Spring 2006
Two
things Last year made me really squirm. The first was when the Frogs
turned up to the International Festival of the Sea with the biggest ship
and stole the show by claiming to be the flagship??
No
sooner had I calmed down I then learned that the new Apache helicopter is
being armed by Chockheads! (Front page Navy News) and if that wasn’t
enough they are wearing Scarlet and Black surcoats!
Is nothing sacred anymore?
Added
to all this, couple of weeks ago I was hurt, cut to the quick you
understand. Some one implied that I was dull. Me… But what hurt much
more is that they implied that in theory for social survival I must
associate with dull people.
I
didn’t retaliate or lapse into any kind of verbal assault, I took it in
my stride, a ‘can’t win ‘em
all’ sort of attitude, but when they started criticizing our association
that‘s fight’n’ talk.
Once
having recovered from this unprovoked casually delivered barrage, the old
brain started ticking over and I was found to be going about my daily
chores smiling to myself, to the bemusement of people around me. The mums
nodded knowingly and murmured, hmmm… wind.
But
I was actually mentally preparing my
defence,
not for the assailant but for my own peace of mind.
I
recall many years ago when Blackburn Rovers won the premiership; a
reporter asked Alan Shearer what he’d be doing to celebrate, ‘I’m
off home to creosote t’fence’ he
replied. Now, no one spotted it then, but Alan was ten years ahead of his
time, it has taken the world that long to catch up and discover the joys
of being slightly dull.
Glamour
and
fashionability
is old hat and should have gone to the charity shop long ago. Do we care
that Joan Collins has now condescended to eat at Gordon Ramsey’s after
all? Do we lie awake at night wondering how Geri
Halliwell
will shift those last few pounds? Do you know how many of us don’t even
care which one is Ant and which one is Dec?
So sit back in that familiar comfy chair, treat
yourself to the last couple of
tinnies
of Guinness that have been at the back of the fridge since we last got
dicked
by the All Blacks and let me put the case for the dull man.
In
a recent survey of 100,000 people around the world asked for one word that
described Britain, back came the answer, predictable, we were named the
fourth best country and what everyone likes about us is we are ever so
slightly dull, but they knew what to expect. We instinctively know where
to put the washer and what WD40 can be used for. The true dull man is
predictable, reliable, loveable, safe and good in a crisis. He doesn’t
say much because he doesn’t really have much to say. This
distinguishes him from the bore who has nothing to say but says it anyway.
Which
other country would sit through five days (if you’re lucky) of test
cricket for the promise of the exiting bit at the end? Or publish a
booklet entitled, Different Ways To Tie Your Shoelaces?
So
I don’t know about you but I am now quite at home being dull and hope
the person who thought it was a criticism now knows it was a complement.
Armed
Forces Veterans Badge, Eligibility Change.
Initially
available to only World War 1 & 2, veterans, eligibility for the
popular Veterans Badge is being extended to those who served up until
1954.
Defence
Secretary John Reid said, ‘This is a small way for the government and
the nation to recognize those who have served their country and for them
to recognize each other. They are designed to raise the profile of
veterans among the public.
Future
Plans,
The
government plans to make the lapel badge available to veterans of all
generations and conflicts plus widows and merchant seamen. There is no
intention to apply a length of service criterion, until those who leave
the service after 2005 when it will be five years, apart from those
discharged for administrative or disciplinary reasons everyone will be
eligible.
To
Apply contact The Veterans Agency on 0800 169 2277, or write to Graham
Taylor, Veterans Badge Office, Room 6108, Tomlinson House, Norcross, Blackpool.
FY5 3WP. (Overseas
callers - +44 1253 866043.)
Page
Three
Presently
we have 851 ex Armourers on the nominal roll ranging from a
NAM
(O) to a Rear Admiral.
Can
anyone actually remember having an
armourer
like this on your section? Have you ever heard of anyone who did? And was
he a good bloke?
New
Joiners:
Dave ‘Taff’ Burrows – Lee-on-Solent
Henry ‘Lofty’ Narroway – Bodmin.
John Burrows – Staffordshire.
Brian ‘Strawbs’ Howett – Dundee.
Contacts:
Peter
Williams would like to hear from anyone who remembers him from 826, Eagle,
Hermes or Brawdy PO Box 92 Road Town Tortola, British Virgin Islands.
Also
Arthur Precious, 17 Earnes Court, Burnley. BB10 4PJ. 01282 422338, who
was at Kai Tak and MONAB - 8
Reunion - 31st March – 3rd April
2006
Royal Court Hotel. Tamworth Road, Keresley, Coventry. CV7
8RG
Situated on the right of the B4098 to Tamworth leaving
Coventry, off the A444.
£95
per person plus a £5 supplement towards entertainment.
Inclusive of 3
nights’ accommodation and breakfast. 3-course dinner Fri. and Sun.
Gala Dinner
Saturday - Free use of Spindles Leisure centre all weekend.
Dancing to a new band, plus Jimmy Quinn’s comedy spot.
Bookings
are going well; please don’t leave it until the last minute, although
there are always spare rooms, too many latecomers will swallow these up
quickly. Early bookings are advisable.
Same Routine,
due to slip ups in previous years, please fill in the enclosed form for 1
- The Reunion Weekend, and 2 -
Ladies Bus Trip on Saturday morning to Wedgwood visitor Centre, Details
are on the booking form, first come
first served. This form is the only way you can be sure of getting a
seat on the bus.
There
is a new hotel management team. We
cannot assume that the previous arrangements with Peter Pratt will carry
on.
As
in previous years, you must book
through the association and pay your hotel bill on departure. To
keep the good rapport that we have built up with the hotel please keep me informed of changes. Late cancellations may still
have to be paid for. Please do not
contact the hotel direct.
They are not obliged to give you the same deal, plus we need to know
numbers for catering purposes i.e. TOT.
Friday
Forenoon
Golf - Contact Ray Gunston –* new
phone number
Afternoon
Happy Hour, Informal Welcoming Party
Last Dog
Happy Hour, Informal Dinner
Saturday
Forenoon
AGM. Happy Hour, Ladies Run Ashore
Last Dog
Up Spirits Happy Hour,
Dinner Dance Cabaret
Sunday
Lunchtime
Happy Hour and Fun Quiz
Evening
Happy Hour, Quiet dinner
Monday
Breakfast, no happy hour and then disperse
Mick
Grubb would also welcome any donations for the Saturday Raffle, in support
of Acorns Children’s Hospice.
*
Ray Gunston, 7 Regency Gate, Sidmouth, EX10 9EQ. 01395 519072
Navy Talk: By ATJ.
Taken from a 1930 book, The Wonders of the Navy
The
Navy has a language of its own which landsmen find puzzling because it has
so many expressions that are meaningless to anyone not familiar with the
life at sea. While many of
the curious phrases Jack uses have been current among naval men for
generations, others are modern, for the
blue jacket has a way of importing allusive references to
new things into his every-day speech.
To him during the War a U-boat was a “Fritz,” and that
well-known dish, “sausage and mash,” became “Zeppelins in a
cloud.” Generally, Navy talk is liberally spiced with Jack’s
peculiar humour, which often takes a sardonic twist.
Anything
like a full explanation of it cannot be given in a short chapter, but here
are a few examples. Jack
does not go on holiday; he takes “a drop of leave.”
An
afternoon nap he terms “having a caulk” or “caulking the deck.”
By “clew up” or “pipe down” he means, “hold your
tongue.” “Top your
boom” is his way of saying, “Be off with you.”
If a sailor gets into trouble and is punished his messmates will
remark that he has “dipped.” “Killick”
is a naval name for an anchor. A
leading seaman wears an anchor on his sleeve as a badge of rating (that
is, a sign of rank). For this
reason he is nicknamed “a killick,” and should he be
disrated,
which is reduced in rank, he “dips his killick.” If, on the other hand, he has escaped punishment by giving a
satisfactory answer to a charge brought against him, he would be said to
have “cleared his yard-arm.” In
naval parlance “looking after your own yard-arm,” means attending to
your own business.
At
table Jack does not ask for anything to be passed to him, but requests his
neighbour to “give a fair wind” to the butter or whatever else he
wants sent his way. “Splicing
the main brace” means having a drink.
Sometimes after the King has reviewed the Fleet a signal will be
made to all ships to “splice the main brace,” and this is an order for
every man to be served with a tot of rum in which to toast His Majesty.
When a sailor remarks, “the sun is over the foreyard,” he is
hinting that “It’s time we had a drink.”
Bluejackets do not quarrel; they “part brass rags.”
Men working together polishing the same piece of brass may be
supposed to be friends, hence the terms “raggie” and “parting brass
rags” when a dispute separates them.
As
everybody knows, “old soldiers never die”: neither do old sailors,
they “lose the number of their mess,” which comes to the same thing.
Quaint
names are given to food. Biscuits are “hard tack,” bread is “soft tack,” a
bloater is a “two-eyed steak” or, alternately, a “Spithead
Pheasant.” A tin of
sardines is a “tin of sharks,” and salted meat is “salt horse” or
“salt junk.” Salad is
“rabbit food”; plum pudding is “figgy duff.”
A joint of meat baked over potatoes is “schooner on a rock.”
If the joint has three ribs in it, it is “three-masted.”
Potted meat is “Fanny Adams,” and tradition says that it was so
dubbed because at the time the ration was introduced into the Navy a woman
of that name was being tried for a particularly gruesome murder.
That may be true, for it would be just like Jack to perform such a
christening. Rum he calls “Nelson’s blood,” and to him a
“resurrection day” in the catering department is a “banyan day.”
A half-holiday aboard ship is a “make and mend.” The
broadside mess in which he lives is his “cottage.”
A
man of indifferent character is “ullage” or a “bad hat.”
A sailor does not look disgruntled; he “ships a face like a
scrubbed hammock.”
Knots
measure a vessels speed and a fraction of a knot is called “an onion.”
Thus when a sailor gives a ship’s speed as “ten knots and an
onion” he means that she is going at just over ten knots.
“Rope
yarn Sunday” is one of Jack’s names for the Thursday half-holiday, and
when he gets a rest period he terms it a “stand easy.”
(To be continued)
All
of the above has been taken directly from my copy of “The Wonder Book of
The Navy” published around the early 1930s.
No correspondence will be entered into!
It’s totally baffled my spell-checker.
Next time it’ll be naval nicknames…
A.T.J.
AAAAGH: By Rojo Grande
Armourers
Association of Andalucia and Greater Hispania
Well friends
after the tragic loss of most of our membership three years ago a huge
cloud of grief and depression descended on the few of us that were left
and nobody wanted to carry on with AAAAGH. They say that time is a great
healer though and I have been persuaded to resurrect our association.
Because there
aren’t many Armourers living in S. Spain as before, I have had to accept
new members with only the vaguest connection with ordnance and weaponry.
People like Archie Archer from Archidona, Treble Top Tina the captain of
the local darts team in the Rabid Rat Pub and Taffy Toyota an ex-harpoonist
on a Japanese whaler. The son of a Welsh mother and a Japanese father
known as Chicken Chow Mein, the only Kamikaze pilot to survive the war,
Taffy picked up his harpoons and headed for Cardiff when he saw a
Greenpeace ship bearing the slogan Save Wales, he eventually settled in
Ynysybwl where he went into business importing Siamese cottons. His
partner was another man with dual nationality called Thai Dai. He later
sold his share of the business and bought a coalmine in Gibraltar from an
ex-Bernards Rep. Finding there was no coal in Gib, he retired to
Fuengirola. I came across him outside the bullring where he now spends his
time collecting bull’s horns for his hobby of scrimshaw.
We also
accept membership from people who have no connection at all with the
ordnance world but are interesting characters in their own right. I
don’t set much store in rules and regulations, after all we are an
armourers association but all new members must agree to undergo an
initiation ceremony. This consists of drinking a tot of Pussers Rum,
barracks style, waiting ten minutes then drinking splicers. They then have
fifteen minutes to translate the Armourers Song into their native language
then sing it to the assembled membership. Hearing the Armourers Song in
Polish is like listening to Stanley Unwin describing how a Bren Gun works.
One of our
members is a German called Fish and Chips although his name is Adolf Von
Schilling he frequently likes to tell the tale of when he was in England
in the Sixties, ‘I vent into ein chip shop and asked for fish and chips,
the fraulein behind ze counter served me and said, ‘That will be one
shilling Adolf.’ I said, ‘No, that will be fish and chips, I am Von
Schilling, und how do you know my name is Adolf?’
I knew what
she meant but what a funny coincidence, I laughed so much I am splitting
the sides of my lederhosen. I still laugh now but that is because we
Germans are always laughing at things, ve haf ein gut sense of humour
nein.
We even have
a crabfat as a member because although they have a RAFA down here he
won’t mix with them because they are too stiff and formal. His name is
Graham Chipmonk and he recently completed the pilgrimage to Santiago de
Compostela on a pogo stick. You must have read about him in the Sun, he
wanted to do the pilgrimage for twenty-five years and then suddenly
decided to do it in the most unorthodox way possible. On completion he
received his certificate but it is the opinion of all of us that it is he
who should be certified.
Our
membership is slowly being rebuilt with the same characteristics that you
would find whenever armourers gather – a mix of good humour and
eccentricity. I hope to bring you more characters in the next 4x2 as well
as the report on the world hopscotch championships in Tallinn, Estonia.
P.S.
Can I have your other flip-flop?
Three
incidents:
By Frank Collins
In 1949 I was
an AMO on 813 Sqdn (Firebrands) along with 801 Sqdn (Sea Hornets) in HMS
Implacable No1 CAG Home Fleet.
We were
exercising defending Gibraltar against Mountbatten’s Med Fleet. Being
the Flag Ship we had on board Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery, the
Governor of Gibraltar and the First Sea Lord, Admiral McGregor, plus a
high ranking American.
The duty
armourer’s task was to collect from the ships magazine a Very pistol and
cartridges and make ones way up to Cdr Air’s office by the bridge 40
feet above the deck. It was placed in a fixed holster so that an aircraft
landing badly could be waved off at the last moment by Cdr Air.
The
armourer’s journey was by using the outer weather deck-across the flight
deck and up 3 decks to Cdr Air. Frank Smith was the duty armourer and on
completion of flying he duly collected the pistol taking care to unload it
(or should have done) placing the unused cartridges in one side of a
canvas holdall and the pistol in another then retrace his steps to the
magazine. On this occasion he decided to go via the hangar where 24
aircraft had just been refuelled. Instead of breaking the pistol he took
the loaded pistol out of the bag and spun it on his finger like a cowboy.
Well, a large
red ball of flame shot out, bounced around the hangar hitting several
aircraft and why the whole ship didn’t blow up I don’t know.
The AEO was
in the hangar at the time he grabbed Smith and marched him from the Jimmy
to the Commander and on to the Captain who took two sessions to decide his
punishment (which was 28 days)
I often
wonder if he is still with us, he came from Manchester and would be 76.
We were leaving the Firth of Forth in HMS Implacable for Gib in a force
10 gale during which the galley was shut. After three days on bread and
marmalade we were writing our letters on the mess table when I heard an
almighty roar, I shot off my seat much to the amusement of my three oppos.
Above our table was a 3’x 2’ air vent and through this came a very
large quantity of black sea water, evidently a 40’wave had hit us
broadside and entered the ventilation shaft collecting on its way all the
dust and debris that had accumulated since the ship was built.
The
last laugh was on me
We were training our new pilots off NE Scotland to ensure they had
clocked up the required deck landings. This day in particular all our
aircraft were flying, the time was 10:00 and stand easy was 10:10 so three
armourers and myself departed for the mess and had a game of darts, about
10:05 a Lt Jagger and a PO arrived
and asked, ‘What do you think you are doing then?’ ‘Having a game of
darts’ I replied and threw the second dart, I think I may have got away
with it if I hadn’t thrown number 2. I was given the choice between
accepting his punishment or the Commanders so I elected for his. He then
sought advice from the friendly PO who suggested I emery cloth the rusty
air flow units (about 40) during the Dogs and I managed to do 2 on the
first evening.
The following
day I was watching an attack of three of our aircraft onto a target 5 or 6
miles away, the first dived then climbed away, then the second, then the
third which didn’t, our escort Agincourt sped to the area but found only
a patch of fuel. The pilot was LT Jagger so I never finished my punishment
as there was no one to check, but during the next couple of weeks during
harbour routine the PO suggested that I finish cleaning them during
working hours on the buffing machine in the workshops, which eased both
our consciences. When I finished they shone like stars and we won the cake
for best mess.
25 years
later to the day, Lt Jagger’s obituary was in the Times.
Solution
to the crossword in 4x2 – 39.
Winner -
Mac McCarthy
Under
The Microscope
Danny
Newns
Family?
No thanks, got one.
Where do you live?
Anywhere where they don’t know my past.
What would you have done if you hadn’t
joined the navy? Become a useful
member of society.
Hobbies? Gardening
(In Bosnia)
Best boss you ever worked for?
Jan Brewer.
The worst?
Myself.
Current Job?
Avoiding income tax and clearing mines.
Most embarrassing moment? Falling
into Grand Harbour.
What do you read?
The Times and the Beano.
Favourite actor?
Basil Brush.
Favourite actress? Anyone
in excess of 42DD.
Favourite singer? The
barman at the Dog and Weasel.
Favourite drink?
Anything that comes by the gallon and charged by the pint.
Favourite meal? Rusks.
Favourite film? Revenge
of the Vampire Blood Sucking Nigerian Ladies from Hell 2.
Celebrity you would like to meet? See
favourite actress.
Best run ashore oppo? All
those who didn’t laugh when I fell in Grand Harbour.
What would you do with a million quid?
Open up a Calamari restaurant.
What would you do with your last fiver? Photocopy
it 25,000 times.
What would you do to make yourself more
windswept and interesting? Stand
in the middle of a flock of flatulent sheep.
Your ambition?
See celebrity I would like to meet.
Three objects to take on a desert island:
Roy Plomley, Sue Lawley and a
Referee.
What advice would you like to pass onto
the members: I don’t know what
it’s called but it itches like hell and best avoided.
Who
am I?
·
I was born on 2nd
February 1932.
·
I
joined the Royal Marines at 16 as a Bugle Boy.
·
I
retired as a Chief Ordnance Electrician (Air.)
·
I
served in HMS Illustrious, Ark Royal, Victorious and Eagle.
·
I am a
regular attendee of the reunions.
In Shakespeare’s day
mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the
ropes the mattress tightened making the bed firmer to sleep on. That’s
where the phrase, ‘Goodnight Sleep Tight’ came from.
The
phrase, ‘Rule of Thumb’ is derived from an old English law which
stated that you couldn’t beat your wife with anything wider than your
thumb.
Our
representatives, Remembrance Sunday 2005
A
thoughtful gesture on Air Day.
An
ex Crab Jaguar pilot in Oman used to like showing off his skills.
Same
pilot, same day, same desert thought he would give his oppo a scare.
After
reading Jan Meecham’s article in 4x2-39, I dug out this pic from HMS
Victorious about ‘66.’67. I can’t recall the condition of the
driver. Mitch
Subject: Old Man.
By Anf
An
elderly man in Queensland had owned a large property for several years.
He
had a dam in the next paddock, fixed up nice - picnic tables, horseshoe
courts, and some mango and avocado trees.
The dam was properly shaped and fixed up for swimming when it was
built. One evening the old
farmer decided to go down to the dam, as he hadn't been there for a while,
to look it over. He grabbed a five gallon bucket to bring back some fruit.
As
he neared the dam, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee, as he
came closer he saw it was a bunch of young women skinny-dipping in his
dam. He made the women aware of his presence and they all went to the deep
end.
One
of the women shouted to him, “We're not coming out until you
leave!" The old man frowned, "I didn't come down here to watch
you ladies swim naked or make you get out of the dam naked.
Holding
the bucket up he said, "I'm here to feed the crocodile."
Moral:
Old men might walk slow, but they can still think fast.
According to Legend: By
Marlene
His
name was Fleming and he was a poor Scottish Crofter. One day trying to eke
a living from the land to feed his family he heard a cry for help from a
nearby bog, he dropped his tools and ran to the bog and found mired to his
waist a terrified boy screaming and struggling to free himself. Fleming
saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.
The
next day a fancy carriage pulled up at the Scot’s sparse croft and the
Laird stepped out and introduced his companion as the father of the boy.
‘I
want to repay you’, said the Laird’s guest ‘You saved my sons
life’
The
crofter replied I canna accept payment for anyone would ha’ done the
same.
At
that moment the Crofter’s own son came to the door. ‘Is that your son
he asked’? ‘Aye
Sir’ was the reply.
‘Then
I’ll make a deal with you; let me provide him with the level of
education my own son will enjoy. If the lad is anything like his father
he’ll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of.
The
Crofters son attended the very best schools and in time he graduated from
St Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London and went on to become known
throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming the discoverer of
Penicillin.
Years
later the Laird’s houseguest whose son was saved from the bog was
stricken by pneumonia. What saved him this time? Penicillin.
The
name of the Lairds guest was Lord Randolph Churchill.
His
son - Winston Churchill.
It
was the accepted practice 4,000 years ago that for a month after the
wedding, the bride’s father would supply his son-in-law with all the
mead he could drink. Mead is distilled honey and because their calendar
was lunar based this period was called the ‘Honey Month’ or what we
know today as the Honeymoon
In
the days when ale was ordered by pints and
quarts when the customers got a bit unruly the landlord would shout
’mind your pints and quarts’ and settle down. Now we say mind your Ps
and Qs
Extracts
not from the Oxford Medical Dictionary:
by Jim Dale
Anally.
Occurring yearly
Artery.
Study of paintings
Bacteria.
Back door of a cafeteria
Caesarean
Section.
District in Rome
Cat
Scan.
Searching for kitty
Cauterise.
Made eye contact with her
Colic.
Sheepdog
Coma.
Punctuation mark
Congenital.
Friendly
Dilate.
To live long
Enema.
Not a friend
Fester.
Quicker
Fibula.
A small lie
Impotent.
Distinguished, well known
Intense
Pain.
Torture while camping
Labour
Pain.
Getting hurt at work
Medical
Staff.
Doctor’s cane
Morbid.
Higher offer
Nitrate.
Cheaper than day rate
Out-Patient.
Person who has fainted
Pathology.
Ramblers association
Post
Operative.
Letter carrier
Protein.
Favouring young people
Radiologist.
Dr Fox on Capital FM
Rectum.
Almost killed him
Recovery
Room.
Upholstery workshop
Secretion.
Hiding anything
Terminal
Illness.
Sickness at airport
Tumour.
An extra pair
Urine.
Opposite to Ur-out
Varicose.
Located nearby
In medieval times pub
tankards had a whistle baked into the top of the handle, when you needed a
refill a whistle would get some service. That is where ‘Wet Your
Whistle’ comes from.
Cautionary
Note: The story you are about to read is not altogether true, although I
did do a trip to Cherbourg and I did get into trouble, the story is more
of a compilation of several runs ashore by myself and others and just a
teeny weeny, tiny, little, small, bit of exaggeration… Now read on…
Too
Dangerous for Bombheads:
By Jan Meecham
About
1964 when I was on Foreign Service Leave I accepted an invitation from an
oppo of mine to do a sailing trip from Dartmouth to Cherbourg, in his
thirty foot Moody yacht.
That evening ashore in the town, we soon
hooked up with a couple of French girls and I ended up going home with
Charmaine, to a rather posh penthouse apartment.
She had cognac and French champagne and I
drank all that was offered, while she explained that her husband was away
on business and she was very lonely.
By 10 o’ clock, it was obvious I was
intended to stay the night, so we retired to the boudoir where we made
love and drank champagne until I passed out from exhaustion in the early
hours.
It was as the first streaks of dawn were
lightening in the sky that I became aware of Charmaine rushing to the
window and looking out. Suddenly all hell let loose.
“Oh no!” she cried, “sacrebleu, eet eez
eem, eet eez ee, ee ezz come, we are doom', my ‘usban’, ee eez ‘ome
early, I ‘ear zee taxi, now ee eez come up ‘ere.” The crisis had
caused her formerly quite good English to revert to half French.
“’Urry, Englieez man, you must go, my ‘usban’ ee eez very jealous,
ee will kill uz”. She made her fingers into a fair imitation of a gun.
“’Ee ‘az zee pistol,” she said.
Well, I’m not very good first thing in the
morning, so I was a bit taken by surprise by the events and suffering a
monumental hangover from all the unaccustomed champagne and cognac.
My clothes were nowhere to be seen and all I
was wearing was her husband’s yellow silk pyjama jacket and a sick
smile. Suddenly I was very conscious that the true owner of the yellow
pyjama jacker was even now coming up the stairs and may not see the funny
side of things.
I was also beginning to appreciate that, as
he was carrying a gun, my life expectancy could be counted in minutes
rather than years.
I started for the door but Charmaine
explained if I went that way I could almost certainly meet her gun toting
husband on the stairs and my wearing his pyjama jacket and nothing else
could possibly arouse his suspicions.
My only chance of escape, she explained, lay
in my going out the window and down the drainpipe. On reflection, I
probably wasn’t thinking very clearly that morning, because when I got
out of the window and stood on the ledge I still hadn’t put on any more
clothes.
To my left along the increasingly narrowing
ledge was a rusty drainpipe and hopefully the route of my salvation. In an
abstract sort of way I noticed that the grime of years that covered the
drainpipe was disturbed by recent hand marks. I guessed this was the
regular way out for male friends of Madame Charmaine.
Meanwhile the lady herself called, “Bon
voyage, mon cheri,” blew me a kiss, then slammed the window. I realised
that I couldn’t just stand on the ledge exposing my family jewels to the
whole of Cherbourg, so grabbed the drainpipe and started gingerly walking
myself down. At first I took my time, testing every hand-hold but suddenly
from above there came a burst of screaming and shouting and the sound of a
window being opened.
I then speeded up my descent with the result
that my already inadequate pyjama jacket blew up over my head, exposing my
more vulnerable parts to the world at large.
I quickly lost interest in being embarrassed
because Charmaine’s husband had won the fight to open the window and had
begun shooting at me. There were bangs and puffs of smoke from above as a
large, angry man took careful aim toward me.
Quickly I reached the second floor, only ten
metres above ground, before disaster overtook me. A lucky shot by Monsieur
Charmaine snapped the bracket holding the pipe to the wall and the
drainpipe slowly drifted out, a metre from the building.
Fortunately the mad marksman from above had
run out of bullets and was insanely ripping his bedroom to pieces to find
the box of ammunition he kept there, while I was in a fix. When I looked
down I saw a congregation of mangy local dogs all snarling and barking at
my exposed buttocks.
I was unsure what to do next, I couldn’t go
back up and I couldn’t go down, and there didn’t seem any possibility
of going in any other direction.
But I was wrong. Just when I thought all was
lost, the drainpipe broke off at ground level. This allowed the end of the
pipe, to which I was attached, to go out and down in a rather graceful
arc, out over the rabid dogs, over the back fence, over the alley and
another fence, where it stopped abruptly, breaking my grip and allowing me
to carry on, alone.
Down I went, crashing right through the glass
lean-to roof of the house opposite and landed in a shower of broken glass
on someone’s dining table.
My immediate concern was that nothing
vulnerable or valuable had been sliced off my anatomy during my entrance.
So it wasn’t until after I had given my body a thorough examination that
I noticed there were two people sitting at the table, one at either end.
They didn’t move or say anything, just
stared at me with really weird looks. I got off the table and attempted to
apologise. With my left hand cupping my privates, and for some
inexplicable reason, lifting an imaginary hat with my right, I said
“Pardon Madam, pardon Monsieur, excuse moi silvuplay.”
There was absolutely no response, not even a
blink, from the couple, so I thought I’d try a friendlier, French,
approach. I took the old woman by the shoulders and kissed her soundly on
both cheeks while I attempted to sing the Marseillaise.
This time I got some reaction. She fainted
and fell backwards off her chair. I turned to the man. However, he seemed
reluctant to be kissed, and drawing a crucifix from around his neck, held
it up and cried, “Mon Dieu, diable, sacrebleu,” before he too fell
backwards off his chair and was silent. With no one to talk to I took the
opportunity to leave by the front door.
Around the corner I ducked into a dark
doorway to assess the situation. It was still early, so there were few
people about, but I realised that walking through the streets dressed only
in a yellow, torn, silk pyjama jacket could quite possibly draw attention
to me. It was then I had the idea to put the jacket on like a pair of
shorts with my legs down the arms and the neck at the rear. From the front
the jacket looked not unlike a pair of shorts, but unfortunately from the
rear I looked obscene.
I was hoping that, if I ran fast, people in
the street would take me for a keep fit jogger, at least from the front.
From the rear, well I would just have to run fast, and hope to be back in
the docks and on board the yacht before anyone complained.
As I jogged along, I got occasional glimpses
of the marina and what I saw there gave me quite a fright. First, the gate
was guarded by no less than four bold gendarmes and two police dogs, and
secondly, the berth that had contained our yacht was now empty.
I stopped running and climbed up on some
steps to see the marina more clearly. There I saw the yacht under sail,
leaving the marina, leaving me behind. My best friend had abandoned me,
the rotten bum. I’d never liked that prat anyway.
At first I felt desperate, but then I
realised I still had one slim chance at salvation. My ex-friend had to
sail the yacht in an easterly direction to leave the marina, but then had
to turn and sail back west towards me, in order to get around the
breakwater. If I could get through the dockyard gate, run a hundred metres
or so to the end of the sea wall, and if I timed it right, I could be in
spitting distance of the yacht as she sailed past. With luck I could catch
his attention and he could pick me up. At worst I could dive in and swim
the short distance to the yacht and be onboard in time for a late
breakfast.
The weakness in my plan was getting in
through the heavily guarded gate and getting the timing right. I decided
that speed and surprise would win the day so started jogging along at
speed, trying to be inconspicuous, but there were quite a few
“sacrebleu’s” as I passed people, and they caught a glimpse of me
from the rear.
At the last moment as I approached the
dockyard gateway I realised there was a chain across it, but I was going
to fast to stop. I dived up and over and landed in a running forward roll
on the hard, unforgiving granite dock, and kept running.
For a moment there was no response, then all
hell let loose, men shouted, dogs barked and someone sounded a fire alarm.
I ran on.
Up ahead I could see the sail of the yacht
approaching and knew I’d timed my attack well. We would converge by the
end of the sea wall at about the same time.
It was as I was smiling at my cleverness that
I realised there was a barbed wire barrier between me and the end of the
sea wall, while behind me the police dogs had been released and were
gaining on me, fast.
As I reached the barrier, one of the dogs had
actually got hold of the neck of my shorts and as I took my second dive
over the obstacle, I parted company with the pyjama jacket. I also landed
heavily, breaking one of my wrists.
I managed to stand up rather dazed and
disorientated and staggered on towards the end of the sea wall.
Fortunately the dogs, after extricating themselves from the barbed wire,
were content to rip and tear at the shorts and lost interest in me, for a
while.
When I got to the end of the wall I waved
frantically to the yacht, then half dived and half fell ten metres into
the sea, with an almighty splosh.
Unfortunately my mate hadn’t seen me waving
and was unconcerned with the commotion on the sea wall, being content to
set the sails and a course for England, leaving me to my fate.