大象传媒

I was 16 when I entered the Civil Service in Devonport Dockyard (as it was then called) in October, 1938. This was considered quite a good job in those days 鈥� I had to pass a Civil Service examination and came 4th out of around 300 applicants 鈥� the pay was 21s 6d per week, for a 40 hour week.
One of my main jobs was having to do the filing, which I dreaded. Copies of every Order (instructions sent by the Admiralty) had to be registered and filed. Admiralty Fleet Orders, Admiral Superintendent鈥檚 Orders and the like, all flooded in to the Registry Section of the Expense Accounts Department where I worked. This was a very tedious and messy job, as the Orders had to be pasted and stuck individually into a thick foolscap ledger. I frequently had to report to the first aid room for plaster for badly slit fingers; everyone knows how easily and painfully paper can cut and, believe me, this was more like razor blades than paper.
Another job I hated was hectographing. The typists would type with a hectograph ribbon in their machines. It was of deep heliotrope colour and came off on EVERYTHING. The Dockyard Messengers had an evil-smelling little room down the corridor which contained a series of different size trays, about an inch or so deep, rather like outsize swiss roll tins. On a little portable stove they had an empty paint pot filled with some sort of jelly and, having melted this and permeated the entire offices with the most appalling smell, they would pour it into the trays and leave it to cool . The hectographed typing would then be placed face down upon this, carefully smoothed, allowed to remain for a few seconds, and then peeled off. Copies could then be made from this 鈥榦riginal鈥� by placing plain paper upon it. If I remember correctly, one could get quite a number of copies off one 鈥榮tencil鈥� but fifty or more copies necessitated the re-typing of the original draft. The stencil would then be carefully wiped clean and the same base used once or twice more. After that, the jelly was broken up, melted and the whole process started all over again.
However, one of the worst of the copying jobs upon which I was engaged was in the preparation of adhesive backed labels to be used on all envelopes being address to H.M. Ships. In those days, we still had a large navy and hundreds of invoices, advice notes, etc., etc., were despatched daily. The address was always the same 鈥� Commanding Officer, H.M.S鈥︹�� c/o G.P.O London. One does not need much imagination to realise that removing sticky labels from a jelly pad and setting each one aside somewhere to dry and prevent them from curling into a small tube, was well nigh impossible. And it must be added that the staff washing and cloakroom facilities in those days bore little resemblance to those provided today. Hot water did not come through pipes 鈥� it was boiled up in enormous, black iron urns 鈥� usually one to a floor 鈥� and was mainly used for making tea. (And woe betide anyone who took some hot water and failed to replace it immediately with cold so as to maintain the supply!) So hectographed, sticky fingers were cleansed 鈥� partly 鈥� with cold water and what optimistically passed for soap. It was called, of all things, Windsor! The final indignity came with the weekly issue to one and all of a personal hand towel made from a form of cardboard called huckaback. It was impossible to use and, although by the end of a week some softening may have occurred, one really needed to emulate the Eskimos and chew it thoroughly!
To go back to the Filing, one of the largest files 鈥� indeed, one of very many files which began to accumulate on the subject, was the Dockyard Passive Defence file. We were getting ready for the War. No one in their right minds doubted it would come. We were in the period immediately after Chamberlains鈥� Peace in our Time declaration and Adolf鈥檚 promise of his Last Territorial Claim upon Europe. These files contained every conceivable instruction and order upon all aspects of Civil Defence; gasmasks; bomb shelters; poison-gas-reacting paint for hydrants and paving stones and doors etc.; emergency exits. There were also instructions for alternative use of Dockyard hooters to give various warnings 鈥� gas, invasion, air raid, evacuation and, of course, knocking off time! I clearly remember my frequent forays to the store cupboard for a fresh supply of the Filing Covers. And the endless hours sticking, cutting my fingers and then marking the outside of the spines with the numbers of the appropriate Orders contained therein. I also remember that we had to have extra shelves built upon which they could be stored. Imagine my feeling of horror 鈥� coupled with a sigh of relief 鈥� when, on the night of 21st. April, l941, Jerry dropped a bomb right through the department and gum-trays, files, new shelves were blown to kingdom come!

I cannot remember the actual sequence of events of 1940 but I think it was during that year that my Father 鈥� having left the Royal Navy 鈥� had gone to work in Devonport Dockyard and was asked to do a lot of night work. It really didn鈥檛 worry him at all because he had been used to his Watches at sea. I never ceased to marvel at how little sleep he appeared to need 鈥� even during the day after coming off night duty. I continued working in the Dockyard and, although we did have a few daytime air raid alarms, there wasn鈥檛 much to worry about. The great event of that September, of course, was the Battle of Britain in the skies over southern England. We saw little or nothing of it in the west country, but we were all kept informed by the wireless, which was everybody鈥檚 link with what was happening. None of your television or mobile phones in those distant days!
The Messengers had a wireless set in their little office and kept up a running commentary on the events unfolding in the skies. The great joy of success was too often negated, as brothers, cousins and friends were 鈥榣ost in action鈥�. I well recall the awful pit in my stomach when the bulletin started 鈥淭he Admiralty regret to announce鈥� and the name of the ship followed - and the dreadful feeling of misery when the afflicted ship was Devonport based.
The Battle at Sea raged bitterly and I remember how, after one naval engagement, two old class destroyers, Vanquished and Ventura, returned limping into the River Tamar and tied up not far from our offices. They had a number of casualties and, one of my grimmer memories was hearing of one of Vanquisher鈥檚 crew who had been in the engine room and had become entangled in some of the mangled machinery. There was no hope of his surviving or being removed.

I also remember about this time, when the whole nation followed the saga of the Battle of the River Plate. The German battleship Graf Spee had been sighted in the South Atlantic and she had been shadowed by three cruisers, Exeter, Ajax and Achilles. One of these 鈥擜jax I think 鈥� was a New Zealand ship but the other two were Devonport manned. I cannot remember the full story, but the cruisers attacked and I believe a hit was scored on the battleship, forcing her to limp into Montevideo with damaged steering.
Rules of War allowed a crippled ship to enter a neutral port for a period of about 48 hours, after which she must leave again. So there was the great battleship in the River Plate and, waiting outside, were the cruisers with reinforcements coming behind. Although I suppose in those days there must have been some delay in the receiving of wireless news 鈥� unlike today 鈥� we were all being kept fully informed of what was happening and the tensions were acute. As the time for the German鈥檚 departure came, no one knew whether she would make a fight for it 鈥� she was much better armed than the cruisers and with greater range 鈥� or whether she would scuttle herself. She did the latter as she came into the open Atlantic at the mouth of the river. (I must add here that, in recent years, I have read several reports from ambassadors, consuls and others in situ at the time and it would appear that there had been communication between the Graf Spee and the shore. Whether the Admiral aboard had announced his intentions in advance and, perhaps discharged many of his crew, I am not sure, but it is a fact that no engagement was attempted by the Royal Navy and some signal of honour was made as the Graf Spee sank below the waves.) The three cruisers then turned for home, one to New Zealand and the other two to Devonport.
At that time, there was absolute secrecy about all ship movements, for obvious reasons. However, because of the success of the engagement, we were told locally about an hour in advance of their arrival. When the Exeter and Achilles steamed across Plymouth Sound, up the Hamoaze and alongside the Dockyard, the Hoe was a mass of people. We were all given time off to line the Dockyard wall and you have never heard such cheering and commotion as the two ships 鈥� obviously showing many battle scars and parts of their superstructure torn away 鈥� limped slowly into view.
One of the main things I remember of that morning was that, I and several girls from the offices formed a noisy, laughing group along the Dockyard wall, just above a submarine which was moored alongside. You will know, of course, that most of a sub lies beneath the water and only the conning tower and part of the upper deck is visible. The hatch on this particular boat was open, but there was no sign of life on board. Then suddenly, as we heard the first cheers from the South Dockyard, the sub鈥檚 crew began to emerge through the open hatch and take up station all along the deck from bow to stern. We simply couldn鈥檛 believe that there had been so many men inside!
Despite all the tumult around, the risk of air raid, the excitement and the yelling, this crew stood motionless and in complete order, totally ignoring the females on the wall above them. As Exeter drew parallel in the middle of the river, the sub鈥檚 Captain gave an order and, as one, each man removed his cap and answered his skipper鈥檚 call for three cheers. It was fabulous 鈥� not a dry eye in the house. If you really want to know what discipline should mean 鈥� visit a submarine!! What a day that was!

Old Churchill didn鈥檛 need any P.R. thank you 鈥� he knew exactly what the nation wanted and gave it to them when he was able to. Every success was broadcast from the housetops and I also remember another naval battle which was taking place many, many miles away across the North Sea in a Norwegian Fjord. We were told that naval ships were in close contact and an engagement had started but there were no details. My memory serves me ill as to what actually happened but several enemy ships had been sunk with minimal cost to ourselves. Old 鈥淲innie鈥� was determined to broadcast the final bulletin himself and the whole nation was told to stand by its wireless sets. We only had the B.B.C. in those days, of course, and I am pretty certain there was only one station. It was the custom of the 大象传媒 to introduce and play gramophone records if there was a hitch in the programme 鈥� light music was considered the panacea for most technical interruptions. In this case, we all remained glued to the sets, listening to an endless diet of Gilbert and Sullivan. Finally, Winnie鈥檚 well known voice came over the ether and the victor and the details were given out. There is no doubt that, when he spoke to the nation, everything stopped. I remember my Father saying that, even the most diehard Dockyard 鈥渃ommies鈥� would stop and listen avidly and admit that the country would have been sunk without him. He had an almost frightening hold on our imagination and we trusted him absolutely. And, of course, he had THE most fantastic command of the English language and his delivery would have rivalled any leading man in any theatre in the world

I am fairly certain that it was in 1942 that a naval bulletin was read out whilst my Father was sitting with us in our breakfast room. I shall never forget that moment when we heard that H.M.S. Hood had been sunk. It only needed one shell in an incredibly lucky hit on her magazine to sink the Navy鈥� largest battleship, all 35,000 tons of her. There were just three survivors out of a ship鈥檚 company of about 1400 men. My Father had 鈥渟tood by鈥� the ship during the time she was being built at the famous John Brown鈥檚 Yard in Clydebank and then served for some time aboard her. Ironically, as this ghastly news was being broadcast, there was a large framed picture of her hanging on the wall above our heads. I can still recall the icy feeling in my stomach, but what will haunt me to the end of my days, was the staggering sight of my Father 鈥� sitting on that straight backed chair 鈥� with tears streaming down his cheeks, not making a sound. None of us spoke. Until that moment in my life, I didn鈥檛 know men COULD cry.

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