Flying codebooks, 'Maltese Guts' and a lucky Tombola
The Chief Yeoman would often shout questions from a signal book in his hand to the lower flag deck and I once gave a wrong, snappy reply that raised a laugh and he let fly with the book. These books weigh about seven or eight pounds as they have heavy lead covers to make them sink when tossed over the side in an emergency. I saw the book coming, ducked out of its way, and the bloke behind got the full force of the impact and passed out there and then and had to be carted off to hospital. He duly recovered and remarkably I met him on holiday in Jersey in 1952 when he approached me. We had a few jars and a chin wag that night and the company learned a few things about this particular station and the RN in general.
A rather annoying point about the navy was that whilst in Malta no effort was made to show the sailors around the island’s historic sites. Loads of cash was spent on the concert parties taking them here and there, but nothing was arranged with regards to sightseeing. As a matter of fact I lived on top of the Palace and only saw a quarter of it until after the war when I revisited the island. It was a crime to be caught inside the palace during the war and a fair number of rooms were too dark to see properly due to being totally shuttered from the outside.
There was a kind of silent animosity between the navy and the Maltese people; with both seeming to go their separate ways and meeting an average family was quite impossible.
Only one fellow on the signal station was courting a Maltese girl and he was chaperoned everywhere he went and the family came to the concert rehearsals but were very standoffish.
Of course we were far more familiar with the people who ran the “Notorious Gut” that was only about 500 yards from the Palace. The signal station overlooked it and most of the women and staff aired themselves during the early evenings on the roofs of their properties and we had cruiser scopes at our disposal that made a mole look life a half penny. So it could be said that we got to know them quite well…
Occasionally we had tea and scones with a queer called Sugar in the Bulldog Pub. This bloke was reported to be an Oxford-educated toff; these teatime intervals got the full English treatment at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon. He was also very handy with his dukes and needed to be when the matelots visited the Bulldog at night and got too much booze. He reminded me of a film star called Stewart Granger and he was also extremely proud of his English connections.
Another friendly queer was a very well dressed fellow aged around 24 who ran the Golden Hind (he was nicknamed Flash Gordon, as he reminded us of that science-fiction hero due to his shoulder-length blonde hair) with his sister who was extremely attractive! The beauty of the Golden Hind was it had a back entrance (few did) to the next alley down that could be used to evacuate “the gut” when the police had their periodical raids, blocking off entrances and exits to sections of the gut with transport vehicles and knocking hell out of all servicemen with two foot long truncheons. Lots of innocent fellows got done and the worst part was seeing the mob scrambling over the trucks with the police laying into them. One of our lads, a guy nicknamed Tubby, nearly coughed it due to a beating in one of these melees. He had 33 stitches in one cut on his head with terrible bruising to shoulders and back. In total he was hospitalised for 11 weeks, unconscious for three days. Those police were real bastards but their turn would come.
We finally got a little payback on the local police. We set up an ambush at the Golden Hind. We had about 50 blokes in on the scheme including the Royal Artillery sergeants I had met on the troop ship, other sailors, some RAF even and other assortments. A little commotion was started in the gut and as usual about 15 police arrived in their truck to be firmly beaten by the awaiting ambushers. It didn’t last too long as we didn’t want to get caught by the soon-to-follow other Gestapo. After a few heads had been knocked we scrambled out the back of the gut. It caused a right stink and I was glad to get off Malta to avoid the heat.
While at Camarata Barracks I was allocated a job in the Fleet Mail Office that was most interesting. Run by a leading hand, there were about seven or eight ordinary hands sorting and re-addressing mail to various ships and establishments.
The office was very dirty and dusty, and the leading hand was an alcoholic who turned up for about 30 minutes a day always three sheets to the wind. His tipple was mostly a Maltese wine called “Ambeet” that was the cheapest in Malta. I think it was the last pressing and cost 1½ pennies per bottle – I remember it having the equivalent taste to double vinegar and dirty socks, which dissolved silver. Possibly due to this fine wine the leading hand suffered something terrible from carbuncles and boils.
My only requirement whilst in this mail office was to open magazines such as the London Illustrated, Picture Post and a host of others. All the magazines and enclosed letters were destroyed; they were on a very cheap postal rate provided they were banded around the middle only. They were considered too much trouble to re-address, but inside people often tucked all sorts of goodies like toothpaste, combs, two-shilling pieces or half a crown occasionally and one had to get rid of the stuff. So Camarata Barracks became my pitch for selling on these goodies.
Toothpaste proved difficult to sell, as dental hygiene was not of major importance to many sailors at the time. I found Kiwi’s and South African’s were the best customers. A lot of the fellows took it on tick until payday that never seemed to arrive or they were drafted off the island – the perils of a business life, but overall it kept me in beer. I called my takings from this adventure “The Gut Benevolent Fund”…
It was also common for people in the mail office to read aloud any letters that passed through from passionate writers but it shows the level that one reaches on occasion.
I have never worked in a more hilarious place in my life; it was a laugh a minute and one may start off with high and mighty principles but after a week one is sucked down into the quagmire and you become one of the deranged too.
Letters were returned to the writer’s relatives only when ships had gone down without any comment providing an address was available but held for a number of weeks before doing so to avoid confusion and to allow any official communication to reach loved ones.
The most peculiar thing about this set up was it was run by ordinary ratings with nobody in charge except the drunk leading hand and a great deal of work was completed which I can only put down to the loyalty of the respective ratings employed. I never saw any officer’s mail so I presume they had a different set up to the lower deck to avoid contamination...
This episode only lasted about six weeks until I was drafted to Palace Tower Signal Station – another “comic cuts” posting. They promised any re-addressed mail for me would be sent to FMO Sydney, Far East, but I continued to be invited to their once a month piss ups at the Vernon Club.
One of the pastimes in Malta was to visit the Vernon Club. This was a large enterprise where one could play snooker and darts or join in on a tombola etc. My mate Fletcher and I visited the Vernon Club one Saturday. There were hundreds of blokes from different services playing tombola sitting cross-legged all over the club, on the dance floor, outside terraces and bars where it was relayed to them over a Tannoy. On this occasion I won the tombola jackpot of £42 - one hell of a lot of money in those days. Fletch and I had a good drink that night I can tell you!
When winning a sum like that, which would keep Fletch and I going for two months if we went steady, it was policy to take £2 and collect the rest the next day, as you were a marked man. Lads who were visiting Malta or passing through were not aware of this and were often waylaid on their way back to their ships. They would be informed of this but the usual answer was “Bugger that – give me the money!” due to lack of trust.
Another pastime was taking a job as a stagehand for the concert parties. This involved moving the hampers of stage props and setting up the stage for the show. The shows were held at various depots, airfields, radio stations, Royal Artillery stations, RAF bases etc and it could be very pleasant and comfortable where the navy was very welcome with refreshments laid on. Time was given off from normal duties to perform this work and it was handy when you were skint or needed a change.
On the “Palace” we also had six boy signallers, varying in age from 16½ to 18. These lads often joined Fletch and I on our runs into town and to concert parties. The navy had strict rules regarding these youngsters and discipline was rigid and rules were relaxed slightly provided certain people accompanied them. They still appeared to get their share of ‘jankers’, no matter who looked after them. They were a very lively bunch and always good for a laugh. Upon their 18th birthday’s they had great parties as it was considered a moment of great release – the next big steps would be promotion or getting the rum ration.
These lads shore leave was curtailed somewhat and we invariably took a few bottles back for them which they paid for - this was strictly forbidden, but we always did it. As a bunch of lads they were all top notchers. They used to report back to the “Tower” at 2300 and slip out again if there was anything good going on.
It was a queer, repeat queer, conglomeration of peculiar types on Malta, mostly centred on the concert party who forgot the real reason they were on Malta for most of the time. With reference to myself I couldn’t wait to get off the island and my chance came when a Flower Class Corvette – the HMS Vetch¹ -required a signalman urgently.
A rather annoying point about the navy was that whilst in Malta no effort was made to show the sailors around the island’s historic sites. Loads of cash was spent on the concert parties taking them here and there, but nothing was arranged with regards to sightseeing. As a matter of fact I lived on top of the Palace and only saw a quarter of it until after the war when I revisited the island. It was a crime to be caught inside the palace during the war and a fair number of rooms were too dark to see properly due to being totally shuttered from the outside.
There was a kind of silent animosity between the navy and the Maltese people; with both seeming to go their separate ways and meeting an average family was quite impossible.
Only one fellow on the signal station was courting a Maltese girl and he was chaperoned everywhere he went and the family came to the concert rehearsals but were very standoffish.
Of course we were far more familiar with the people who ran the “Notorious Gut” that was only about 500 yards from the Palace. The signal station overlooked it and most of the women and staff aired themselves during the early evenings on the roofs of their properties and we had cruiser scopes at our disposal that made a mole look life a half penny. So it could be said that we got to know them quite well…
Occasionally we had tea and scones with a queer called Sugar in the Bulldog Pub. This bloke was reported to be an Oxford-educated toff; these teatime intervals got the full English treatment at precisely four o’clock in the afternoon. He was also very handy with his dukes and needed to be when the matelots visited the Bulldog at night and got too much booze. He reminded me of a film star called Stewart Granger and he was also extremely proud of his English connections.
Another friendly queer was a very well dressed fellow aged around 24 who ran the Golden Hind (he was nicknamed Flash Gordon, as he reminded us of that science-fiction hero due to his shoulder-length blonde hair) with his sister who was extremely attractive! The beauty of the Golden Hind was it had a back entrance (few did) to the next alley down that could be used to evacuate “the gut” when the police had their periodical raids, blocking off entrances and exits to sections of the gut with transport vehicles and knocking hell out of all servicemen with two foot long truncheons. Lots of innocent fellows got done and the worst part was seeing the mob scrambling over the trucks with the police laying into them. One of our lads, a guy nicknamed Tubby, nearly coughed it due to a beating in one of these melees. He had 33 stitches in one cut on his head with terrible bruising to shoulders and back. In total he was hospitalised for 11 weeks, unconscious for three days. Those police were real bastards but their turn would come.
We finally got a little payback on the local police. We set up an ambush at the Golden Hind. We had about 50 blokes in on the scheme including the Royal Artillery sergeants I had met on the troop ship, other sailors, some RAF even and other assortments. A little commotion was started in the gut and as usual about 15 police arrived in their truck to be firmly beaten by the awaiting ambushers. It didn’t last too long as we didn’t want to get caught by the soon-to-follow other Gestapo. After a few heads had been knocked we scrambled out the back of the gut. It caused a right stink and I was glad to get off Malta to avoid the heat.
While at Camarata Barracks I was allocated a job in the Fleet Mail Office that was most interesting. Run by a leading hand, there were about seven or eight ordinary hands sorting and re-addressing mail to various ships and establishments.
The office was very dirty and dusty, and the leading hand was an alcoholic who turned up for about 30 minutes a day always three sheets to the wind. His tipple was mostly a Maltese wine called “Ambeet” that was the cheapest in Malta. I think it was the last pressing and cost 1½ pennies per bottle – I remember it having the equivalent taste to double vinegar and dirty socks, which dissolved silver. Possibly due to this fine wine the leading hand suffered something terrible from carbuncles and boils.
My only requirement whilst in this mail office was to open magazines such as the London Illustrated, Picture Post and a host of others. All the magazines and enclosed letters were destroyed; they were on a very cheap postal rate provided they were banded around the middle only. They were considered too much trouble to re-address, but inside people often tucked all sorts of goodies like toothpaste, combs, two-shilling pieces or half a crown occasionally and one had to get rid of the stuff. So Camarata Barracks became my pitch for selling on these goodies.
Toothpaste proved difficult to sell, as dental hygiene was not of major importance to many sailors at the time. I found Kiwi’s and South African’s were the best customers. A lot of the fellows took it on tick until payday that never seemed to arrive or they were drafted off the island – the perils of a business life, but overall it kept me in beer. I called my takings from this adventure “The Gut Benevolent Fund”…
It was also common for people in the mail office to read aloud any letters that passed through from passionate writers but it shows the level that one reaches on occasion.
I have never worked in a more hilarious place in my life; it was a laugh a minute and one may start off with high and mighty principles but after a week one is sucked down into the quagmire and you become one of the deranged too.
Letters were returned to the writer’s relatives only when ships had gone down without any comment providing an address was available but held for a number of weeks before doing so to avoid confusion and to allow any official communication to reach loved ones.
The most peculiar thing about this set up was it was run by ordinary ratings with nobody in charge except the drunk leading hand and a great deal of work was completed which I can only put down to the loyalty of the respective ratings employed. I never saw any officer’s mail so I presume they had a different set up to the lower deck to avoid contamination...
This episode only lasted about six weeks until I was drafted to Palace Tower Signal Station – another “comic cuts” posting. They promised any re-addressed mail for me would be sent to FMO Sydney, Far East, but I continued to be invited to their once a month piss ups at the Vernon Club.
One of the pastimes in Malta was to visit the Vernon Club. This was a large enterprise where one could play snooker and darts or join in on a tombola etc. My mate Fletcher and I visited the Vernon Club one Saturday. There were hundreds of blokes from different services playing tombola sitting cross-legged all over the club, on the dance floor, outside terraces and bars where it was relayed to them over a Tannoy. On this occasion I won the tombola jackpot of £42 - one hell of a lot of money in those days. Fletch and I had a good drink that night I can tell you!
When winning a sum like that, which would keep Fletch and I going for two months if we went steady, it was policy to take £2 and collect the rest the next day, as you were a marked man. Lads who were visiting Malta or passing through were not aware of this and were often waylaid on their way back to their ships. They would be informed of this but the usual answer was “Bugger that – give me the money!” due to lack of trust.
Another pastime was taking a job as a stagehand for the concert parties. This involved moving the hampers of stage props and setting up the stage for the show. The shows were held at various depots, airfields, radio stations, Royal Artillery stations, RAF bases etc and it could be very pleasant and comfortable where the navy was very welcome with refreshments laid on. Time was given off from normal duties to perform this work and it was handy when you were skint or needed a change.
On the “Palace” we also had six boy signallers, varying in age from 16½ to 18. These lads often joined Fletch and I on our runs into town and to concert parties. The navy had strict rules regarding these youngsters and discipline was rigid and rules were relaxed slightly provided certain people accompanied them. They still appeared to get their share of ‘jankers’, no matter who looked after them. They were a very lively bunch and always good for a laugh. Upon their 18th birthday’s they had great parties as it was considered a moment of great release – the next big steps would be promotion or getting the rum ration.
These lads shore leave was curtailed somewhat and we invariably took a few bottles back for them which they paid for - this was strictly forbidden, but we always did it. As a bunch of lads they were all top notchers. They used to report back to the “Tower” at 2300 and slip out again if there was anything good going on.
It was a queer, repeat queer, conglomeration of peculiar types on Malta, mostly centred on the concert party who forgot the real reason they were on Malta for most of the time. With reference to myself I couldn’t wait to get off the island and my chance came when a Flower Class Corvette – the HMS Vetch¹ -required a signalman urgently.
¹ Became the merchant ship Patrai in 1948; renamed Olympic Hunter in 1951; and then called Otori Maru No.18 in 1956.