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We, the crew of LCVP 1028, i.e. coxwain Pony Moore, stoker/driver Arthur, deck hand Rohmey and me, were on the lookout for anything that might be going, for the good of the flotilla (our family).

The LBK (Landing Barge Kitchen), a floating galley for all minor craft, was O.K. It kept us fed (fed up, more like). A duty boat*, on rota, picks up rations for each flotilla from the LBK every day. For practical reasons, everything was re-constituted de-hydrates, mostly in shades of grey, except the bread. That was white, and freshly baked, from a specially commissioned bakery ashore.

We know about these things, because one of our duty trips is picking up the bread for the monitor, one of the ships we protect, who in turn protects us with its two 15" guns. Our reward from them is usually a sack full of loaves, which feeds the family.

Top of the wanted list was the Compo Rations; pre packed, sealed, waterproofed, mostly tinned. A couple of these feeds the family, containing among other things, tea/sugar/milk packs that only need hot water, some self heating tins of soup, and the famous M.& V. (meat and veg). There were also tins of mincemeat, Irish stew, cock-a-leeky, Mulligatawny, tins of carrots, spuds and many other veggies. All of these, and anything else that came to hand, went into an enamelled baby's bath that someone had won, and was cooked, bubbling hot on the Primus. Just the job, after a tour of duty that might last round the clock.

Of course, we weren't the only ones looking, everybody did likewise, but this particular day we were following a trail. For the past week there had been sealed tins of 50 Gold Flake floating around. We were all smokers, but we had so much, that it wasn't worth the bother fishing them out. (Want a fag mate? - have one of mine).

Now and again among this flotsom, there were boxes of Compo, now this was worth fishing for, and that was the trail we were on. It was low tide, and the old supply ship, at the end of that trail, was sitting on the bottom, with a hole in the side nearly big enough for us to sail through, probably made by a torpedo, out of which all the goodies had floated.

We tied up alongside, and climbed aboard, to nose around, hardly worth the trouble as it turned out, but Rohmey spotted something floating in the hold, it appeared to be a keg, but it was barely breaking the surface. The way it sat in the water, and given the type of supplies it was part of, made us guess it probably was vinegar or cooking oil. It was a long way down, and we were due back, and so we resolved to come back some other time at high tide, to have another look. The opportunity came a couple of days later, when after a dispatch run, we were in the vicinity at high tide with time to spare. But the weather was odd, water dead, sky leaden. We three climbed aboard the coaster, and there, just out of reach was the keg -our keg. Rohmey, one of the smallest Marines I've ever seen, said

"There's no way I'm leaving without it, hold my legs, and lower me over it". Pony and I got a grip on him and over the edge he went, he got hold of the Keg by the ends, it was only about 18" long and oval, but the weight when it broke the surface, was somewhere near our limit to lift.

"I'm not letting go, heave you sods, heave" he shouted, and his voice echoed back. Echoed? It wasn’t his voice that echoed, there was a watchman on board! Must have been the surge of adrenaline that did it, but up came Rohmey, barrel and all. About-turn, to the rail, keg way out into the 'oggin, and off ship pronto, must have looked like a baboon tribe on the move.

No time for inspections, the booty was picked up, this time with a rope, that made it a bit easier. In the welldeck of the craft we had half a dozen boxes of Compo. that we had picked up on the way in, and the keg was wedged between them to stop it rolling about. The sky, meanwhile, was lowering, and a heavy swell made itself felt, we were in for the mother of storms*. (*Note the date.19-6-1944, this was later described as the worst storm on this coast for Forty years).

Our ‘haven’, the Gooseberry, was almost deserted, except for the ‘white horses’ who were having their heads chopped off by the vicious wind. The only active boats seemed to be 801 Flotilla (that’s us), now sixteen strong again, we've had a couple of replacements for those lost. Our leader, (bless his cotton socks) Captain Bird R.M., had volunteered to rescue the ‘alligators’ that had broken loose. These things, the floating jetties, had sections a hundred times our size, and in these seas? He's bloody daft ! !

By this time, the conditions were so bad, that the alligators were living up to their name, chewing up anything near them. They were fabricated from checker plate, and all square corners, even in still waters we couldn't have handled them. All we could do now was put markers on them, and the devil take the hindmost.

We gave up, got the signal to get into the port at Courseulles. Bear in mind that all this time the tide was falling, and by the time we got there the upper part of the dock was crammed with craft, all high and dry. And practically the whole of the upper half were Yanks! Enough said!

As it was, there was just enough draft for us to get in, and we don't take much. Our sister Flotilla 800 were in just before us, and within the hour we were all beached. Out comes the baby bath, and breakout the Compos. One idiot, a nameless Scot. filled his primus stove with high octane petrol. He couldn't get it alight, and he was pumping like a madman when it blew up. He had one of those faces that even as a boy would have looked like an old man, all deep creases, and the burning petrol ran down the lines scarring him for life, each scar bright red, like warpaint.

I suppose in a way it was!

Our stoves were alright, and there was enough in the bath for all our crews, and half a sack of loaves too. Rohmey, leaning on the rear hatch, billy in one hand and a wad in the other, said

"I wonder if there's anything in the keg that would go with this?" Pony said

"We'll soon find out, get the toolbox Arthur" - and he put the keg up on the rear mount, while I gouged the bung. There was a dribble from the hole.

"Treacle, bloody treacle" exclaimed Rohmey, "To think that I - -, what?- can you smell,- its rum, its bloody thick rum !!" And so it was, condensed, concentrated, rich, brown rum. Nearly thick enough to cut with a knife. Quickly uprighting the keg, so as not to lose a precious drop, we mixed what we had caught with water, about four to one, and passed it round. Grog was never like this, the smell was enough to knock you over, we estimated that we had about 60 pints of the stuff. The smell alone, (perfume, more like), was enough to fetch them, and coxwain Pony Moore, a corporal and the only senior rank present, took charge.

"Eight-O-One Flotilla, mugs at the ready, you will all present yourselves in the order of Craft Numbers, and each will receive three quarters of a pint, and after that 800 will be invited over to share what's left, that OK.? Show of hands, right! And I recommend at this stage that you bottle your share, and just dilute what sticks to the mug for drinking".

Good advice, pity they didn't all take it, within the hour, there bodies in a drunken stupor all over the place, several went over the side into the mud, (good job the tide was out) and fights were breaking out all over the place. One bloke in particular, George H. normally a very placid laid back type, was running around with a stripped Lewis gun, with a pan on, shouting

"I'll fight anyone". Four brave souls grabbed a limb apiece, and threw him over the side, into the ooze, before he did any more damage.

Finally everything settled, and they slept, and so did we, after all, we hadn't had much sleep for a couple of days. When the cold light of day, finally came, I was awoken by a very gentle shake, and a timid voice whispered in my ear,

"I say Hill, is it safe to come back yet?" The officers had sent the ‘snotty’, (midshipman Simms) to check us out. He had been out with us a few times, and we were on fairly familiar terms, so it was quite a good way to pass messages either side of the fence, if you get the drift.

By this time the tide had been up and was on its way out again, so we were afloat. The storm was still active, though the worst seemed to be just the other side of the headland, and the Gooseberry was still there. It's only been in existence a week, and we already think of it as home. This was our own mini-Mulberry, a breakwater and base to work from.

It had started out as the ‘Dragon’, a destroyer on loan to the Polish Navy, it was said that a shell had gone straight down the funnel. Already in trouble, in shallow water, and a fast receding tide, so that was where it stayed.

Note! This was based on hearsay, I have since found out that the 'Dragon' had been torpedoed elsewhere, and was towed to this position specifically, and then scuttled. Many old coasters had been earmarked for use as breakwaters, and this was what happened. They commandeered them, lined them all up with the Dragon and scuttled 'em. Captain ‘Dicky’ Bird, our skip., claimed one as his Headquarters, and when he moved in, there was still somebody's breakfast on the table.

So, home is a Gooseberry!

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