Chapter 1: Wish I Was Wren

“Wish I was a Wren,” Recruit Brian Perkins mumbled under his breath.

‘Fuck! I wish he hadn’t said that!’ thought Recruit Michael Nyland. He knew that no good would come of it.

“Your wish might come true,” Leading Recruit Jason Jones (Spike to his friends) sneered.

Michael Nyland shivered, and not just because he was standing at attention (or at the ‘Ho’ as it was referred to in the RN) on parade in the freezing cold. Eight members of Collins Division of HMS Chelmsford were standing in the freezing winter weather, watching the recruit WRNS (Women’s Royal Naval Service colloquially called Wrens) boarding the last bus to leave the depot. It was going to the railway station so the last of the Wrens could proceed home on leave.

In 1973 HMS Chelmsford was the Royal Navy’s recruit training establishment, charged with providing the hundreds of new sailors and Wrens required to man the RN. The Wrens lived in the Wrenery, fenced off from the male General Entry recruits and were guarded by ferocious and large Chief Petty Officer and Petty Officer Wrens who were rumoured to be butch dykes. The young sailors envied the privileges bestowed on the Wrens. Wrens travelled in First Class sleepers on trains, they received a meal allowance when travelling, and, they were entitled to an underwear allowance as they were not issued with stockings, tights, knickers and undergarments from ‘slops’, the RN clothing store, and were expected to purchase their own.

The male sailors travelled third class on British Rail, paid for their own meals when travelling, and had fewer ‘privileges’. Most men serving in the RN in the 1970s overlooked the fact that they were paid far more than the Wrens, had the opportunity to serve at sea and travel the world, and they didn’t have to leave the Navy when they married unlike the Wrens.

HMS Chelmsford had been a Racecourse-class minesweeper of the Royal Navy laid down in 1916 and the Recruit Training Establishment was named after that ship. Built in the 1930s it was now almost decrepit and was soon to be closed; but in the winter of 1973 as the RN entered the Christmas and New Year Reduced Operational Period (ROP), the Navy was looking at ways to save money as its budget had been slashed. The Admiralty came up with an initiative. Normally the depot would be, for all intents and purposes, shut down and all personnel sent on leave. This was a costly exercise, effectively ‘winterising’ all the facilities for six weeks and then bringing the facility back on line in time to recommence training in January so they decided a skeleton crew would remain behind to keep the depot manned and ticking over until all of the other personnel returned from leave.

It was a no-brainer for the CO, he directed the Officer in Charge of the recruit training school to keep part of a Division of recruits, under the charge of a Petty Officer, to remain behind and maintain the antiquated facilities whilst everyone else proceeded on leave.

It was also a no-brainer for the OIC; he selected eight members of Collins Division, the malingerers, misfits and under-performing recruits to remain behind as the ‘hook-rope party’.

The ‘hook rope party’, a naval term for a special party who has work to do which is best left uninterrupted. Their job was to keep things ‘ship shape and Bristol fashion’ while the rest of the crew fell in for parades and presented their spaces for senior officer’s inspections or ‘rounds’.

Collins Division was established to assist the underachievers in the archaic training system so that they had a chance to graduate. It was supposedly led by the best performing Leading Recruits so they could mentor their peers and assist them in achieving the results required to graduate from recruit training school. In reality the RN recruit training school was still manned by misogynist bullies who used corporal punishment, mental cruelty and deprivation of any form of compassion to train its people. The officers treated the NCOs like shit, the NCOs treated the ratings like shit and the ratings treated anyone over whom they had authority like shit. As the saying goes, shit rolls downhill, and Collins Division was at the bottom of the hill.

The Leading Recruits were bullies who thought that inflicting as much pain and degradation on the recruits in their Division as possible was effective leadership. The recruits had no choice but to suck it up, no one was interested in their ‘bitches’, they were under-performing losers who would benefit from astute application of the rod.

The Navy had thrived on the traditions of ‘rum, sodomy and the lash’ so why should anything change?

The OIC had selected his worst performing Petty Officer to remain behind with Collins Division. PO ‘Knocker’ White was an alcoholic malingerer who had twice been reduced in rank during his service. Not that he cared. He was divorced and lived ‘on board’ in the Senior Ratings mess where he spent most of his time propping up the bar. He would have to reside in the Duty Instructor’s cabin at the recruit school but he had stocked up on cases of Newcastle Brown Ale, Captain Morgan Rum, purloined a 16mm projector and borrowed as many pornographic and action movies as he could lay his hands on, and with the recruit school galley remaining open, manned by a recruit cook from Collins Division, he was assured of three squares a day.

To Knocker White it was almost like a vacation. He intended to do fuck all but drink, eat, watch movies and read J. E. MacDonnell novels all day and let the Leading Recruits run the ‘rock show’ or as it was termed at the time ‘maintain good order and discipline’.

So the remaining eight members of Collins Division were dismissed by PO White as the bus loaded with the last of the Wrens drove away.

“You fucking Leading Recruits take charge of your rabble. You have your daily routines posted; I don’t want to hear a fucking peep out of you unless this shithole is sinking. And as we are twenty miles from the sea and this ship is made of bricks and mortar that’s highly fucking unlikely,” he yelled.

“Ok you fucking retards, back to the barracks!” Spike Jones ordered.

HMS Chelmsford recruit school was now a cold, windswept, wasteland. The four red brick blocks set out in an H formation was deserted except for two cabins occupied by the eight recruits. The four brawny Leading Recruits, Spike Jones, James (Jimmy) Lovejoy, Jean Burgess, and Billy Marron shared a cabin at one end of A Block and the four weaklings, recruits Michael Nyland, David Holliday, Brian (Polly) Perkins, and Ray (Mary) Maine, shared a cabin at the other end. A separate small building comprising a galley with an adjoining mess and wet bar (the ‘wets’) stood alone at the bottom of the H and another separate block held the Instructors Study, Divisional Office, Regulating Office and the Duty Instructor’s (DI) cabin, currently occupied by an already intoxicated PO White.

The wets was only allowed to be used by leading recruits and the senior graduating class and was only opened for two hours in the evenings and afternoons and on weekends but Spike had already pilfered the key from the Regulating Office and he and his cohorts were drinking beer, smoking and engaging in that time old Naval tradition, bitching.

“What a load of bollocks! The whole fucking Navy is on leave, home with their families and we’ve gotta look after this shithole and those four grommets!” Jimmy Lovejoy whined.

“Six weeks of boredom, cleanos (cleaning stations) and fucking pussers scran (navy rations)!” chimed in Jean Burgess.

“The cunts have even cut off the heat to the other blocks and all the phones are disconnected except the one in the DI cabin,” whinged Billy Marron.

“Well at least we won’t have to worry about Knocker drilling us, morning PT, or fucking locker inspections,” Jimmy chimed in.

“Stop your bitching! We can have six weeks or boredom or we can have six weeks of fun!” Spike cut them off.

“We’ve got four grommets to torment, the keys to the boozer, and the place to ourselves. I’m sure we can think of plenty to keep us amused.”

The four leading recruits had been in the Navy for three months and had not even seen a ship yet, yet they thought of themselves as salty. They wore the standard dress-of-the-day for the period, dungaree trousers tucked into black gaiters, spit-polished black boots, blue cotton shirts and polished black belts. The red lanyards around their necks signified their badge of office. Their ambition was to be ‘gunners’ and they were looking forward to forthcoming sea postings. Gunners in the Navy at the time were the specialist seamen and weapon handlers; a job that didn’t require much in the way of brains, just brawn and an ability to blindly follow orders.

The four ‘grommets’ cowering in their cabin at the end of H block had been selected for what was considered ‘shiny-pants’, ‘inky-fingered’, ‘day-hand’ jobs.

Michael Nyland wanted to be a Writer or ‘scribe’, Ray (Mary) Maine and Brian (Polly) Perkins wanted to be Officers Stewards or ‘bed-making beagles’, and David (Doc) Holliday wanted to be a cook or ‘tucker-fucker’.

It was not unusual in the navy for men to have female nicknames if their last names were associated with famous women. Examples were: Mary Maine, Dolly Gray, Polly Perkins, Daisy May, Pansy Potter, Connie Francis and the list goes on.

The leading recruits turned to bitching about the Wrens, how in their opinion they got preferential treatment. And of course how they would like to shag them. None of them had had sex from the time they had arrived at the establishment and their hormones were raging.

“If I got my hands on some Wrens I would make them be my slaves; they’d have to do all the shitty jobs that I’m forced to do,” Jean Burgess slurred.

As the lads got drunker, they became more boisterous, and their ramblings more preposterous.

“Yeah! How good would that be! Getting our own bevy of Wrens to do our bidding, to wait on us and do all our shit duties,” Billy Marron guffawed.

Spike Jones was sitting sullenly listening to his mates ramble; he was germinating an idea. The sailors got drunker and their conversations more banal but Spike had tuned out. He suddenly interjected.

“Shut up for a minute. I got a great idea. What if we could have a few Wrens to do our bidding?” he mused.

“What the fuck?” Jimmy inquired.

“We don’t have to do fuck all for the next six weeks right? We’ve already decided the grommets are going to do all the work anyway. But what if we really tormented those retards? What if we made them dress like Wrens tomorrow and took the piss out them all day?” Spike proposed.

“Oh fuck that would so funny,” Jimmy howled.

“But how the fuck do we get them to do that?” he asked.

“I have a plan,” Spike smirked and went on to relate his scheme to the others.

“Oh fuck that is just choice! That will really put those losers in their place!” Jean Burgess laughed and let loose a beery burp.

The door to the grommets cabin burst open and the four leading recruits burst in carrying a case of beer and a bottle of rum. The grommets cowered on their bunks wondering what fresh hell their nemeses had planned for them.

“Don’t worry shipmates, we ain’t here to give youse a ball-blacking or roust your cabin. We figure we’re all in this shitfight together, left to look after this shit hole, so we might as well have what fun we can,” Spike Jones announced to the terrified recruits.

“Come on, get out some ashtrays and grab some grog; it’s time to party!” Billy Marron slurred drunkenly.

At first trepidatious, the recruits were soon seduced by the offer of free beer and rum and soon they were all drinking and carousing.

“Fuck me lads, you ain’t so bad. There’s no reason we can’t get along,” a drunken Jimmy Lovejoy announced, and they clinked bottles and toasted each other.

Eventually, when the grommets had had a few drinks, Spike Jones steered the conversation to bitching about the Wrens.

By this time the four recruits, who hadn’t had a drink for three months and were as drunk as their leaders, had let down their guard and considered themselves all chums.

“Yeah! Why do those recruit Wrens get to go home on leave and we pull this shit duty,” Dave Holliday burped.

Doc was a red faced, rotund, young man who had trouble with any physical activity and was on ‘backward PT’ and ‘backward swimming’ as were all of the grommets. Being a potential tucker-fucker, his roly-poly physique was tolerated as most cooks in the navy were fat and as the saying went: ‘never trust a skinny cook’.

“I’ve got an idea! Why don’t we go on a panty raid over at the Wrenery? Who’s going to stop us? Petty Officer ‘I’m pissed as a parrot’ White?” Spike Jones proclaimed.

“Fucking great idea! I’m in!” Polly Perkins grinned and upended his bottle of beer and chugged away.

Mick Nyland saw the sly grins exchanged between the leading recruits and although he suspected this jolly was going to end bad for the grommets he knew there was nothing he could do to challenge the other seven drunken sailors.

It was cold and dark, the first snows starting fall, as the eight recruits, swaddled in their greatcoats, staggered across the parade ground, out of the recruit school, and across the road to the Wrenery. Spike Jones being the fittest and most able to handle his beer climbed the chain link fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. One of the duties the hook rope party was to inspect each block every day to ensure there was no storm damage, leakage from frozen or broken water pipes, and to generally square away the building. Spike had the key to the Wrens quarters but not the key to the gate in the surrounding fence.

But now he was on the inside of the fence he was able to kick open the double gates that opened outwards with little difficulty.

“Come on me hearties; let’s steal some knickers!” he drank deeply from a bottle of rum offered to him by Billy Marron and head down into the wind, led his band of miscreants to the Wrenery.