大象传媒

The mention of Calshot will trigger the memory of most ex-RAF Marine personnel, since it was the place where most of us began our marine career. The training school was there, and it was also a home for flying boats and other marine craft in the process of moving to their various bases.
As can be seen from the map, Calshot is at the entrance to Southampton Water, and has to be passed by all vessels going to or coming from Southampton. The S.S.Medina - the ferry to the Isle of Wight - passed Calshot daily and if we had a passenger for the I. O. W., the Medina would slow down sufficiently for a dinghy or seaplane tender to get alongside long enough for the passenger to jump on board. (This would be in response to a cone signal flown from the piermaster's flagstaff.)
It was at Calshot that I took my Second-Class Coxswain's course - my First Class course came much later at Corsewall in Scotland. When I arrived at Calshot in the company of my friend and mentor, Corporal Bill Dyce, it was to join the assembled 'ferry' crew to take ASR Pinnace 1234 to Newlyn to join the others already there. The ferry crew skipper was P.O. Gardiner and the first coxswain was F/Sgt. Buck Taylor, who left us after arriving at Newlyn.
Pinnace 1234 was converted from a G.P. (General Purpose) Pinnace to an Air Sea Rescue pinnace by the addition of three gun turrets - one on each side and a third aft. She had three Perkins Diesel engines, controlled from the wheelhouse, and was capable of a respectable 13 or 14 knots. We joined a slow 8 knot convoy of assorted vessels for the voyage to Newlyn - although we could have made better time on our own - but orders were orders!
At Newlyn, the crew was allocated to civilian billets - mine was to 16, Treneglos Terrace, where a very efficient Cornish Landlady, Mrs Bickley, made us welcome. Her husband, Bill Bickley, was a train driver on the Southern railway, and at one time held the record for the fastest run to Paddington from Penzance. ( For all I know , he still does, although he died many years ago.) We were lucky in having the cooking skills of Mrs. Bickley while we were there - her Cornish pasties were out of this world! If we were called out during a meal, she would stick name flags in the unfinished portions to await our return...
The C.O. at ASR 42, Newlyn, was F/Lt. Douglas Koster, already an experienced mariner, and is remembered by two books he wrote on the subject of Marine Salvage. His home was at Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight, and after the war, I kept in touch with him up to the time of his death. his name and photograph has often appeared in the ASR/MCS Club Newsletter. My own skipper was F/Lt. Dave West, who in addition to being a first class officer, was also an expert on navigation. At one stage of the war, he was the instructor on the subject at the Training School.
For most of 1942 and the early months of 1943 we operated the ASR base with just 4 pinnaces, but often wished they were faster. Our wishes were granted in 1943, when the pinnaces were replaced by High Speed Launches, and Bill Dyce and I were part of the crew on HSL 2554.
I am hoping that full details of the different types of HSL's will be given on another page, but if they are not, I'll try to fill the gap.
During 1942/3, the Air Sea rescue Base at Newlyn was kept very busy, although it is fair to say that our duties, far from being the exciting times depicted on some films, could be extremely boring at times. For instance, we could get called out to go to a 'Rendezvous' position ( usually about half way across the Channel) and having reached the position and put out the sea anchor to prevent drifting too far, there we would stay for the rest of the day, and apart from the look-outs, the crew would spend their time playing cards - or chess - until the RTB (Return to Base) signal was received by the wireless operator. We understood later - but not at the time - that other HSL's were similarly positioned along the Channel, waiting for a possible Crash call. If there was a bit of a swell on, it was not exactly comfortable, and if we did receive a call to action, it was always well received. Sometimes we were joined by a Royal Navy RML, whose crew would be equally bored with the lack of action...
There were times when we received a signal directing us to a position believed to be where an aircraft had ditched - only to find no sign of a crash when the position was reached. We would then commence a 'square' search - i.e., a staight course for a given distance (depending on the state of the sea) before turning at right angle and pursuing another straight course for the same distance, then another turn and one more before increasing the distance to be travelled with each leg of the course. The fact is that if there was even a slight swell on, it was extremely difficult to spot a small dinghy without extra help - such as a plane, whose pilot could see a flourescene trail left by the dinghy which showed up clearly from above.
Since the stories of actual rescues have been adequately covered in films, photographs, and memoirs, I'm hoping it will be of more interest if I digress by telling the stories of my comrades and some of their escapades:
For instance, our wireles operator, Chalky White. When Chalky went ashore at St. Mary's on the Isles of Scilly, the tide was full in, and all he had to do was step from the HSL deck on to the quayside. Unfortunately, while he was ashore, the tide had turned and the boat was much lower when he returned some time later. In the dark - remember, the blackout was rigidly enforced at the time - Chalky stepped off the quayside into an empty space, and fell several feet down to the unyielding deck of the HSL. Following the awful sound of the crash, there was a few moments of silence before we all rushed to discover Chalky lying motionless on the deck. We gently lifted him to the sitting position, wondering what damage he had incurred. It was with a sense of great relief that we watched as he opened his eyes and said "What silly b.... moved the boat?" Subsequent enquiries revealed the fact that, unbelievably, Chalky had not suffered any injury apart from a couple of small bruises.
There was also the strange business of the Cusack twins, both identical, both potential MBC deckhands, and both very mischievous. The day came when one of them - I couldn't say which - was standing on the quayside when a R.N. MGB (Motor Gun Boat) came into the small harbour of Newlyn, and watched while the Skipper on the bridge made an excellent job of bringing his large craft alongside the quay. The sailor in the bows sent across his heaving line, made possible by a large 'monkeys fist' at the end of the line - a heavy ball of twine made from the twine of the heaving line itself. The heaving line was , in turn, made fast to the much thicker mooring line which was to be pulled to the quay by the heaving line. This was the intention. Unfortunately, the monkey's fist hit the Cusack twin full in the face, causing his nose to start spurting blood. Cusack picked up the offending heavy ball, and threw it back to the offending sailor, before turning away.
Then several things happened. The sailor began recovering the heaving line, prior to another attempt. The ship's Captain on the bridge was roaring at the unfortunate Cusack, who wisely went on his way. One airman stepped forward to take the heaving line before slipping it over the nearest bollard and slowly, almost reluctantly, the MGB came alongside to her berth.
Strange to tell, no further action was taken. Both the twins denied being the offending thrower, and since everyone knew they could not be told apart, a discreet curtain was thrown over the whole affair. Much later, one of of the twins told me - with a twinkle in his eye, that it was he who was quilty - but I was never sure...

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