Introduction by William Alan Smith
A ‘bunting tosser’ is the nickname of a Royal Navy signalman¹ – recognised by the crossed red flags on the right arm of his uniform. I served from May 1943 to July 1946 as a Royal Navy ‘bunting tosser’. In that time I served on board a first world war destroyer on an Atlantic convoy, on a motor launch during D-Day and on a Flower Class Corvette in the Mediterranean. In between these stints I was also based at the signal stations on Malta and Gibraltar.
My primary task was communicating via visual signalling utilizing 1 inch to 20 inch aperture lamps. The smaller sized signalling hand-held instruments had apertures of 1, 4 and 6 inches; the most used instrument was the 10 inch fixed lamp used by all ships and shore stations.
We were also taught other means of communicating such as semaphore, which could be with either manual or mechanical apparatus – the former being the well known two handheld flags, usually coloured red and yellow, which are positioned around the body to indicate a number or letter of the alphabet. The mechanized version employs a machine much like a windmill with two arms operated from a lower miniaturized version controlled by the signalman.
Lastly, there are the flags and pennants. Flags of various shape, colour and size represent the alphabet. Pennants represent the numerals, and are thin and tapered about one and a half times the length of the flag and come in different designs and colours. A typical example would be each ship is in a certain class designated by a letter followed by two or three pennants that indicate her own special number. L42 would indicate a Hunt Class destroyer number 42. If making a signal to that respective ship, her call sign is hoisted first followed by the instruction, generally in code as a means of shortening the message. Spelling out the instruction in plain language would probably take up all spaces available on the mast, making it fairly unwieldy and complicated.
My primary task was communicating via visual signalling utilizing 1 inch to 20 inch aperture lamps. The smaller sized signalling hand-held instruments had apertures of 1, 4 and 6 inches; the most used instrument was the 10 inch fixed lamp used by all ships and shore stations.
We were also taught other means of communicating such as semaphore, which could be with either manual or mechanical apparatus – the former being the well known two handheld flags, usually coloured red and yellow, which are positioned around the body to indicate a number or letter of the alphabet. The mechanized version employs a machine much like a windmill with two arms operated from a lower miniaturized version controlled by the signalman.
Lastly, there are the flags and pennants. Flags of various shape, colour and size represent the alphabet. Pennants represent the numerals, and are thin and tapered about one and a half times the length of the flag and come in different designs and colours. A typical example would be each ship is in a certain class designated by a letter followed by two or three pennants that indicate her own special number. L42 would indicate a Hunt Class destroyer number 42. If making a signal to that respective ship, her call sign is hoisted first followed by the instruction, generally in code as a means of shortening the message. Spelling out the instruction in plain language would probably take up all spaces available on the mast, making it fairly unwieldy and complicated.
A code-book exists to explain the actual name of the L42. Also, certain positions on the mast have priorities of importance. A rope down the leading edge that has a copper Inglefield clip both top and bottom holds the flags together. All the individual flags are clipped together by means of offering the opening of the jaws of each clip to each other like a Chinese puzzle fastener. The flags are made from bunting and tossed around in the process of hoisting, hence the name ‘bunting tosser’.
The clips are virtually infallible as a fastener but the trouble may come in the interest of speed. Someone is waiting holding the halyard (rope that takes them aloft) ready to hoist, may do it prematurely and the flags are separated. The person responsible for reclaiming the halyard is the one who let it go and it is not a pleasant task retrieving them. Nobody is eager to admit to this as it meant that the man has to be hoisted aloft in a bosun’s chair – often a rather hairy experience!
In an emergency a signalman may be required to stand in for a WT (wireless telegraphist) rating and therefore in training a short course is taken concerning receiving and sending Morse code by wireless with headphones and Morse key.
When one considers that in World War Two an “A” flag meant ‘enemy aircraft approaching’ or “T” meant ‘torpedoes approaching”, it was all a bit ludicrous as the flags would hardly have enough time to be hoisted before either the plane had attacked or the torpedo had struck home! The only consolation was it was a general signal to all ships for those who cared to read it. A lot of these flag signals were more suitable for sailing ships and outdated for the later modern powered ships.
When my training was completed at HMS Royal Arthur the Gunnery Instructor Thacker (a great guy by the way) was sending us out to war and his last remarks were, “The instructors here are informed not to preach hate but all I ask is that each one of you nail a bastard for Thacker!” Hence my shout on D-Day as we endeavoured to nail a sniper or snipers in a church tower in Courselles (off Juno Beach) was, “That’s for Thacker!” with our three-pounder gun.
The reason this narrative came to light is in part due the continual prompting over the years from my youngest son, Craig, to learn more of my exploits during the Second World War, but also my own interest in writing about my experiences. He was mostly interested in the more personal side, as to what was one’s thoughts on particular occasions such as “What did you think when the D-Day invasion was delayed for 24 hours?” Consideration is welcomed concerning the delay of approximately 60 years between action and writing. How we wish that the memories had been recorded shortly after the war, although they are quite distinct at present, the finer detail takes some dredging up and a certain amount of searching is required. If certain facts or events are incorrectly listed here it is due to the fact they occurred over half a century ago!
Most recordings and books I have read regarding naval life during the war often fail to pay full respects to the conditions prevailing at the time, such as the awful conditions experienced on Atlantic or Arctic convoys; or the misery of a four hour watch - often begun and finished in wet gear (owing to lack of on-board drying facilities); or the major task to get out of your mess and up to your duty station on time; the pounding of colossal waves against the ship and the aching of the body in just trying to keep your balance; not to mention the seasickness (if one suffers from such a disability) and the results of seasickness. Then back to a mess with a thousand and one odours, often in a state of complete and utter chaos, where your hammock after four days at sea is damp from the environment of wet clothing trying to dry and in some extremes, water sloshing over the mess deck. Within 15 minutes of being on watch your gear will have been penetrated by the waves piling on board during the worst conditions that the Atlantic can offer in winter.
The difference of what matelots² think of their respective ships is very interesting. The destroyer HMS Vesper (D55), being an old ship, appeared to be in a constant battle with the sea – every rivet and plate straining its utmost to survive, groaning and twisting, not a ship to be loved at the best of times, rather inadequate for the task she was set, but if she failed, we were lost and it came close quite often.
It was totally different on the motor launch (ML) 303, a coastal forces boat. Small, with a crew of 23³, she was loved by all. Where as the Vesper was dark and dank, the ML was a happy and bright ship and everybody felt low when she was damaged in Normandy. The majority of the crew were HO (hostilities only) with only one long service man aboard, the coxswain. The officers were RNVR weekend sailors before the war but with a humanistic outlook that was appreciated by all the crew.
HMS Stevenstone (L16), a Type III Hunt Class Escort Destroyer, captained by a four-ringed RNVR officer (one of a very few if I remember correctly) was a first class ship but swung around the anchor most of the time forming part of a cordon around Le Havre when she should have been better employed elsewhere. It was a pleasure to have served aboard her.
Now to a real sea boat – HMS Vetch (K132) – a Flower Class Corvette. These ships steal your heart. They appear to have a romance with everything and everyone - she danced with the sea, lifted her skirts to the winds, flirted with her crew and was good friends with Neptune, who dallied with her now and then. All one needed was a good stomach and you were home and dried to the next port. Saying goodbye to her was most difficult. Bon voyage lovely.
In conclusion it must be mentioned that nobody was supposed to keep a diary during the war – it was a punishable offence to do so – and I was aware of only one rating that bothered, although a few officers contravened the order. My memories are sustained by big events such as D-Day, the great storm off Normandy and the fall of Cherbourg, being typical as a means of progression.
The clips are virtually infallible as a fastener but the trouble may come in the interest of speed. Someone is waiting holding the halyard (rope that takes them aloft) ready to hoist, may do it prematurely and the flags are separated. The person responsible for reclaiming the halyard is the one who let it go and it is not a pleasant task retrieving them. Nobody is eager to admit to this as it meant that the man has to be hoisted aloft in a bosun’s chair – often a rather hairy experience!
In an emergency a signalman may be required to stand in for a WT (wireless telegraphist) rating and therefore in training a short course is taken concerning receiving and sending Morse code by wireless with headphones and Morse key.
When one considers that in World War Two an “A” flag meant ‘enemy aircraft approaching’ or “T” meant ‘torpedoes approaching”, it was all a bit ludicrous as the flags would hardly have enough time to be hoisted before either the plane had attacked or the torpedo had struck home! The only consolation was it was a general signal to all ships for those who cared to read it. A lot of these flag signals were more suitable for sailing ships and outdated for the later modern powered ships.
When my training was completed at HMS Royal Arthur the Gunnery Instructor Thacker (a great guy by the way) was sending us out to war and his last remarks were, “The instructors here are informed not to preach hate but all I ask is that each one of you nail a bastard for Thacker!” Hence my shout on D-Day as we endeavoured to nail a sniper or snipers in a church tower in Courselles (off Juno Beach) was, “That’s for Thacker!” with our three-pounder gun.
The reason this narrative came to light is in part due the continual prompting over the years from my youngest son, Craig, to learn more of my exploits during the Second World War, but also my own interest in writing about my experiences. He was mostly interested in the more personal side, as to what was one’s thoughts on particular occasions such as “What did you think when the D-Day invasion was delayed for 24 hours?” Consideration is welcomed concerning the delay of approximately 60 years between action and writing. How we wish that the memories had been recorded shortly after the war, although they are quite distinct at present, the finer detail takes some dredging up and a certain amount of searching is required. If certain facts or events are incorrectly listed here it is due to the fact they occurred over half a century ago!
Most recordings and books I have read regarding naval life during the war often fail to pay full respects to the conditions prevailing at the time, such as the awful conditions experienced on Atlantic or Arctic convoys; or the misery of a four hour watch - often begun and finished in wet gear (owing to lack of on-board drying facilities); or the major task to get out of your mess and up to your duty station on time; the pounding of colossal waves against the ship and the aching of the body in just trying to keep your balance; not to mention the seasickness (if one suffers from such a disability) and the results of seasickness. Then back to a mess with a thousand and one odours, often in a state of complete and utter chaos, where your hammock after four days at sea is damp from the environment of wet clothing trying to dry and in some extremes, water sloshing over the mess deck. Within 15 minutes of being on watch your gear will have been penetrated by the waves piling on board during the worst conditions that the Atlantic can offer in winter.
The difference of what matelots² think of their respective ships is very interesting. The destroyer HMS Vesper (D55), being an old ship, appeared to be in a constant battle with the sea – every rivet and plate straining its utmost to survive, groaning and twisting, not a ship to be loved at the best of times, rather inadequate for the task she was set, but if she failed, we were lost and it came close quite often.
It was totally different on the motor launch (ML) 303, a coastal forces boat. Small, with a crew of 23³, she was loved by all. Where as the Vesper was dark and dank, the ML was a happy and bright ship and everybody felt low when she was damaged in Normandy. The majority of the crew were HO (hostilities only) with only one long service man aboard, the coxswain. The officers were RNVR weekend sailors before the war but with a humanistic outlook that was appreciated by all the crew.
HMS Stevenstone (L16), a Type III Hunt Class Escort Destroyer, captained by a four-ringed RNVR officer (one of a very few if I remember correctly) was a first class ship but swung around the anchor most of the time forming part of a cordon around Le Havre when she should have been better employed elsewhere. It was a pleasure to have served aboard her.
Now to a real sea boat – HMS Vetch (K132) – a Flower Class Corvette. These ships steal your heart. They appear to have a romance with everything and everyone - she danced with the sea, lifted her skirts to the winds, flirted with her crew and was good friends with Neptune, who dallied with her now and then. All one needed was a good stomach and you were home and dried to the next port. Saying goodbye to her was most difficult. Bon voyage lovely.
In conclusion it must be mentioned that nobody was supposed to keep a diary during the war – it was a punishable offence to do so – and I was aware of only one rating that bothered, although a few officers contravened the order. My memories are sustained by big events such as D-Day, the great storm off Normandy and the fall of Cherbourg, being typical as a means of progression.
¹ Other names were ‘bunts’ or ‘sigs’.
² Slang for shipmates.
³ Normal ML compliment was 17 (3 Officers and 14 men), however, as the ML often spent days away from port, this compliment rose to 23.
² Slang for shipmates.
³ Normal ML compliment was 17 (3 Officers and 14 men), however, as the ML often spent days away from port, this compliment rose to 23.