NAVAL REMINISCENCES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3016, 3 January 1912, Page 81

NAVAL REMINISCENCES.

By C. Basil Norton,

To quote an Hibernianism, “before I commence to speak, 1 would like to say a few words.” It is a perfectly safe conclusion that a seafarer, who lives —or exists—in cramped companionship with representatives trom all quarters, has an excellent opportunity of studying the quaint traits of character exhibited by them, more especially those with whom he is thrown in close contact. I propose to relate a few incidents concerning some of the “hard cases” that an undiscerning Admiralty ordained that I should call shipmates. To obviate the possibility of giving offence, I will merely indicate the vessel by her initial letter, while the names of the persons concerned will, in most cases, be sufficiently concealed by a nom-de-plume. It is generally assumed by most people that the “bulls” perpetrated by Irishmen are, to a great extent, exaggerated. I, too, thought so, till fate, assisted by my Lords at Whitehall, pitch-forked me, some years ago, into H.M.S. P , a third-class cruiser well known to maritime New Zealand, but then stationed in the Mediterranean. To my dismay, 1 found the shamrock in predominence, and the two persons comprising the pivot ort which the happiness, efficiency, and routine of a ship revolves, smoothly or otherwise, were sons of Erin of the most vivid type; one, a certain “Dennis” (the officer most in evidence at the pretty sessions), and the chief of prolice, whom we will call Mick —or Michael for short!

I had but newly joined the ship when we left Malta for the eastern waters of the Mediterranean, and eventually found ourselves at Smyrna, a seaport of Turkey. Now, any dealing —or, to give the act its official name, “trafficking”—over the side with natives is strictly forbidden, consequently, when numerous shore-boats, laden with fruit, eggs, and like commodities, to say nothing of “yellow-wash” canaries—alias sparrows —were -observed eagerly making the cruiser their destination, Michael got very much on the qui vi ve. Money is a little-used factor in these illegal transactions —a head stuck out of one of the lower ports, accompanied by an arm waving any long-ago discarded garment, will bring a score of boats to the immediate vicinity,—and in this case it brought Michael as well, who issued a pressing invitation to his victim m\ self to attend the court of justice next morning. = . On the “Angel’s Whisper being sounded —some call it the bugle for defaulters—but what’s in a name?— l duly made my way aft, to answer the heinous offence of “trafficking and keeping animals.” “An’ phwat’s the char-rge, Master-a tArms”? asked Dennis, when I tremblingly answered to the Hibernian version of my name. “Pla.se, son - , I brought this man before ye, sorr, for kaping animals widout permission” ! “An’ phwat’s the animals, Mastcr-at-Arms”? Michael’s naive reply convulsed the court —“Two bur-ids, sorr, in a wooden cage, sorr.” Shortly after this we were at sea again. Now the blue Mediterranean has a chame-leon-like habit of occassionally changing its tint, and on this occasion it assumed a dirty green colour, flecked with plenty of w hite. Our small cruiser was acting in anything but a rational manner, and mal-de.-mer reigned supreme. At 8.30 p.m. these two worthies made a tour of inspection round the decks to reassure themselves the ship was secure foi the night. When on the cable deck Michael, who was leading the way with a lantern, stopped dead, causing the following officer to execute a beautiful “ cannon.” “ There, sorr,” snapped Michael disgustedly, “there, sorr! there's a man bin side, sorr, and the man who was sick there, sorr ,” he paused, then, with intensified contempt —“ is no man at all, at all !”

“ Quarters, clean guns,” is an act performed every morning with considerably greater regularity and devotion than morning prayers. Here Michael shone! Every seaman in the ship—and Michael knew the characteristics of each —had Ids own alloted station ; consequently when this vigilant member perceived “Dusky” Millar approaching the battery door by a circuitous route, carrying a plate of eggs and bacon which he intended to persuade “cookie” to have ready for him by breakfast time, Michael chuckled with glee at his red-handed capture, and found himself delightedly repeating “ did absent himself from his place of dooty.” Now Dusty, although loth to demean himself .f,. with manual toil, had been gifted with an abnormal amount of brain matter and keen eyesight, so. conscious that he was discovered, he deftlv slipped the plate out of sight and. tucking a tin of metal polish in his pocket, guilelessly approached the door. Michael pounced upon him. “ Phwhere ye coin’?” he spluttered. “ Nowhere,” answered the audacious Dusty. “ An’ phwhat are ye doin’ ?” “Nothink,” came the artless, innocent reply. “ An’ phwhat ha’ ye got in yer hands?” “ Nothink,” replied Dusty, in a deeply-wronged tone, as lie unclasped his outstretched hands before him, showing the palms destitute of anything save dirt. M ichael looked—and it was so! “ Now!” ho muttered in a threatening I’ll-have-yon-next-time kind of way, “just you drop everything and get outside at your gun.”

But the cream of the whole commission awaited ns on our arrival back to England. The crew of the P ,on paying off, were to be transferred to the Naval Barracks, and to this end Michael journeyed forth to complete the necessary arrangements. There were two routes from the ship to the barracks. Michael took one, and the official who came to the ship the same hour as Michael was absent

and on a similar errand, took the other. Consequently they missed one another. On the return of our worthy at dinner time he was greeted with, “ There’s been a ‘crusher’ (naval police- corporal) on board here asking for you this morning, Mick. Do you know him?” A true Irish “bull” was the reply—- “ Shure, an’ I nivir set eyes on him before, but I knows ’is face somewhere.”

A few years ago H.M.S. G was flagship on the Cape Station. She was blessed—some said cursed—with one of the first instalments of the then new “ short-service ” men, and Petty Officer D , who had charge of the gunnery instruction class, was a member of the great majority who were of the lastmentioned opinion. It was hot, so hot that he said “When I ‘shuffle off’ and go below I’ll take a coat with me.” Otherwise he was afraid he’d catch a chill in his Satanic Majesty’s kingdom after being so long on the Cape Station ! The class also found it hot, and the heat ■coupled with the fact that each had consumed one half-pint of “ three-water-bubbly ” a short time previously, caused them to regard the proceeding lecture as an unnecessary affliction. Petty Officer D—— had for a long time been endeavouring to illustrate the difference between firing a gun by an electric current and the alternative method by force, technically termed “percussion,” and after working himself up to fever heat in impassioned oratory 7 , he turned round to find his unwilling pupils all more or less taking surreptitious nods. He relieved his feelings in a forcible and remarkably fluent manner, never repeating himself once for fully five minutes —then, after a pause for breath, he roared, “Does anybody here know what I’ve been talking about?” Not a murmur greeted him, nothing but looks of blank stolidity and passive resignation, with here and there a trace of wonder and admiration at the profuse and transient vocabulary recently employed. “ Well,” he went on, “ I’ll tell ye all again and for the last time. If yer were walking along a country lane, and got struck dead by lightning, that ’ud be electricity. If I come over to ye, and thumps yer on top of the nose—that will be percussion !” The class woke up !

We were at Trentham—a musketry class from H.M.S. “C a cruiser in these waters. One member of our party rejoiced in the soubriquet of “ Birdie/’ and it was around “Birdie” that the attraction of the firing-point was centred. He was a big un-handy fellow, redeemed from being a nuisance by the saving salt of humour he possessed ; but he couldn’t hit the proverbial hay-stack. Miss after miss had been signalled from the targets, as the result of his last seven rounds, and at last the instructor, angrily throwing him another round of ball cartridge, dismissed him by saying, “ Go behind that shed yonder and shoot yourself now,” then turned his attention to the next firer. A few minutes afterwards a loud report was heard. Everyone who had caught the instructor’s message to “Birdie” commenced a wild Marathon to the rear of the shed, to which the desperate fellow had betaken himself. That gentleman, with bandolier for pillow and pipe alight was lying stretched out full length on the grass, apparently very comfortable and at peace with mankind.

Alarm now giving place to wrath, the indignant instructor demanded to know why he had not shot himself. “ Tried to,” answered “Birdie,” laconically—then, resignedly, “another miss!”

Jimmy ! Volumes could be written about Jimmy, but one episode must, however, suffice. The poor chap was burdened with the two things which mar a seafarer’s career—superstition and seasickness. The little craft in which we were both serving was commissioned on the 13th of the month; our position in the destroyer flotilla was the thirteenth, and we had just 13 seamen. “ And to crown all,” wailed Jimmy to me, ‘‘these confounded manoeuvres commence next Friday ” (the 15th of June, 190—). Ridicule or laughter was of no avail; he came from one of the most superstitious corners of England, and was, without doubt, in a blue funk at the thought of proceeding to sea for these forthcoming tactics. Nothing would convince him but that evil awaited us. “ Something is going to happen,” was his continual moan. Well, we sailed all serene on the illstarred day, but towards the evening the howling gale and threatening seas made all our small craft scurry back to Stavanger, a rock-bound seaport of Norway. Seasickness and an uncanny premonition of an approaching calamity made Jimmy pretty miserable, and when we both came off watch, wet through despite oilskins and seaboots, we curled up together in the upper deck chart table —the only dry place in the ship. Now, under this chart table was the paint-locker, containing a drum—opened —each of red oxide, black paint, and grey paint. I suppose I must have dozed off, for the next thing 1 remembered was a pitifully weak voice saying, “ I can’t stand this; I’m getting out.” One second later —and a. fearful blood-curdling yell rose above the howl of the gale —then a thud ! Startled into wakefulness, I looked out. There lay Jimmy, wallowing in paint, his oilskins, hair, hands all covered with a purple-coloured pigment. The drums bad capsized with the furious antics of the little vessel, and the three colours, mixed, were washing about from side to side. Jimmy, half asleep, had placed one footin this slimy concoction, sat down—and woke up suddenly. To my amazement, however, the usual flow of corrupted King’s English did not come; instead. Jimmy’s face was radiant, as ho cheerfully spluttered out, when his mouth, was free from paint, “There. I told von something would happen.” For him the evil was over and past.