"

Shortly afterwards "hands to breakfast" was "piped" - and one would hear one's chalet mates helping themselves out of bed to the accompaniment of a little sacrilegious "prayer". (A "hand" in this case was a synonym for a sailor)

At 0845 the pipe "hands to Divisions; rig of the day, number threes" was sounded. ("Divisions" was the ritual morning parade; "rig of the day" meant what kind of clothing was to be worn; and "number threes" was standard working dress) At "Divisions" we were called to attention, stood at ease, dressed by the right (made to stand in straight lines), etc., by our class instructors. Next the Divisional Officer balled out: "Foc'sel Division, left turn! Double march!" and we were off on a little well synchronised trot around the camp - I'm sorry, around the ship! On returning to our starting point, the Padre uttered a prayer and then, to the strains of "God save the King" plus the national anthem of our "Ally of the day" played by the resident Royal Marines band, the White Ensign was ceremonially hoisted up the mainmast. Finally we were marched off the parade ground and ordered to "fall out" (disperse).

The remainder of the forenoon was devoted to instruction, interrupted by a 15 minute "stand easy" at 1030 hours, when there was a mad rush to the canteen.

At midday "Up Spirits" was piped. This pipe had me completely foxed until it was explained to me that it was the call to those entitled to a "tot" of rum to go and collect it. It was one of the Navy's much cherished traditions that every rating (sailor of non-commissioned rank) above the age of 21 was entitled to a free daily ration of rum, known as a "tot". This rum entitlement could be voluntarily renounced and compensated with a daily credit of threepence. It made me sick to think I'd have to wait another two and a half years before being old enough to benefit from this most enviable of privileges! Although strictly contrary to Naval regulations, it was not uncommon for some of the older hands to trade their "tot" for such services as having their shoes polished or their clothes "dobied" (laundered).

Shortly after midday the pipe "Hands to Dinner" was sounded. (Only officers had lunch during the midday break and dinner in the evening; for "other ranks" the midday meal was known as "dinner" and they had their "supper" in the evening)

There was a further period of instruction during the afternoon, which lasted until the welcome pipe "Hands to Tea" signalled the end of the working day.

After tea the pipe "Evening Quarters" summoned the "ship's company" to the evening parade, which was soon followed by the pipe "Libertymen fall in" ("Liberty" being the Naval term for "shore leave"). The "ship's company" was divided into "Port" (left side of a ship) and "Starboard" (right side) "Watches". After "Evening Quarters" the two "Watches" alternated in being either on duty or permitted shore leave. The only actual duty demanded of the "Duty Watch" was an occasional stint of fire watching. Otherwise "Duty Watch" personnel were free to attend the "Ship's" cinema or the occasional "on board" concert; or simply to wander about and write letters. "Libertymen" wishing to proceed "ashore", were required to line up for inspection, before surrendering their "Station Cards" and boarding the fleet of waiting "Liberty Boats" (Naval buses), which plied between "Royal Arthur" and the centre of Skegness. "Libertymen" were required to catch a "Liberty Boat" in time to report back "on board" by 2230 hours at the latest, the pipe "Lights out; pipe down" already having signalled "bed time" at 2200 hours.

Our class instructor, Leading Seaman Davey, was responsible for lecturing us on what was termed Seamanship, but which also covered basic general knowledge of naval matters, including naval terminology, rank structure, insignia and discipline. His monotonous Cockney drawl tended to lull me to sleep; but I nevertheless picked up quite a lot of useful scraps of information from what he had to tell us.

On naval terminology, for example, he warned us we would be laying ourselves open to ridicule in the company of "older hands" if we used such "un-Naval" words as "left", "right", "stairs", "upstairs", "downstairs", the "floor", the "kitchen", etc., (the naval equivalents of which were "port", "starboard", "ladder", "above", "below", the "deck" and the "galley" respectively). The Royal Naval base at Devonport and the adjacent city of Plymouth were known in the Navy as "Guzz"; Portsmouth was "Pompey"; a Leading Seaman was a "Killick"; a soldier a "Pongo"; to be late or in trouble were to be "adrift" and "in the rattle" - and so it went on, ad nauseum!

The Quarter Deck of a ship (the deck area near the stern) was regarded as something of a "holy place", rather like an altar in a church. Ratings approaching it were required to salute and cross it "at the double" (running). Officers and instructors were, of course, always to be addressed as "Sir". On being given an order a rating was to say "Aye aye Sir" (and never "very good Sir", "righto" or "OK"!) Orders were to be carried out smartly, even if considered unwise or unjust. Complaints could be made afterwards through proper disciplinary channels.

As the country's Senior Service, the Navy was proud of its long, illustrious history, its cherished traditions and its jealously guarded privileges; and it attached great importance to its public image. Ratings were required to present a smart, properly dressed appearance while ashore; and before leaving their ship they had to "fall in" for inspection by an officer, who checked on properly polished shoes, clean clothing and a respectable Service haircut, before granting permission to go ashore. Naval personnel were not permitted to grow moustaches. They had to be clean shaven, unless they requested and were granted their Captain's permission to "stop shaving", in which case they were obliged to grow beards. Among their privileges were the issue of duty-free cigarettes and the daily rum ration. All leave was regarded as a privilege, to be granted, in accordance with Naval regulations, at the discretion of Commanding Officers.

Davey also explained to us the basic rules of navigation and the salient characteristics of the different types of guns, ships and boats in use in the Royal Navy; and he showed us how to tie various kinds of knots and how to fill in "request forms".

In Squad Drill we were made to assemble smartly in line or abreast and "dress by the left" or "right"; and then proceed to "quick march", "double march", or "slow march" to orders barked at us by our NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) instructors. We were also taught to "present arms", attach bayonets to rifles and perform the various movements featured in Service parades (like "mark time", "left" or "right wheel", "about turn" and "eyes left" or "right") A variety of NCO's alternated in taking us for Squad Drill, by far the most notorious being the much dreaded little Petty Officer known as "Dusty" Miller.

"Dusty" was an insignificant looking little man with a voice like a clap of thunder! He had manifestly made it his business to establish a reputation as the most ruthless and most fearinspiring instructor at "Royal Arthur". He was reputed to be the proud possessor of a certificate of sanity, issued to him on being discharged from a lunatic asylum! It was also rumoured he had been demoted from Chief Petty Officer to Petty Officer for striking and injuring a trainee. According to yet another rumour, a squad of tall and brawny Norwegian trainees at "Royal Arthur" had reacted to his bullying excesses by chasing him round the camp and then throwing him, fully dressed, into one of the swimming pools. I was prepared to believe anything I heard about "Dusty" Miller, after experiencing at first hand his uncouth methods of conducting "Squad Drill" instruction.

He would keep us standing rigidly to motionless attention; then, suddenly, he would make us react in a flash to the crack of his command. If he detected the slightest flaw in our coordination he would scream "Halt!" and slowly and menacingly approach the "guilty culprit", while humiliating and threatening him in the foulest and most degrading language. He had no compunction about snatching a rifle from a nervous trainee's grasp and screaming "catch it!" as he instantly flung it back at his face. Among the standard expressions he used in addressing the members of class 19 were: "you filthy shower of bloody civilians" and "you fucking shower of shit"! He liked telling us we were destined to be used as "cannon fodder" in future military operations - the only useful purpose for which we were fit!

His "star turn" was undoubtedly his "little chat" to us about the virtues of the bayonet in conditions of close combat. When we saw a bloody German swine coming at us, he postulated, we should not succumb to the temptation of shooting him. No: bullets were far too valuable for those rotten bastards. Anyway, we were likely to need our ammunition later, in a last resort situation. We should, instead, point our bayonet at the Hun's guts and, when he came within range, charge! On penetrating at least six inches of his stomach, we should twist the blade as he slumped to the ground; then smartly extract it in such a manner as to scoop out his intestines. However, on seeing his innards flopping about on the ground we should not consider our job as done. No! We should then bash in his skull with the butt of our rifle until it showed visible signs of having cracked. Finally, we should give him a violent kick in the crutch and make sure there was no reaction, just to satisfy ourselves he really was dead. Then, with a sadistic sneer, he put it to us that if we didn't have the backbone to do all this to the Hun, the bastard certainly wouldn't miss the opportunity of doing it to us! (The fine detail with which "Dusty" so graphically described this hypothetical little scene of battle put some of the chaps in Class 19 right off their food that day!)

On another occasion, to our complete amazement, "Dusty" marched us into an instruction room, where he very amicably set about showing us a number of conjuring tricks. When he'd finished he invited any of us who were interested to come to his chalet on any evening, where, for the modest price of half a crown a time, he'd teach us his tricks. He added a warning about the undesirability of any of the officers finding out about the generous offer he was extending to us! As far as I was aware, no one in Class 19 took "Dusty" up on his proposal; and, as we had no further instruction from him, we suffered no reprisals!

Whereas Squad Drill with "Dusty" Miller was, without question, the most obnoxious feature of life at "Royal Arthur", there were also a number of lesser evils to be endured during our period of basic training. For instance, in order to obtain a useless dose of cough mixture from a supercilious "Sick Bay Tiffy" (male nurse), we had to queue up at the Sick Bay for hours "on our pins" (on our feet), as the unfriendly little truncheon-wielding duty Petty Officer there kept croaking. Then there were the frequent practice air raid alerts staged in the middle of the night. On such occasions we were required to jump out of bed at once and crowd into the little brick shelters that were dotted about among the rows of chalets, where, to my exasperation, trainees would burst into a jolly sing-song! Like everyone else, I couldn't wait to get through my basic training. However, before leaving "Royal Arthur" Len, Ken and I landed ourselves into a spot of grievous trouble. This is what happened:

On originally moving into our chalet there had been a twofoot metal pipe attached at one end to a wire, lying haphazardly across the floor (I should, of course, say "deck"). As this interfered with our mandatory daily chore of sweeping and scrubbing the deck, I had carefully stood it up against the wall (or, rather, the "bulkhead"), where it was out of the way.

About a week before ending our sojourn at "Royal Arthur" I happened one morning to be the first to return to the chalet from a period of Physical Training. To my consternation I found a civilian workman groping about inside. He truculently asked me whether I was one of the chalet occupants. I responded by asking him what business he had entering without our knowledge. He then accused me of having tampered with the electric heating installation, thus disrupting the wiring system throughout the camp. I replied that I resented his assertion, that I had no idea the pipe was part of the heating system; and, anyway, we had found it already disconnected at one end on moving into the chalet. This the workman refused to believe; and an argument developed, with Len and Ken, by now also back in the chalet, joining in the rapidly escalating angry exchange. The man, by then furious, departed, threatening ...

Table of contents

• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• Prologue
• Rotterdam (December 1923 – Summer 1930)
• The Hague (Summer 1930 – Summer 1935)
• Worthing (Summer 1935 – 1st September 1940)
• City of London (2nd September 1940 – 17th August 1942)
• The Royal Navy
• Copyright