Christmas A Time To Remember In The Navy

Press, Volume XCIV, Issue 28158, 22 December 1956, Page 4

Christmas A Time To Remember In The Navy

[By

t/ J. E. MACDONELL]

On one day each year, for 24 glorious hours, “anthing goes” aboard the warships of Her Majesty’s Fleet. After the solemnity of church service on the quarter-deck, the bugle blows “Secure,” and things start to happen. It is an unwritten law, made rigid by hoary tradition, that on Christmas* day the first shall be last, and the last first. . Therefore, a standing practice is to have the commander up as a defaulter before the shortest man in the ship—a variation of how the mighty have fallen. There is no malice, of course, and “Shorty,” dressed in the commander’s voluminous uniform, with a telescope under his arm, barks at the commander, rigged in bell-bottoms and a sailor’s cap sitting, on his head like a pea on a pumpkin: “Not smart enough! When I say double I mean double! Turn about and double up to the table again!” Beside the perspiring defaulter stands a miserable-looking specimen—the master-at-arms, or ship’s chief of police. The master-at-arms looks as though he’s had a plateful of strawberry* jam pushed in his face—probably because he has! The commander receives a verbal blistering, a faithful reproduction of his own style, and the master-at-arms is sentenced to one hour in cells for attending defaulters unwashed, and for wearing his cap on straight. Pork Off and On the Menu Far from bases during the war, normal Christmas fare of turkey, ham, roast potatoes, and so on, was extremely scarce. So the trading in New Guinea of a tin of “bullamacow” (bully beef) for a young wild pig was considered by a certain corvette the acme of business acumen. That ship waged war all on her own against the blandishments, threats, entreaties and intrigues of flotilla mates. Displaying commendable insight into human nature, every night they locked their precious pig in the fourinch magazine. Then calamity! One rough day at sea the Christmas dinner was airing himself on the upper-deck. The ship rolled, the pig slipped and then the corvette gave another lurch. The squealing porker shot with a great splash over the side! Seven corvettes, which a moment before had been strung out in an exemplary line, wheeled and milled all over the sea in frantic efforts to avoid a motor-boat whose crew, oblivious of the pandemonium, were dragging, gasping but triumphant, the : r Christmas dinner back from a watery grave! The captain and officers “shout” each of the ship’s company a bottle of beer and, with a crew of several hundreds, this is no small order.

Then it is that ordinary seamen, lads of 17. are discovered in possession of qualities which endear them strongly, if temporarily, to the old three-badgemen! Impersonater Many and varied are the tales told round the Fleet of individual Christmas-day escapades. Perhaps The best effort was the impersonation of a visiting Lieutenant-Commander by the chief bosun’s mate of a frigate at Morotai.

The name of this talented and enterprising gentleman was “Bugs” Buffon. “Bugs’s” captain was ashore enjoying himself and, when “Bugs” had shaved his beard off and climbed into the Old Man’s best uniform, he was a living vindication of the homily “clothes make the man.” “Bugs” climbed the destroyer’s quarterdeck and demanded: “Where is your commanding officer?” A minute later he was ushered respectfully into the wardroom, and introduced as “Lieutenant-Commander Buffon.”

“Come in, old man.” welcomed the destroyer’s captain. “Have a beer?” “Ha!” said “Bugs.” “Don’t mind if I do.”

An hour later, after a somewhat surprising dissertation from a ship’s captain on the comparatively pitiful state in which the lower deck of the Navy had their being. "Bugs” drained his glass, whacked it on the mantlepiece. then demanded of Ihe room: “Who do you think I am?” Thinking to humour him, the captain answered: “You’re Lieutenant Commander Buffen. of course.”

“Lieutenant-Commander” Buffon poked him in the ribs with a finger like a marlinspike. "That’s what you think. Skips.” he said, sidling to the door. “I’m ‘Bugs’ Buffon, ‘Buffer* of the Burdekin!” He wasn’t quick enough. When

they had finished with him, a signal was sent to the Burdekin. “I’m sending you,” it read, “one chief bosun s mate and lead-line you requested. Please return lead-line.” Gold Braid no Protection

On Christmas-day, gold braid offers about the same degree of protection against jdkers as paper would to a six-inch shell. One very august captain, now ranking among the highest (I wonder if he remembers?) was benignly watching his lads at their after-dinner play. Beside him stood his commander. The object of their attention was a fuddled stoker petty-officer in his best suit, trying hopelessly to dodge a forcible jet from a fire hose. The commander, noting certain signs, tapped his superior surreptitously on the arm. “Don’t you think, sir,” he whispered, “you’d better come aft on to the quarterdeck?” The august officer guffawed loudly. “Good heavens, no. commander! My men wouldn’t turn that thing on me!” An instant later a heavy splash and slather of spray swept past them as if a pailful of melted lead had been flung against the superstructure. The stream bore left and played full on the captain’s resplendent figure. The commander howled with laughter until the hose caught him in the face, when he howled with rage. Yes, we remember our Christmases!