"A Sailor's Tale" is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The following contains graphic descriptions of consensual sex between men. If reading gay erotica offends you, please move on. I am also required by law to remind readers that in certain states, provinces, city, towns and hamlets reading, downloading or possessing gay erotica is forbidden by law and that readers must be 18 years of age or over.
Copyright 2008 by John R. Ellison
A Sailor's Tale
Chapter Seven
Every navy is different, with different customs, different traditions, but all based on a single unit: the ship. In a steel container, all more or less the same, is a group of disparate men, each in his own way unique. Each contributes, again in his own way, to the character of the ship, and whether or not she has reached the ideal: a happy and efficient ship. One follows the other as sure as night follows day. There are many variables, of course, but each in its own way contributes to the ideal.
First there is the ship. If she is old, and cranky, she impacts on the crew. If she is new, or fresh out of refit, she can be moulded and formed into something wonderful.
HMCS St. Laurent was a purpose built destroyer, the first of a seven ship class that would be known as the "Cadillac of Destroyers." Designed and built in Canada, the class incorporated the latest technology, with close attention paid to her survival in the event of a nuclear confrontation. Everything was sleek and streamlined. Gone were the superfluous upper deck fittings. Gone was the traditional straight lined design of hull and deck house. She had a rounded hull designed for sea keeping, and to counter the formation of ice. There was a built-in pre-wetting system that could be used to wash the decks of radioactive fallout. Her armament was the most up-to-date that could be installed, and the main armament, originally four 3"/50 guns in two turrets, radar controlled.
To reduce weight, aluminium was used to form the superstructure, funnel casing, masts, storerooms and so on. There were no scuttles or windows, except those fitted in the bridge superstructure, and those were heated, as were the capstans, located under the forecastle.
Care had also been given to the comfort and feeding of the crew. There were no square corners. Everything was rounded to aid cleaning. There were mess decks, as there had to be, but the huge open spaces had been replaced with carefully designed berthing areas, and the crew no longer had to swing a hammock. Everybody had a bunk, a great luxury when compared to earlier classes of warships. Gone were the small storage lockers located in the mess deck seats. Everybody had a locker now, and to aid in the general comfort of all hands the ship was air conditioned!
The old system of each mess drawing cooked rations from the galley was replaced by a below decks central galley and "main cafeteria", which doubled as the Junior Rates Mess, with separate Messes for the Chiefs, Petty Officers, and Engineers. Meals were no longer soggy and cold, or mouldy. Everything was stored below decks, and easily accessible via the wide corridor that ran fore and aft, called "Burma Road" by the crew.
When I joined her in 1963, St. Laurent was fresh out of refit. The superstructure had been remodelled and now much of it was a hangar deck, to accommodate the Sea King helicopter that would aid in the ship's primary anti-submarine role. Everything was state-of-the art, and modern, from the larger bridge to an expanded Combat Control Room. No longer did a captain fight his ship from the bridge. He was below decks, aided by modern detection equipment. Purists might grumble but as the then Executive Officer put it, St. Laurent was now a part of the "Nuclear Navy" and the old farts could like it or lump it.
Of primary importance in the making of an efficient ship into a "happy ship" was the crew. Every man was a part of a chain, so to speak, and on him depended the strength of the others. Some ships were clean and efficient, but not happy. A ship could have a hand picked crew, each man dedicated and professional, and each aware of Hopwood's second dictum:
"As naught may outrun the destroyer, So it is with the law and its grip, For the strength of a ship is the Service, And the strength of the Service the ship."
In pre-Unification days, life as a sailor was considered a profession, and not a job. Life in the Navy was unique and damned near every man who lived it, and breathed it, believed without doubt that Divine Providence had marked him as a member of a special breed of humanity: a sailor. It did not matter if the sailor was English, or Canadian, American or German, he was dedicated to his Service, his ship, and his shipmates. The Law of the Sea, which recognized his kinship with all sailors, had long been observed. A sailor was a part of Nelson's "Band of Brothers", each dedicated to the other. He had to be for once the mooring lines were slipped and the bows pointed toward the sea, he had no one else.
A ship, and her crews, is a unique creature throughout her active life and when she is no more, all anyone is left with is memories and perhaps a collection of faded photographs and unless a newer ship is named for her, she disappears into the mists of time and talked about only at reunions and dinners, or when old shipmates meet by chance. There are no museums dedicated to a particular ship, no Regimental "Colour" to lay up with pomp and circumstance in a local church. The Navy has a Colour, a White Ensign signed with the Sovereign's Ensign, but it is rarely paraded and kept in a case in the Halifax wardroom, growing discoloured and dusty. There are no "Regimental Drums" with the battle honours painted on them, for the ship has no Band. There is a Band, composed of professional musicians, but it is supposed to represent the navy as a whole. At the end of the day all a sailor really has is the ship, and his shipmates, his "Band of Brothers".
Hopwood's fifth dictum opines:
On the strength of one link in the cable, Dependeth the might of the chain. Who knows when thou may'st be tested? So live that thou bearest the strain!
The might of the chain also depends on the strength of the shackles that hold the lengths of chain together: the officers. The main shackle, if you will, is the man who commands. The captain is "Sole Master, After God", and the nearest thing to an Absolute Monarch left on Earth, and the personification of the saying that the navy is not a democracy.
The character of the captain and his methods of command can make or break a ship. I have served with captains who were martinets, and despots, men who were more concerned with their "image" and impressing their superiors than they were with the men they commanded. I once served with an odious toad of a man who, when he was Executive Officer of the ship, knew he was on the fast track to succeed the Captain, and went around saying "One Day I WILL Be King!" Sadly this happened and in the space of a year he destroyed the morale of a happy and efficient ship.
Equally sadly, his conduct and indifference, and pettiness were well known to his superiors. They did nothing, for he had friends in high places and slavishly followed the party line, CF all the way. After four years of wreaking havoc he was finally promoted to four-ring Captain and "honoured" as Saluting Officer at the Battle of the Atlantic Parade. It pays to have friends in high places, in more ways than one.
I lucked out with my first ship. The Commanding Officer was a gem of a man. At first glance he came across as a transplanted Englishman, the product of a classical, English public school education, filled with his own importance and very conscious of his position in the stern class structure that existed at the time. A tall man, he stood six foot something, and spoke with a broad, crisp, upper class accent that can only come from an education in the Anglican tradition. But behind the veneer was a man, a mensch, who understood the differences in his fellows, who realized that mistakes would be made and who could, and did, try to make a difference. He was no pushover, and while he relied on the ingrained discipline in each of his sailors, he knew when to lower the boom, and when to cut his "lads" some slack.
While he never allowed liberties - he was, after all was said and done, the Captain - he believed in listening to his people, and leading by example. He wanted an efficient ship, but more importantly he wanted a happy ship, where the men under his command would willingly follow him. It helped that he had charisma, had been born a leader, and possessed a wicked sense of humour. He could laugh with the men, and willingly allowed himself to be lampooned at the annual "Sod's Opera", a series of skits performed by the crew as part of the ship's banyan, a beach party, where anything went. He encouraged the shenanigans because he knew that the crew needed a way to blow of steam, to point out perceived inadequacies - real or imagined - and generally cock a snook at the officers and senior Chiefs and Petty Officers. It was in one of these skits that he learned that the ratings called him "Bugnuts", a play on his name. He laughed uproariously and opined that at least they didn't call him a rotten son of a bitch!
The humorous imp in Bugnuts was rarely seen for the most part, but it did pop out every now and then.
As was the custom at the time, we went on a spring cruise to Bermuda, "Bermadoo," as we called the island, to the Bahamas and on to the Antilles. Officially we would participate in war games with the USN, based in Roosevelt Roads. We would also take the opportunity to paint ship. Once the painting stages were rigged, and over the side, the captain was the first one to shimmy down the rope, paint brush in hand. The officers weren't too pleased, but they really had no choice in the matter, not with Bugnuts, dressed in a pair of ratty old shorts and a singlet, slapping paint hither and yon with gusto.
The officers did not mind painting ship so much as what would happen to them if they had the misfortune to share a painting stage with the captain. He did not suffer fools gladly, and felt that deflating a pompous ego (we had several) was one of his responsibilities. Any officer who met the criteria was stuck on the painting stage with him. Those in the know dressed appropriately, usually in boiler suits cadged from the Chief Engineer. The captain, his shorts spotted with paint, his hair awry (he was balding and allowed one side to grow longer so he could comb it over his thinning pate), chatty and laughing, sometimes singing along with the band that thumped and pumped away in a whaler as they circled the anchored ship (more of that later), but carefully watching his stage made to see his reaction. A smile and a laugh met with equanimity and the captain left his mate alone. A frown, a muttered oath, demanded retaliation. This took the form of a swipe across the face, back of the head or, if the stage mate was standing, the butt, with a paint-laden brush.
The officers eventually caught on to the Captain's idea that while yes, we worked hard, working hard did not mean that we could not have fun while we did it. The ship's surgeon, a dour Scot if ever there was one, having been the recipient of a swipe of green/grey paint, retaliated by procuring, somewhere, a gorilla costume. He topped it off with the traditional, round sailor's cap and was lowered over the side by his fellow-conspirators, the Executive Officer and the Buffer. At first the Captain was too stunned to react and then he started laughing. The surgeon, making appropriate monkey noises, reached into a fold of his costume and brought forth a banana, which he offered to the Captain, who laughed so hard he leaned back and rolled off the painting stage and into the deep blue waters of Rosey Roads. He was rescued by the band whaler and spent the rest of his "watch" directing the horn blowers and having a hell of a time.
As an old gunnery type, Bugnuts revelled in tradition. He loved pomp and circumstance; he loved the "Navy" way of doing things. He believed implicitly that a sailor was a superior being, although like all beings he had his faults. Properly led, a sailor could rule the world; treat him fairly, feed him properly, let him blow off steam every now and then and he would be invincible. Most importantly, respect him as a man.
At the time, discipline was very strict, to the extent that when Jack Tar was charged with anything, he was adjudged guilty before and after the fact. The saying was "March the Guilty Bastard In!" All too often it did not matter that the man might be best in his trade. What mattered was that he had transgressed and all too often the presiding officer forgot, or pointedly ignored that Queen's Regulations and Orders (QR&Os) specified a maximum and minimum sentence for any infraction. Bugnuts knew the regulations, but he more often than not wanted to know the underlying cause of the infraction. As most of the charges brought at Captain's defaulters involved drinking to excess, coming aboard drunk, and the like, he really didn't have too many problems. He did draw the line at wilful destruction of property.
At the time motorcars were a rarity in the Bahamas and those that were available for rental were ruinously expensive. Jack Tar, needing transportation, hired a moped, readily available through a large, entrepreneurial black gentleman who, with his numberless children, maintained a concession fleet on the jetty where we always tied up. He always had a ready supply of vehicles and more importantly, they were for hire, cheap, a few Bahamian dollars a day. The only fly in the ointment was that Jolly Jack, when in his cups, felt the urge to proceed with incaution when returning the moped for the night. At least once a week, sometimes more, Jolly Jack thought it great fun to speed down the jetty and into the harbour, arms and legs akimbo and laughing maniacally. When the shouting and tumult subsided, Jolly Jack would be hauled aboard one of the bumboats that always seemed to be lingering at the stern of the ship. This was also a concession owned by the black gentleman. The boat was manned by one of his sons and the standard fee for rescuing a not so drowning, but very drunk, sailor, was five dollars, American, and no argument.
The next morning the Supply Officer would trundle down the gangway, a wad of cash in his hand, to negotiate "compensation". The waterlogged, and mud covered, moped, would be offered in evidence. There would follow a period of weeping, wailing, hand wringing and teeth gnashing, and not a little shouting about loss of income and taking the bread from the mouths of starving black children! Why the Supply Officer bothered I don't know. Everybody knew that he would pay up in the end, just as everybody knew that the moped, dried out, and with its innards tinkered with, would soon rejoin the fleet.
Jolly Jack, sober, and cleaned into his best No. 1 uniform, would be called to face Navy Justice. Bugnuts, laughing inwardly, would shake his head ask why Jack had deciding to go swimming. The stock answers were usually "I don't know, I was too drunk at the time", "It seemed a good idea" and "The night was very hot and I thought it would be nice to take a swim". Bugnuts would laugh, find Jolly Jack guilty and order him to pay restitution (a financial burden, given the pay at the time) and stop his leave.
Stoppage of Leave was worse than having to pay back the Ship's Fund. The next port of call was always one of the islands in the Lesser Antilles, where living was easy, and so were the women. For a few guilders one could, and Jack did, drink himself into a stupor and get his ashes hauled. The island was overrun with ladies of all colours, from dusky black to blonde perfection. It was a very popular port of call and always an excuse for the Surgeon to stage his "Ciné Bleu Festival". This consisted of gathering everybody in the hangar and screening a series of films warning of the dangers of uninhibited sex with women of doubtful virtue, and always ending with a warning for Jack not to stick his private member somewhere Doc would not stick his walking stick!
This always elicited an evil cackle from the Sick Bay Tiffy who knew that there would be at least one candidate for the "Pecker Checker's Cocktail", a broad spectrum of antibiotics used to cure what was politely referred to as a "social disease." Bugnuts would then remind all hands that it was his duty to point out that contracting a social disease was a chargeable offence, and that in addition to having one's bottom poked with a dull needle, one was prohibited from sex for 90 days so he hoped all hands would sin only a little.
While the Captain is God, his familiars are the officers, and his Sword is the Executive Officer, who is responsible for the actual training and running of any ship. On his shoulders lies a great burden, with little to show for his successes for if the ship was happy and efficient the Captain got all the credit. If it was a pit, and always late for any exercise, the XO got the blame. He is part CEO and part hatchet man, and his actions can, and have, ruined a good ship's company.
Our Executive Officer was very good indeed. He was tall, and stocky, and wore black-rimmed spectacles, which led to him being nicknamed "Magoo", for the cartoon character of note. Magoo was not blind, far from it, for he had a sharp eye and missed nothing. He was also the most "complete" sailor I ever had the good fortune to sail with. The sea, the wind, the tides, even the engines far down below, seemed to whisper in his ear. He was so competent that never once in his entire career did he put a ship handling misstep forward. He delighted in panache, to the extent that he never brought the ship away from, or alongside to, a jetty using tugs - which he dismissed as an American affectation. So far as Magoo was concerned a tug was there to stand by and stay out of the way. Magoo would stand on the bridge wing, eyeing the jetty, snarling at the tide, sniffing the wind, and never misjudging his position. He could bring a destroyer or a rowboat to berth as slick as shit through a goose.
Magoo hated the shouting and tumult that seemed to accompany any movement of the ship. He decided we could do it better, and quieter, so he devised a system of hand signals. He drilled the boatswains relentlessly, refined the system and as sure as fate the damned thing worked. Much to the chagrin of his fellow destroyer XOs, St. Laurent would come alongside as silent as a shark cruising a beach.
Magoo was not ungrateful. At the time the only booze on board was Pusser rum, dark, potent liquor. Every morning at 1100 the Boatswain would pipe "Up Spirits" and we would be issued a tot of the stuff. Leading Seamen and below had to mix their tots with water or Coca Cola, and drink it down there and then. Petty Officers and Chiefs drew their tots neat, and could take it away to their mess, to be enjoyed later if they wished. Officers did not draw tots as they had a wardroom bar and a steward to serve their gins and it – good London gin with a splash of Angostura bitters.
To a lower decker the tot was more precious than fine gold. He could drink it, he could use it as a medium of exchange, or repay favours, or beg one. Magoo, knowing how precious the tot was to Jolly Jack, would shamble along the waist and hand the Buffer a brown paper bag. The Buffer would shuffle below and the hands would gather. Magoo never missed and where he got the bottle of Pusser's Neats no one ever knew, as it was not for sale. Rumour had it that Magoo had an in with an irascible, grumpy, plump cook in the barracks who seemed to have infinite resources when it came to rum.
Magoo also possessed a sense of humour. He was always smiling, and once fended off a boarding party by locking himself in the cable locker dressed as a harridan, and armed with a deck mop and a fire hose. Shrieking imprecations in an accent of no known ethnicity, he harried the hapless boarders and only surrendered when the Buffer snaked a fire hose through hawse pipe and threatened to drown him. As the saying went, Magoo had bottom.
The other officers were a fairly decent lot, including the two Sea King pilots, although they were more or less dismissed as "Airdales" and not worthy of a true sailors notice. The Surgeon was a dour old Scot, but he had his moments, as did the NavO, called "Pilot". He was a slim, blond-haired young man who specialized in getting the ship from point A to point B. He was also the only officer I knew who still knew how to use a sextant (the instrument having been replaced by radar fixes). The Pilot was a methodical man who "shot the sun" every day at noon, and was never more than a yard out on his fix. Both the Gunnery Officer (known as "Guns") and the Engineering Officer were competent, able men who took their lead from Bugnuts and enjoyed being sailors.
The Gunroom, the space occupied by the Sub-Lieutenants (there were three) and two midshipmen, bore more of a resemblance to a frat house than a naval officers' mess. It was always littered with books, navigating instruments and dirty laundry. The Surgeon, who had nominal charge of the "young gentlemen", was always railing at the mess and threatened more than once to take a flame thrower to it. Nothing changed except the midshipmen. As "officers in training" they only stayed on board for three months. They were always impossibly young, pink-cheeked, and usually as rambunctious as puppies. I am almost ashamed to say that few of us resisted the urge to pat the lads on the head from time to time, much as one would pat a loved nephew.
The only Nubian in the fuel supply was the Supply Officer, Nabob the Paybob. It was universally held that he was a prat of the first water. Short, slim, with thin blond hair, he was a sly, sneaky little bastard, always sticking his nose in places it did not belong. He was very conscious of his rank, his position and his dignity. He demanded respect where none was due, and was always charging the cooks, or the stewards, with some infraction or other. Bugnuts never trusted him, and Magoo loathed him. However, Nabob had friends in high places and stayed and stayed. He had no sense of humour and took great umbrage when Bugnuts decided to poke him with stick and hold a "Muster by the Open Book".
Mustering by the Open Book was a throwback to the days when ships were wooden and men were iron. In the days of sail a Captain was given a fixed sum of money to pay and provision his ship. The money was administered by the Purser, an appointed position, and more often than not collaboration between the Captain and the Purser included collusion. If a ship was rated 200 seamen, for example, the Purser would draw money from Admiralty Funds to pay that number of men, and stores from the dockyard to feed and clothe them, presenting as proof the Muster Book where each man had signed or made his mark. It was a situation ripe for graft and embezzlement, which was almost a way of life in the Royal Navy, because while there might be the names of 200 ratings in the book, the clerks at the Admiralty took on faith that each name actually was that of a real man. The clerks really had no way of checking if the victuals issued were actually being eaten by 200 men, or if the fresh rations were actually on board when a ship sailed. It was rumoured that more than one captain padded his income by selling the fresh rations ashore, and keeping the names of men who were long dead on the books, and drawing their pay.
To counter the theft and graft, the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty devised "Mustering by the Open Book". Once a commission the crew was mustered and each sailor presented himself at the Captain's table, tugged his forelock and identified himself. He would then be checked off the "open book" listing every member of the crew, and proving that he actually existed and was not a "spare hand of the watch" that existed only on the Purser's Crew Roster.
Bugnuts, as an old traditionalist, and having served a watch or three in the RN, was aware of Mustering by the Open Book. He was also aware that it hadn't happened in at least a hundred years, and probably wouldn't have called for it if the Paybob hadn't pissed him off by demanding that the wine accounts be settled promptly, thus casting doubts on his fellow officers' integrity.
Nabob the Paybob was livid when Bugnuts directed a Muster by the Open Book. To the Paybob's mind this was an insult to his honesty and character. The ratings were paid, in cash, once a month and the officers by cheque, also monthly. Every penny was strictly accounted for, and his books audited every six months, and woe betide him if there were a few dollars misspent or incorrectly recorded! For all his faults, Nabob was an honest, conscientious Keeper of the Queen's Purse (as he put it) and he was not having it!
Nabob complained officially, but that got him nowhere. He had to lump it, if he did not like it. He lapsed into an irate sulk, and plotted his revenge. What he did not know was that Bugnuts was capable of revenge as well and in the end the Paybob was the cause of an eruption of rage the like of which I never saw before or since.
Bugnuts was famous for never losing his temper. A wise and knowing officer or man knew that he had approached the boundaries of discretion when Bugnuts began to twirl the signet ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand.
While he was a man of many follies, Bugnuts was incapable of meanness. He was fully aware of who the butt lickers were, who the poodle fakers were, and which of his fellow officers scampered in to the Chief of Staff's office as fast as their hands and knees could carry them, rumour and innuendo following in their wake, the knives they hoped to plunge into the back of a fellow officer clattering loudly against the cobbles of the roadbed.
Part of Nabob's pique was that Mustering by the Open Book could be perceived as a blot on his copy book. This he could not have because it would mean that his chances of being promoted were lessened. Another problem was that Nabob had no "friends" or a "rabbi" to look after his interests. At the time there was still a residual class system in existence in the Navy, three mutinies and the Mainguy Report not withstanding. If one belonged to the right "class" and the right clique, one had few worries.
Bugnuts was definitely of the highest class, although he had not graduated RMC, and did not "Wear the Ring". But he was RN trained, and an aristocrat, and his upper class accent was learned from childhood, and not affected. He was the product of his culture, which sadly was still aped in the RCN, with officers pretending to have English roots and accents, and obeying the old traditions, including stuffing a clean handkerchief in the left sleeve their uniform jackets. In many ships officers dressed for dinner in mess kit and miniature medals, and the Officer of the Day trod the quarterdeck with a fancy ropework decorated telescope under his arm. An officer was considered a gentleman by dint of the Queen's Commission and regarded as such. He played along to get along, never rocked the boat, and knew that he could rely on his friends if trouble came shambling up the gangway.
There were other cliques, notably those formed from the several Officers Training Schemes that had existed or existed. The UNTD's were high on the list, with the VENTURE officers just a little lower. The UNTD officers were older, and had had more time to nest, with the university program graduates not quite at the bottom. This place was reserved for those "Commissioned from the Ranks", always a man who managed to attain the rate of Petty Officer (after 1st January 1946 Petty Officer First Class).
Looking back at the silliness that existed I sometimes wondered how we ever managed to get anywhere at all.
Of course, everything was politics. A lone wolf, a man who stood out, was looked upon as "not one of us". It was simply not done, and if a man did not conform to the accepted norms, he was got rid of. The ranks closed and sooner or later the axe would fall. One had to remember that in a military force that fought no wars, and had more generals than the Mexican Army, advancement was slow and based more on whom you knew than what you knew. A man on the rise had to watch his back and be very careful, for one misstep could lead to disaster, blown all out of proportion.
An officer on the rise would be watched carefully and if he did not kiss some serious booty, and remember his station, look out. An independent minded officer, who went against the accepted flow, was an endangered species. As an example, not so very long ago, a submarine commander ran afoul of his superiors. He was generally accepted to be the best of the best, and well regarded by all who knew him as a competent, excellent trainer of men. He had no use for fools, kissed no booty and never allowed the political creatures that inhabited the labyrinth of Colonel By Drive to interfere in his business. He paid the price for his intransigence and refusal to kowtow to the powers that be. He was accused on trumped up charges of molesting a fellow officer. SIU, the detective branch of the Military Police, had a field day and a court martial was ordered. The officer had friends, however, and it came out that the whole investigation was based on unsubstantiated charges, and forged reports and statements. The hue and cry in the media was horrendous and while the officer was found not guilty, in fact innocent of all charges, his career was ruined and he resigned.
Another example was Magoo. When he left St. Laurent he was posted to the Small Boats Unit as a ship driver. As the Senior Captain he quite often commanded the three boat squadron that the Reserves played with in the summer. He was well liked but he somehow managed to run afoul of his commanding officer, a four-ring Captain who made no bones about his determination to get rid of Magoo any way he could. What Magoo had done to deserve the enmity and bile I never did learn. I only know that the Captain hated Magoo with a quiet passion.
The Captain, well-schooled in the art of destroying a career, and unable to bring Magoo down (Magoo had friends in Ottawa) sat back and, with the patience of a spider waiting for a fly, waited, and when Magoo made his mistake, pounced. What did Magoo in was an accusation of misuse of Non-Public Funds, specifically the Ship's Fund Account.
Every ship has one. Each year DND allocated a small amount of money per man and deposited it in the Ship's Fund Account. The money was to be used to provide recreational items such as sports equipment, books for the ship's library, beer at a beach party, and so on. The sum involved was miniscule in the scheme of things, but very closely monitored and audited every six months. Magoo's misstep? He had grown tired of the industrial VCRs and the tapes of CBC programs provided for entertainment. He knew that his men wanted something a little more stimulating, such as "Debbie Does Dallas" rather than a documentary on the life of the Canadian Eskimo. He went ashore one day and returned with four commercial VCRs and a bag full of movies. A machine was installed in each of the messes and one in his cabin. The taped movies were given into the care of the Chief's Mess, as was traditional, and everyone was happy with their new entertainment system. Until the audit . . .
The bean counters saw the entry in the books and frowned. So far as they were concerned buying VCRs and taped movies was not on the cards. DND in its munificence provided the equipment and movies from stores and therefore purchasing the same equipment outside of channels was malfeasance. Magoo, in his concern for his men, and anxious to make their lives a little less miserable, had forgotten Hopwood's dictum:
Dost deem that thy vessel needs gilding And the dockyard forbears to supply? Put thy hand in thy pocket and gild her - There are those who have risen thereby.
Magoo was never formally charged, for he had friends, but he was relieved of his command and cast into the outer darkness.
Nabob the Paybob, as a bean counter, and smarting with indignation, plotted. He reviewed the ship's accounts and found nothing, simply because there was nothing there. Bugnuts the traditionalist had paid for the improvements he felt necessary out of his own pocket.
As an ex-RN, Bugnuts had grown up, so to speak, to the sound of the bugle. In the RN bugle calls were used extensively - there were, I think, 59 different calls, for every occasion, from "Action Stations" to "Defaulters". These calls were sounded by a Royal Marine Bugler, which in the RCN did not exist, as we had no Marines, Royal or otherwise. Bugnuts found out that one of the signalmen was not only an ex-Sea Cadet, but an ex-member of his Corps band. He had played the trumpet, and since the bugle calls were all blown using the lips, and the not the trumpet valves, it was an easy transition to blowing a bugle. The signalman, now Ship's Bugler, was given an honorarium of one 40-ounce bottle of Pussers per month, and made a "Day Man", meaning he stood no watches and only worked from Divisions in the morning until Pipe Down at night.
Bugnuts also believed in showing the flag at every opportunity. He knew his ship's company was the best, and was proud of it, and wanted to show off. So it was that at every port the ship called two things happened: a reception for the local luminaries, and a parade, with drums beating, flag flying, and bayonets fixed. Bugnuts of course knew that he had none of what he needed, so he went out and got it, and before we had time to think about grumbling, we had a Guard, outfitted with chrome enhanced .303's and bayonets, and sparkling white gaiters and caps. Next, after a discreet whip round of the mess decks, we had a BAND, outfitted with drums and horns and woodwinds paid for by Bugnuts. None of the bandsmen were professional musicians, being stockers and sparkers and bunting tossers, but they sounded great and most had played in a Sea Cadet or High School marching band.
At first Jolly Jack grumbled, but it felt good, really, parading through the streets of a small city or town, with the onlookers applauding, dressed to the nines and looking like SOMETHING. It helped that at the end of the parade there was always a meet and greet, which Bugnuts always managed to arrange with the local civil authorities, where there was plenty of food, plenty of beer, and always plenty of dollies. Jolly Jack never passed up an opportunity to get screwed, brewed and tattooed, and we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
Nabob the Paybob, frustrated in his search for malfeasance, decided to strike a low blow. If he could not get at the Captain one way, he found he could in another.
At the time homosexuality was condemned in every corner of the Dominion. A "queer" was not to be countenanced, or in any way associated with. SIU spent 90 per cent of its time investigating alleged homosexual conduct, and being gay was a certain one way ticket to George's Island Lockup, at the very least. Usually if a gay was found to be on board he was first punished for his being a faggot, in the form of a beating by the Neanderthals and bigots. QR&Os had article after article detailing punishments for being found out. The Armed Forces did not, under any circumstances, knowingly enlist gay men. They were deemed "not advantageously employable" and refused enrolment. It was a dark and dangerous time for a gay man in the Forces.
Nabob the Paybob was a notorious homophobe. He knew that in QR&Os there was a regulation that an officer or man who suspected a member of his ship's company or unit to be gay, he was required to report it to his Divisional Officer, or to higher authority for "investigation". Nabob knew that Bugnuts was not gay. He was, in addition to be married, and the father of two girls and a boy, a notorious swordsman, who never seemed to lack feminine companionship when out of sight of his lady wife. Nabob did not despair. He knew of a way to have his revenge and picked up his pen, ignoring another Hopwood dictum:
Dost think in a moment of anger 'Tis well with thy seniors to fight? They prosper, who burn in the morning, The letters they wrote overnight.
As Supply Officer, Nabob was the Supply Divisional Officer, having in his charge the cooks, the stewards and the storekeepers. He met the men under his charge every day, and thought he knew them, and one of them, the Captain's Tiger, or steward, was the object of his bile. Tiger was a fey, effeminate young man, given to sly innuendo, but an excellent steward. He was also very discreet, and never to anyone's knowledge tried to put the moves on any of his shipmates. He never lingered in the showers, checking out his mates (although I am sure none of them would have minded) and when he went ashore he never revealed where he went or what he did when he was there. Tiger knew the dangers and kept his personal life ashore, far away from the Navy and its prejudices.
We all knew that Tiger was as gay as a duck. We also knew that we were out of luck if we went to him looking for a little action in the Silent Hours. Like Don, the gay man I had gone through recruit training with, Tiger chucked shit, and had shit chucked at him, but he never (unlike Don) acted on the offers made to him. He would bat his eyes, simper a bit, and refer the man making the offer to the old, faithful, never fails, last resort: Mrs. Fist and her lovely daughters.
Bugnuts wasn't stupid, and knew that his Tiger was gay. He also knew that Tiger was an accepted, if eccentric, member of his ship's company. As a member of his ship's company, Bugnuts felt honour bound to treat him without fear or favour. Besides, where would he find such an excellent steward if he shopped Tiger? Bugnuts also knew that Tiger was not going around molesting the hands as they slept in their beds. He reasoned that it was one thing to think that Tiger was gay, it was quite another to prove it, so he always turned aside any muted accusation, usually echoing Lord Louis Mountbatten who, when it was pointed out to him that one of his stewards was obviously homosexual, laughed and said, "Of course he is! They make the best kind!"
In the event, Nabob wrote a letter, filled with falsehoods, naming Tiger as being gay and Bugnuts as protecting him and ignoring regulations by not reporting his steward.
The lower deck knew little of the in-fighting going on in the "Weirdroom". We knew that Nabob had the knives out for Bugnuts, but as Nabob was universally disliked and considered less than the dog crap that sometimes stuck to the soles our spit shined boots, we ignored him. The first we knew of Nabob's charges was when we were alongside in Halifax. Up the gangway came an officious little man in a cheap suit who flashed a badge at the Duty Quartermaster and snarled, "SIU".
Cheap Suit strutted impatiently on the Quarterdeck while the Officer of the Day was summoned. Once he leaned against the rail, his suit jacket open, deliberately showing that he was wearing a shoulder holster. He thought he was some punkin!
In the event, the OOD showed up and listened as Cheap Suit demanded to see the Commanding Officer. The OOD, who was young, had heard of the terror tactics of the investigators, paled, and called down. He listened and then led Cheap Suit down below to Bugnuts' day cabin.
As I was not present at the meeting, which was held behind closed doors, I can only rely on the veracity and accuracy of the Ship's Clerk, who was listening at the door. It seemed that Cheap Suit, without preamble, announced that Bugnuts was being investigated for harbouring a "known deviant", said deviant being Bugnuts' steward. Magoo rightfully interjected that there was no proof that Tiger was anything but a steward, and no proof that that was a deviant, known or unknown. Cheap Suit, taking a page out of the book of his US counterparts, threatened to investigate Magoo! When Bugnuts protested, Cheap Suit informed him that he had no authority in the investigation.
This was another tactic borrowed from NCIS who seemed to think that the investigators, no matter what their official status, outranked anybody and anything when it came to an investigation. It might work in the USN and it might have worked ashore, but . . .
I can still see, in my mind's eye, Bugnuts remaining outwardly calm, the only sign of his growing anger the fingers of his left hand twirling and twirling his signet ring. Unfortunately for Cheap Suit, Bugnuts' patience and temper had their limits. Denigrating Bugnuts' rank, and position, and threatening him aboard his own ship, with no respect or even a semblance of politeness, pushed him over the edge. According to Scratch, Bugnuts let out an almighty roar - which was heard in Dartmouth, I'm sure, and lunged.
The Quarterdeck staff, shaken out of their usual lethargy by the unearthly roar from below, drew back. As the shouting and drumming of feet on the deck tiles of Burma Road grew louder, they drew further back and formed semi-circle around the stern jack, from which flew the White Ensign. They could not go any further thanks to the stern rail.
The gathering storm, preceded by Cheap Suit's shrieks of outrage, burst onto the Quarterdeck to reveal Bugnuts, his face effused with rage, dragging a kicking and screaming Cheap Suit by the scruff of his neck across the deck, the rubber soles of his Florsheims leaving black skid marks on the polished teak. While Cheap Suit struggled to break the vise-like grip, Bugnuts dragged him to the portside guardrail. Then, in a feat of theretofore unknown strength, Bugnuts grabbed Cheap Suit by the seat of his pants, lifted him high into the morning sun and flung him overboard.
In the two or three minutes it took for the Quarterdeck staff to recover from what they had just seen, Bugnuts dusted his hands and then, with a gleam of horrible retribution in his eyes, went hunting for Nabob the Paybob.
The Duty Quartermaster was the first to recover. He ran to his shack and with one hand reached for the intercom mike. With the other he punched the "Man Overboard" alarm. There ensued the usual hullabaloo associated with recovering a man overboard, with the boat's crew rushing to launch their rescue boat (actually the Captain's gig) and sundry hands reaching for life rings and peering over the port side of the ship into the dark harbour waters looking for the victim.
Fortunately, the ship was tied up starboard side to. Had Bugnuts thrown him over the starboard side he would have landed on the jetty. As it happened, Cheap Suit ended up in the harbour and was rescued by one of the duty boats that plodded back and forth between the dockyard and the old ammunition jetty in Dartmouth. He was hauled from the water, spitting tacks and water, and the duty boat continued on its run to Dartmouth where he was unceremoniously dumped ashore. There he apparently made quite a scene and ended up hailing a cab to take him back to the SIU Shack in the dockyard as transportation had suddenly become unavailable. Nobody liked an SIU rodent, it seemed.
Back on board we waited for the hand of God to descend on Bugnuts. He had not managed to catch Nabob who, choosing discretion over valour, was last seen slithering down the Stores gangway and scampering at a rate of knots in the general direction of the Flag Building.
The inevitable telephone call came and Bugnuts appeared on deck, fully booted and spurred, complete with sword and medals. He looked quite calm and resigned, in contrast to Magoo, who was ashen-faced. Bugnuts waited only a few minutes when a staff car flying the flag of the Flag Officer, Atlantic, pulled up to the foot of the gangway. He was off to explain his actions to the Chief of Staff and he descended the gangway with dignity and resignation. As he entered the back of the car, Magoo wrung his hands and shook his head sadly. The Master-At-Arms, an unwilling witness to the most inappropriate chaos, shook his head and opined, "He's for it, and no danger." The gathered ratings shook their heads and agreed that Bugnuts was indeed "for it".
The next two hours were nerve wracking. We all knew that Bugnuts was in deep shit. He had assaulted a Naval investigator, and such was our fear of the power those cretins seemed to have that we had visions of our Captain being flogged 'round the fleet for daring to strike one of them. Magoo alternately haunted the Quarterdeck, peering toward the Flag Building and retiring to his cabin and telephoning the Quarterdeck constantly. I admit that I too, was a pain in the collective asses of the Quarterdeck Staff. Bugnuts was a gunner, and gunners always looked out for each other. As luck would have it, I was there when Bugnuts returned, although not in the same vehicle he had gone off in.
Around supper time a grey, battered old rust-pitted Ford came sputtering and gasping along the jetty. It pulled to a stop at the bottom of the gangway and from one side out stepped Bugnuts. From the driver's side emerged a very large man dressed in cook's whites. Who he was I had no idea, but he seemed jovial and grinned widely as he shook Bugnuts' hand. Then, while Bugnuts strolled up the gangway, greeting the Corporal of the Gangway with a smile and a smart slap on his shoulder, the Midshipman of the watch scrambled below to fetch Magoo.
They both arrived on the Quarterdeck more or less simultaneously. Magoo, expecting to see his Commanding Officer in irons and flanked by armed guards, looked stunned. The rest of us looked curious. Could it be, we asked ourselves, that Bugnuts had beaten the rap?
He had indeed. What had transpired in the Flag Building I never knew, and Bugnuts was always vague about the details whenever the subject was raised. All I know is that when Magoo asked him what had happened Bugnuts replied, "Ah, my dear fellow, there are powers at work in this country about which we have no knowledge." He paused and then added, "Sometimes they work for the righteous."
This was the first time that I had heard the phrase, and while I wondered what it meant, I paid it no attention, just as I put no significance into the slight nod the fat chef gave me as he got into his car.
Nabob never returned to the ship and we heard that he had been posted to Dawson City in Command. As the only military presence in the small city was a small stores depot filled with antiquated weapons and equipment used by the Canadian Rangers, the posting was really no command at all. It came as no surprise to anyone that Nabob's name did not appear on the Promotions List that came out the next January, or the following one in June. Having suffered the ignominy of celebrating "The Feast of the Passed Over", Nabob read the writing on the wall, sent in his papers and drifted into the anonymity he so richly deserved.
My life returned more or less to normal as I settled into the sedentary life of a peacetime sailor. Life aboard ship was a series of routines, up at 0530 on weekdays, Divisions at 0800, and then work. There is always plenty to do in a ship, from chipping paint to the care and feeding of the weapons. We varied our routines with day steaming and, when the money was available, "Show the Flag" cruises as part of the Standing Naval Force Atlantic where we exercised with our NATO allies. One of these cruises took us across the Equator and we had a "Crossing the Line" ceremony where pollywogs became shellbacks.
The ceremony was great fun, and began with piping aboard Neptune (actually the Chief Engineer, naked except for a loin cloth) and his court as they crawled from the hawse pipe. The pollywogs were gathered, tipped into a makeshift saltwater pool and pummelled by the bears (grotesquely made up boatswains - one of whom groped me). It was a fancy dress party the likes of which only sailors could put on. Our ordeal ended when we kissed the Chief's oiled paunch and were pronounced shellbacks. Then the beer, and carefully saved rum came out.
It was after this ceremony that I discovered the secret underground of sexuality that existed on board.
I was never a drinker, and as I was due to go on watch I decided to turn in early. I headed below, leaving the raucous laughter and the discordant noise that passed for music as the makeshift band tooted away in the hangar. As expected, the mess deck was empty. I stripped off my bathing suit, examined my body for bruises (getting smacked with an inflated pig's bladder hurts!) and gathered my towel, soap, and shaving gear and headed for the washplace to shower.
As the hot water washed away the aches of being inducted into the exclusive ranks of the shellback, I enjoyed the warmth, closing my eyes and soaping my torso languidly. The water, the low sound of machinery, the swish of the hull as it moved through the water disguised the sound of another sailor entering. I was so engrossed in what I was doing that the first time I knew of his presence was when I felt his hands on my back and heard his whispered, "Here, let me help you."
I was so stunned at this blatant overture I couldn't move. My eyes flew open as I felt his hands move slowly down my back, gently stroking my ass cheeks. I admit that I was horny, but . . .
The incident with Tiger had driven me even deeper into my closet of denial. I knew that some of my mates had formed "liaisons" and met in quiet corners of the ship whenever they felt the need. What they did I could only imagine. I also knew that "quiet corners" were not the only places that sexual activity took place. We slept in three-tier bunks, each separated from the one beside it by a long, mesh box bolted to the frames. We called it the "buggery box" for obvious reasons. In place, it separated the sleeping bodies and made difficult any activity of any kind. Needless to say, what was bolted, could be unbolted, and quietly moved aside. Sometimes, in the darkened mess, I would hear the sounds of heavy breathing and low moans. One I heard a whispered, "Fuck man! Watch the teeth!"
I knew what was going on but I said nothing and did nothing. No one, except for the boatswain who had groped me in the pool, had ever shown interest in me. Now, it seemed, someone had and I was terrified.
He was tall, very blond, slim, and boyishly handsome. He was also well-endowed and I could feel his manhood pressing against me as he slowly turned me around. Wordlessly he reached down to grasp me in his hand, and I moaned. Part of me wanted this to happen, but a stronger part of me resisted. If I continued this to its inevitable conclusion, and gave myself to the handsome young man, and was caught while doing it, what would happen? There were rumours and tales told of sailors caught together in the showers, and the retribution of unforgiving naval morality descending on them, shattering their careers and lives. I did not want a cheap suit suddenly appearing and demanding to see me. I did not want whispered laughter to follow me as I went about my duties. I could feel his hand slowly jacking me and sheer terror clicked in.
Fool that I was, I pushed him gently away, shook my head "no" and left the washplace. I crawled into my bunk shaking with fear. Would he tell? What would he say if we met on deck? Had anyone seen us together? Question after question filled my brain and I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Visions of Edmonton flashed through my head and I saw a look of disappointment flash across Bugnuts' face as he sadly ordered me ashore for being homosexual. I couldn't sleep, I wanted to cry in frustration, but could not.
I languished in self-pity until the Roundsman appeared to shake me for my watch. Much to my surprise it was the same young man. I did not know what to expect from him. Much to my surprise, and relief, after giving my shoulder a shake he smiled at me and said, "Too bad you're straight. We could have had some fun!"
I never told anyone, not even Don, who knew about my ill-fated relationship with Winger. I saw the handsome young man who had tried to seduce me from time to time, which was impossible not to do. He never mentioned what had happened in the showers, and he never made any attempt to rekindle his desire for me. I never made any attempt to explore the underground I knew existed. I was a victim of my own fears, and just as I had left Cornwallis and Stadacona frustrated, horny, and a virgin, I left St. Laurent frustrated, horny, and still a virgin when I was paid off two years later.
I left Canada for England, bound for Portsmouth and HMS Excellent, Whale Island, the Holy of Holies for Naval gunners, a virgin. There I found that there were more than Naval guns to be fired off.
When I came home in 1966, after an 18 month gunnery course my Navy was systematically being dismantled by Unification. But I was no longer a virgin.