The boat I was assigned to was a Fairmile Marine Motor Boat. It was one hundred and fourteen feet long with a sixteen foot beam. It carried a pom-pom antiaircraft gun forward and twin Oerlikons amidships and aft. plus a CSA smoke screen apparatus, depth charges and ack-ack mounted Lewis guns on the bridge.

She was powered by two Hall Scott ICE engines, each of six hundred and fifty horsepower, and could cruise along nicely at eighteen knots but could go faster in a pinch. At twenty-one knots she consumed ninety-five gallons of petrol each hour, and we carried about five thousand gallons of petrol.

I liked what I saw and hoped that my own boat would be like this one. We spent the first couple of days doing training runs out of the harbour and into the Channel. The first few trips were, in the main, for the benefit of the trainee gunners. I listened intently to what I was told, as I knew that my life could depend on me knowing what to do. I found the training sessions very good and helpful.

After about a week, I was told that I was ready to take a boat out on my own, and that I would have two very good stokers to help me if I got into trouble. The boat I went on had a six-pounder gun forward, I think it was that, but it was a typical naval gun and was loaded by hand. The twin Oerlikons were aft and amidships. Sticking out of the water in the Channel was part of the superstructure of a sunken vessel, and as the boats left harbour the gunners used this as a target to warm their guns.

Suddenly I heard a lot of shouting, and then got signals on the telegraph to reduce speed and felt the boat turn. We were going back into harbour. After we tied up I went on deck and learnt that one of the Oerlikons had jammed. One of the gunners had disobeyed the instruction of what to do in such a case, and had walked in front of the muzzle of gun as others were attempting to clear the stoppage.

What happened was that the gun suddenly cleared and the shell that came out sheared an ear off the stupid gunner, so we had to return to base for him to go to the sickbay. That incident caused a stir and more supervision and lectures, but we went back to see to finish the patrol.

A couple of nights later we went to sea with a full crew. I was the only trainee aboard. On the way out, the chief motor mechanic told me that we were going out on a listening patrol. He said that we were being sent out into the Channel to pick up a buoy and listen in with our hydrophones. These could pick up the sound of ship engines in the water. The chief told me not to be surprised if I saw a boat at the buoy. It would be a German E-boat, doing what we were going to do.

As we slowed down, the chief said to go on deck and have a look at what an E-boat looked like. Sure enough, a couple of hundred yards away there was a boat in motion. Over the loud hailer I heard someone shout, "Good night, old boy, good hunting." It was in perfect English. The chief told me that it was the E-boat skipper. He always did that. Must have been educated at Oxford.

Anyway, the night passed without incident and we returned to base at dawn. After two weeks of this on-the-job training, I was returned to Havant to wait to have my fate decided.

I had just got settled into the easygoing, cushy life of the camp when it was ended. One lunchtime I found a note on my bed to report to the DMA's office, so I wondered where in this world I was going to be sent. Over lunch the topic of drafting was debated, as six of us had got the notices. At the office we waited for a while, then a snotty-nosed sprog came out and said, "Come in as I call your names out." Then our names were read in alphabetical order.

The first in was Bert Aspinall. He came out and said that he was going to a base on the Gold Coast, and had to get a series of inoculations within the next few days. I was the last in, and as it turned out I was to go with Bert to a place called Takoradi, a port on the Gold Coast and just north of the Equator. Had this come six months earlier I would have loved the posting abroad in the sunshine, but not now, for this area was known as "the white man's grave."

I asked the sprog about who detailed me for this posting, and he said that he had. He said that he had been given a list of postings and had to find men for them. That got my back up, for here was a snot-nosed kid trying to send me to the tropics. During the ensuing argument, the DMA himself came in and intervened.

He saw my medal ribbon and said, "You should be used to the tropics, for I see you have been abroad." I then saw my one and only chance of getting out of the posting.

"Yes," I said, "I spent time in the Middle East and have had the various inoculations for the various tropical diseases. The last one I had whilst in Palestine had a bad effect on me that put me in hospital for a while. If I have these inoculations that are needed for this posting, and they have a bad effect again, I will not be fit to travel and the draft will be one man short."

"All right," the DMA said, "you are off this draft on medical grounds, but you won't miss the next one."

When I got back to the mess, Bert was elated at his posting and asked where I was going. I had to tell another lie to cover up the lies I told the DMA, and said that I was only a reserve and would be on the next postings.

A couple of days later I got the usual note to go to the DMA. This time he was there, and he said, "I have a posting for you. You are to pick up an RML boat based at Kirkwall in Scapa Flow." I sensed that he was laughing and had got his revenge. Scapa Flow was way up north of Scotland. It was the naval base of naval bases. It was the place that a U-boat had penetrated and sunk the Royal Oak, a big battleship, while she was at anchor.

So I thought "you've goofed, Les, you've jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire." I said thanks to the DMA for the good posting, and he just gave me an inane grin as though to say, "just wait till you get there." Back in the mess I told Bert and he said, "You should have come with me to the warm, sunny weather." Anyway, I left camp before he did.

On the Thursday morning I got all my papers and left the camp for London to get the train north. I had been routed to travel up the east coast, but I decided to go up the west coast and then drop off at Stockport for at least a night. At the enquiry office I learned that I would have to change trains at Crewe, then again at Darlington and from there to a place called Thurso.

Eventually I arrived in Thurso, and what a place it was. Pitch black, deserted streets greeted me and after a while I was able to locate the naval establishment, where I slept the night. Next morning I got the boat to go to Kirkwall.

First, I had to be cleared, and so went aboard an old liner that was used for this purpose. It was a Union Castle Line ship called the Dunluce Castle. When I presented my papers in the Master at Arms office, I was told that they were not in order and put in the brig, where I stayed until late afternoon. It turned out that the photograph of me in my paybook had not been franked and they thought it could be a phony. When the problem had been solved, I was released and was taken by boat to Kirkwall.

I stopped a chief petty officer and asked him where 497 was tied up. It turned out that he was from Liverpool and hadn't been on leave for some time, so he was eager for news. Finally, I arrived at what was to be my home for the next couple of years. She was a Fairmile Marine Motor Launch similar to the ones in the training flotilla at Weymouth, only this one had a shed-like structure aft of the coach deck. This, I later learnt, was the sickbay and the boat was a Motor Rescue Launch known as RML 497.

The coxswain happened to be on deck and told me to come aboard and got a rating to get my dear. In his cabin I met the motor mechanic whom I was relieving. He was surprised that I got there so quick. If only I'd known, I could have spent a week in Stockport.

After checking my papers, he took me aft to meet the two officers. The skipper was a Lieutenant Royal. Jimmy the One was a sublieutenant who had yet to grow up. This interview lasted about half an hour, and then I went forward to meet the crew. The crew consisted of the coxswain, the radio operator, the sick berth attendant, two gunners and eight seamen.

The coxswain, or "Swain" as he was called, came from Dundee and was a time-serving man who had the "rum rats," meaning that he was addicted to rum. Another Scot on the crew was Barney Hedridge. He also came from Dundee and didn't like Swain at all.

The two gunners were Taffey Evans from Wales and Chick Henderson from London. Among the rest of the crew, there was Ray Hodgson, Bungy Williams, Paddy Swann, Reg Thaley, and Vic Powell - the rest, I forget.

My stokers were my main interest. Biff Fenton came from Lancashire, and he was a typical farmer's boy. Monty Hale was just the opposite, he hailed from Gloucester. On the whole, the crew was efficient and friendly. I didn't care for Swain, though as he was too fond of his rum, but he was due to be relieved.

The next day I spent in the engine room with the stokers and the chap I was relieving, although he couldn't get off the boat quick enough as he hated the base. I learnt from Swain that our duties were varied, as we were used to tow targets for the fighter planes that were based on the Flow, as well as general patrols and air and sea rescue patrols. This stay in Kirkwall only lasted about a month before we were transferred to a new base in North Devon, a place called Appledore.

**

The day we left, Scapa was stormy and we had to sail across the Pentland Firth. Here it was always rough water, as it was the meeting place of seven oceanic currents and crossing this was the only time I was seasick in my whole life. From there we went to Moray Firth and on to Inverness, where we spent the night.

Next morning we took on a load of petrol, entered the Caledonian Canal and sailed through the lochs to Oban. We had a stop at a place called Fort William, and here we tied up for the night. The boat was the centre of attention, for I'm sure the locals didn't know there was a war on. While we were there, a lad came and asked if we would like some eggs and fresh milk, and in exchange his dad would like some rum and his mother wanted butter.

The trade was to take the next morning, before we sailed. Barney decided to do the trading. They gave us a couple of dozen eggs and a big jug of milk, which turned out to be skimmed and so Barney got his own back. He changed the wrappers on the butter and margarine and gave them the margarine, then we set sail. I often wondered if they ever got mad when they found out they had been given margarine for butter.

We sailed for Oban to get supplies and petrol. As we left the canal, we were able to travel at a faster speed and for quite a while I got the skipper to travel at top speed, in order to clean the engines after so long at a slow speed. As we entered Oban harbour, we got the signal to reduce speed, but as it turned out this was not possible.

The throttles could not be closed, owing to the fact that the "butterflies" on the carburetors were frozen. I told the skipper to turn around and give me time to break the ice on the butterflies. To do this we had to use a piece of wood as a punch. Anyway, it worked and we were able to dock safely. The skipper came down to see for himself as it had never happened before, so he said.

When we tied up, the base mechanic came aboard to see if we needed help. The skipper then asked if what I told him was true. The mechanic told him that it always happened during a prolonged run at high speed, and that what I had done was the only thing that could have been done.

We spent the night at a little island just south of Oban. We had a helluva job tying up, as there was a strong offshore wind. It took a long time to moor the boat, but we did it without any damage. After supper some of us went ashore. There was nothing there at all, but we eventually found a "pub." It was the most unusual pub I had ever seen.

There was one room, and it was a cave. The front of the cave had had a wall built to enclose it. All the writing was in Gaelic and the locals all spoke Gaelic. How the long the beer had been there nobody knew, but it certainly was potent for after a couple of pints we all went back aboard and slept soundly. In fact, it was the best night's sleep I'd had for a long time.

Next morning we set sail, and when at sea the skipper told us that we were going to Larne, a port north of Belfast. During the trip the skipper was on the bridge most of the time, as was I. We talked a lot on equal terms and I really got to know him. He had been at Dieppe as a skipper of an LCP and had had a rough time. Because of what he did in the raid, he was mentioned in dispatches, promoted to Lieutenant and given his own command. He told me that we were eventually going to be based in North Devon and would get plenty of sea time in.

Larne was a small fishing port that had been invaded by the Navy. It was a quiet place, as I found out when I went ashore. If it hadn't been for the blackout it would have been hard to realize that there was a war on. It was here that I had my first glass of Guinness. Not being a drinking man, two of us went off in search of fish and chips. We managed to find a place and boy, they tasted good.

I was back aboard early, for I wanted to get a good night's sleep in. Next morning we took on supplies, food and petrol and set sail. As we left the harbour I saw that the skipper was writing a verse from his Bible, and then he had "Sparks" send the verse to the Naval Officer-in-Charge via the Aldis lamp using Morse code. The skipper knew his Bible well, and he told me that each time he left harbour he always sent an appropriate text from the Bible to the NOIC.

He then made it known that we would be spending the night in Holyhead, which was a big port on the island of Anglesey, North Wales. It was to be about a twelve-hour trip, and that was why we left at the crack of dawn. To me it was a very monotonous trip across the Irish Sea, and most of the time I spent in my cabin writing to my sweet one at home.

When one was in passage like this, the crew was split into two watches, one on duty and one below decks. Those below decks spent their time doing what they wished. Most of them slept whilst off watch and, of course, ate. The favourite snack was two pieces of toast with a slice of fried Spam in between, it was good and tasty.

There was shore leave, and as I had had leave in Larne I had to stay aboard and let Swain go ashore. As we were staying for two days, I went ashore the next night. Monty and I went together and ended up in a cinema seeing a film called "The Black Swan," an Errol Flynn film of pirates sailing the Spanish Main. After the show, which finished early, we went to the pub for a drink.

What a pub this was, it was full of Allied servicemen of all nationalities. I think English was the least spoken language. Monty and I, just to be in fashion, started talking in Back Slang to confuse someone. We were asked the language, and as we didn't have shoulder flashes showing our country of origin, the barman was curious and wanted to know where we came from.

When we told him that we were English, he took the huff and walked away in disgust, so we left the joint and went back aboard. Still, it was a good night out and we had a good laugh about it all.

**

We were able to sail very early the next morning as we had taken on supplies. I had topped up my petrol tanks, as the skipper had told me that we would be travelling about two hundred miles to our new destination. We slipped our moorings at about seven in the morning and sailed south.

The crew had been organized into watches. I had arranged with my stokers to do hours about because of the noise of the engines, so I took a turn and we did one hour on and two off, which worked good. Once at sea, the skipper had the coxswain and I aft in his cabin and briefed us on where we were going.

We were to be based at a place called Appledore, a small town at the mouth of the River Taw. The nearest town of any size was Bideford. Appledore had been in existence for a long time, and had had a shipyard that was supposed to have built ships for Sir Francis Drake's fleet. They were now building Motor Torpedo Boats and Motor Gun Boats.

All we could be told was that the river had a seven knot current and that we would be moored to a buoy in the river. Due to the rise and fall of the tide, there would be no land moorings. By mooring to a buoy, we would be able to put to sea at a moment's notice irrespective of the state of the tide.

We were fortunate in that we had good weather to sail in, for the water was reasonably calm. The daylight passed, and when darkness came we were still on the go. In fact, some of the crew were beginning to wonder if the skipper had lost his way.

At about ten o'clock at night we ran into thick fog, and that meant extra lookouts on the deck and one on the bell. In fog in the Navy, a seaman manned the ship's bell and he had to ring it twice every five seconds. After a while, the skipper had the coxswain put a lookout at the bows. He had the lookout lie down on the bull ring and told him to listen out for the sound of a heavy bell clanging. This, he said, would be a Trinity House Bell Buoy located in Barnstaple Bay. When we found it, we would tie up to it until daylight.

It took about half an hour to find it. It showed what a good navigator the skipper was. When we tied up it was about eleven thirty, and except for the deck watch we all went to bed to try and sleep till daylight, but with the clanging of that big bell on the buoy sleep was hard to come by.

Early the next morning we sailed into Appledore and picked up our mooring. The skipper had a "talk" with the Naval Officer-in-Charge via the Aldis signal lamp, and then waited for the flood tide so that we could go along the jetty to take on supplies and for the skipper to go and meet the NOIC.

We had a few hours at the jetty, and a lot of people came to see the 497. We tried to be friendly with them, but were not able to answer many of their questions. When the skipper came back aboard, we cast off and went to our mooring in midstream.

After our midday meal, the coxswain and I were called aft for a conference with the skipper. He told us that as soon as arrangements could be made with the boatyard, we would be going in for a refit. As the boat would be the responsibility of the boatyard, there would be no need for any of the crew to live aboard, so we would all go on leave at the same time. All personal items would be taken off, as were the guns and ammunition. All this would be stowed in the boatyard.

The Customs man came aboard to check us out. Our stock of rum was locked away at the marine camp, and our stock of cigarettes had been shared among the crew. As we had more than our allowance we had to pay duty, which we did the night before we went on leave. I had written to Wyn and told her that I would be home for two weeks' leave.

As I was leaving the ship the next morning, the Customs man came again. I had so much stuff that I thought that was it, I was done for.

"Let me help you," he said. "I'm going into Bideford, so I'll give you a lift."

He carried one of my bags, the one with the rum and cigarettes. On the way to the station we talked about things in general. I told him that prior to the Navy I was a policeman, and he told me that I ought to meet the village policeman for he was a nice fellow.

After we said goodbye I breathed a sigh of relief, as I had got away with murder, so I thought. When I next saw the customs man, he asked if I had had enough cigarettes to last the leave and if my friends had enjoyed the rum. So, I thought that this chap was no mug and I didn't tempt him again.

Mail was hard to come by. In the Navy, when afloat, all mail was addressed to the ship and c/o the General Post Office in London. Only they knew where the ship was, and whether it be in home waters or foreign waters, London was the clearinghouse. So when one was on passage, the mail was held up until you reached your destination. Then you had to wait for it to catch up with you. I had not had any mail since before leaving Kirkwall, so I didn't know what was going on.

I was able to mail letters at each of the stops we made, but because of strict censorship I was unable to let Wyn know where I was going or what I was doing. When we got to know that we were going on leave, there was no time to tell her that I was coming.

At Bideford we had to get a taxi to Appledore, as the bus did not run very often. At the boat yard we saw 497, she had been repainted and looked good. As the tide was on the flood, we had to wait for high tide to launch her. While waiting, we got all our gear from the stores and stacked it on the quayside to load it aboard.

Much to my surprise, the coxswain was already aboard and had victualled the boat. At high tide, the boat was brought to the dockside and we loaded her up as far as possible, and when the officers came aboard we went out to midstream and tied up to our buoy. The rest of the day was spent in getting the boat ready to resume patrols.

That night the coxswain told me that he was putting in for a transfer. That I didn't mind, for I was never exactly in love with him. He was good at his job, but he was too fond of his rum, though that was his business. He told me about his leave in Dundee. He said that when he got home, his wife was out at work and his daughter was in bed. He went into her room to see her. She asked him who he was and he told her that he was her father.

"No you're not," she said, "my daddy is a Polish soldier."

I could guess how he felt at that moment. So he waited downstairs for his wife to come in. About two hours later he was woken up, and there he saw his wife and a Polish army officer. Without waiting for any explanation, he said that he put on his coat and walked out of the house and went to a service club for the rest of the night. The next morning, he went to the bank and withdrew all the money in the joint account, closed the account and caught a train to London.

In London he stayed at the Union Jack Hostel, a services club, with the money he had. He had not had a good time on leave and was now broke, with no wife, no child and no home. So he was transferring out of Coastal Forces, as he wanted to get on the big ships. A week later he was gone, and I never saw or heard of him again.

I did feel sorry for him though. Yet although it appeared that his wife was to blame, who knows the true story of the broken marriage. It must have been one of the thousands of marriages that were broken by the intervention of a foreign soldier. It made me thank my guardian angel for giving me the strength to love Wyn as I did and to be able to resist the temptations that came my way.

Before our first patrol, we had to swing the compass. This meant swinging the boat around in a complete circle and checking our compasses against a compass that was known to be accurate. This occupied most of the forenoon. After this test was completed, we had to go out on acceptance trails. This was meant to test all the moving parts aboard. The gun turret was tested, as were the guns themselves. By midafternoon the acceptance tests were completed and the boat was released by the dockyard, ready to resume patrols.

The next day we went on sort of a sightseeing patrol. We sailed down the coast, first to a place called Padstow. Here was based an RAF crash launch, and we more or less introduced ourselves to the crew to let them know that we were available to help them if the need arose. After leaving Padstow, we followed the coastline to Hartland Point, which was just off a village called Clovelly.

Somewhere ashore between Appledore and Clovelly, there was a flying field called St. Mawgens. This base was named by the United States Air Force. The planes going to and coming from the USA landed there, so it was an important place. It was reasonably safe from air raids, in fact the nearest they got to an air raid was a yellow warning.

We contacted the base by radio and received a warm welcome over the air. For the first few days that we were in contact with the base, the accents of the American operators were strange and took some getting used to, especially those with the southern drawl. Most of the planes landing from the USA were piloted by women of the Air Transport Command, and all they did was fly to the USA as passengers and then back as pilots, delivering planes for the European theatre of war.

We found out that our purpose in the area was twofold, firstly as an Air Sea Rescue Unit and secondly as a U-boat hunter. Because of the number of ships that were being sunk off the coast near the Bristol Channel, it was believed that a U-boat was operating in those waters. It was thought that it avoided detection by laying off the Cornish coast and was protected from the various detection devices by the coastline.

It was also thought that this boat was being refuelled in Cork Harbour in Ireland by the Irish. This was never proven or publicly stated, and it could have been a wild guess. I suppose the rumors were started because of the attitude of the Irish, and because tankers were never seen in the area despite it being patrolled by RAF Coastal Command planes.

We did many patrols of this area and never saw a thing, except for one day, and it was a boob by the skipper. On one lovely summer's afternoon Jimmy the One was on the bridge, as the skipper was below having a nap, and all was still aboard. Suddenly one of the lookouts shouted, "Submarine periscope off the starboard bow, sir!"

This caused a minor panic, to say the least. Jimmy found the periscope and sounded the "Action Stations" alarm. This was the first time that the crew had to do this for real. The skipper came rushing on deck saying, "What's up, Number One?" Jimmy pointed out the submarine's periscope. By this time the submarine had started to surface, and we could see part of the conning tower and the bows out of the water.

"Stand the crew down," the skipper said, "that's the P33, one of our submarines on exercise. I forgot to tell you." Then the skipper got on the PA system and spoke to the P33's Officer on Watch, and then we veered off and resumed our patrol. On the way back to base, the skipper told the crew that he was pleased with the way they had responded to the Action Stations alarm. I'm sure he was disappointed that it was not the U-boat that we had seen.

One day we got a call to go to sea, as a plane taking off from St. Mawgens for the States had gone down off Hartland Point. It was one of the few times we had to travel at top speed. On our way we passed the RAF boat from Padstow. She was coming in, as she had been first on the scene, and she had bodies on board.

We began our search of the area. We could tell that we were in the right spot by the amount of debris, and the best markers were the silver radio valves that always floated in the water after a plane crash. We stayed out all day, but found nothing.

Back in Appledore, we struck up a friendship with a fellow who worked in the shipyard and his wife. After a while, we used to go to their house at their request for supper and "enjoy the comforts of home," as his wife put it.

I had taken over the job of being the shipboard caterer, in an effort to improve the quality of the food. We were allowed to spend a certain amount of money toward the buying of provisions. At the end of the month we got a statement, and if we were in debt we had to put the money in, but if we had a credit we were allowed to spend it. The profits from our sale of duty-free cigarettes was used to supplement the catering fund.

As the family - I forget their names, so we'll call them Jim and Mary - were so good to us, and as food was severely rationed, I started a system whereby we gave them extra rations to replace the meals they made for us. It worked well, as all parties were happy and our lives were certainly enriched by their hospitality.

Christmas came and it was my first aboard. The Navy gave us a chicken for our Christmas dinner. It was a scrawny thing, so we bought a turkey and had our friends cook it for us. On Christmas Day we hoisted the chicken to the top of the masthead.

In the Navy, it is custom that on Christmas Day the junior rating wears the captain's uniform, as he is the captain for that day and the officers have to serve the meal. This day, the skipper and Jimmy decided to eat with us up forward. We had a good dinner, and as there were no emergencies we didn't have to go to see, but the town was like a graveyard. We were glad of the rest that we had over the holiday period.

One evening in the new year, after the liberty men had gone ashore, we got a signal from the Naval Officer-in-Charge to put to sea at once, as a ship had been sunk. Jimmy the One was the only officer aboard and he got into a panic. He signalled back that he didn't have a full crew aboard. The reply was to remind him of the regulations that stated that a steaming crew had to be aboard at all times, so we had to put to sea.

Once underway, we got our instructions and went to the area. Again the RAF launch had beaten us and was on its way back to its harbour. On its deck we could see boxes. When we reached the area, we saw the cargo from a ship floating around. We took aboard a few boxes and found that they contained cigarettes from the USA, and we took aboard quite a load after we were sure that there were no survivors.

Some of the cartons we hid in the petrol flat. When we got into Appledore, the tide was on the flood and so we were able to go to dock. There, we found the customs officer waiting for us to relieve us of what we had salvaged.

When the liberty men came aboard, they told us that panic stations had existed after we had sailed. The naval patrol had rounded up all the liberty men and got them ready to work, and the marines had an armed guard at the dock. The rumor was that the U-boat had been sunk and that we were bringing in prisoners of war, hence the armed guards.

By the time we got in, it was early morning and the crowd had gone home. For the next couple of days we were bombarded with questions about what happened. We gained financially from this patrol as well, for we sold the cigarettes to the crew and so boosted our mess fund.

**

The old coxswain left us when his relief came. He was a young chap about my age named Eric, and he came from Golders Green, a suburb of London. He was a very good seaman indeed, but he lacked power of command and the crew soon picked this up. They used to be given jobs to do, such as wire rope splicing, and would say, "Oh, I've never had to do that, how do you do it?"

Rather than waste time, he would do the job himself. When I tackled him about this and tried to advise him, he said, "I'd rather get the job done and know it's right the first time, rather than have to redo it." He made a rod for his own back. Despite his shortcomings, we got on well together. We had to, as we shared a cabin.

One day on patrol we lay drifting with the tide to save petrol, as we usually did. The lookout was scanning the shoreline with his binoculars when he spotted a couple among the rocks. This spit of land was known as Hartland Point. The couple were a GI and a WAAF, and I'm sure that what they were doing she couldn't tell her mother.

The lookout had a seat in the front row. I often wonder if he learnt anything from what he had seen, as we never saw the act or the actors again. I often wondered if they had known that they were under observation from the ship in the bay.

We used to be in that area on every patrol when planes were coming and going. One nice summer's day, we got a call from the RAF base telling us that the clothing of two WAAF girls had been found on the beach at Clovelly, and as the tide was out we were ordered to do a search for the bodies. We searched for a long time, as the skipper worked out mathematically where the bodies were likely to be, taking the tides into account.

We finally got a message that both girls had been wearing bright coloured swimsuits. We had all the crew on deck as lookouts. Finally, one girl was spotted floating face-down in the water. I told the skipper that I would go in the water, get the girl out and bring her to the ship. At this time we were a long way out to sea, for we couldn't see the coastline.

We got the girl on board and tried to resuscitate her, but she was too far gone. We were relieved in that we had found one of the girls, and made for Clovelly. As there was low water in the harbour, a local boat came out to take the body in for the police to handle the case. I had to go to Coroner's Court to testify as to finding the body. A verdict of misadventure was recorded, and that was that. So I thought.

About two weeks later I got notice to see the Naval Officer-in-Charge with the skipper. In his office I was read a letter from the dead girl's parents, thanking me for recovering their daughter's body. Then the NOIC shook my hand and said that my records would be endorsed with a commendation.

One day Barney, the skipper's flunky, came in and told me that the skipper wanted to see me in the ward room, so I went aft. After being told to sit down, I realized that this was to be an informal meeting. He gave me a letter to read. It was unsigned and addressed to the NOIC. In it, the writer complained that the crew of 497 were supplying a certain family with food, and that members of the crew were often seen to be going into this family's house.

After reading it, the skipper asked for an explanation. I told him that the contents were partially correct and that I was the person who took the food, and that the author of the letter was a neighbour of Jim and Mary, the recipients of the food. I told the skipper that nothing illegal had been done, and if he could wait until the next Sunday that we were in harbour, all his questions would be answered. He checked his diary and said that that was the day his parents were coming to visit him.

I suggested that he invite the NOIC and his wife, and make the visit into a "Gin Party." He thought that was a good idea and the matter was left at that. I also got his permission to invite Jim, Mary and their son aboard for the afternoon so that the crew could repay their kindness. To this he agreed, on the condition that the crew be properly dressed.

On the Saturday evening, some of the crew were ashore in the local pub, and in loud voices spoke of the next day's party aboard 497, and that the Royal family were coming to the party. The local gossips picked up the conversation and soon spread the word that the Royal Family was coming to go aboard the 497.

On the Sunday, 497 was cleaned good and proper, and all the crew were dressed and looked like sailors. When we drew alongside the jetty there was just enough water for us to get in, as the tide was on the flood and the skipper wanted to be at the jetty for as long as possible. As we tied up we saw that there were a lot of people and children, all with flags, lining the jetty.

We had a quiet laugh as we knew that the town thought the Royal Family, meaning the King and Queen, were coming aboard us, and when the NOIC and his wife and ADC came, the populace got excited. Whether or not the town knew that the skipper's surname was Royal we never knew, but they never associated the "Royal" as being his father and mother.

Shortly after, an old-type Daimler car drew up at the jetty and the skipper opened the door and saluted the occupants. This started the crowd cheering, but when the elderly woman was hugged and kissed by the skipper, all went quiet and the crowd broke up and went away.

While the skipper was on deck greeting his guests, Barney and I took the food I'd prepared and laid it out in the pantry. I was able to sneak a large box aboard, and took it into the wardroom. I laid out a large birthday cake that had the words "Happy Birthday 497" written on it, and then went forward to my cabin to entertain our guests.

Shortly afterwards, Barney came to me for the skipper wanted to see me. He introduced me to all his guests and said, "You have no need to offer any further explanation to that letter, what I see is sufficient." The NOIC said that he thought it was a good thing to do, and was a good naval booster.

The next day, the skipper sent for me and thanked me for arranging everything so that his first and last cocktail party went down well. He said that his parents thought he was a lucky man to have such a caring crew. He also said that the NOIC was very impressed, and that the letter of complaint had been dealt with in true navy fashion.

The next time the crew went ashore, nobody would talk to them, for they were sent to Coventry. We knew why, and the landlord of the pub told us that the people thought that we had deliberately hoaxed the town when the crewmen had spoken of the Royal visit on the Saturday night. We pleaded ignorance and told him that if people who listened to other people's conversations interpreted them wrong, well, they were masters of their own fate and were the ones that should be sent to Coventry.

The landlord agreed that what happened was their own doing, and he would try to undo the damage that had been done. Poor Jim and Mary, they bore the brunt of the abuse just because they were friendly to us. The incident of the letter got out, and thereafter we had to be more careful as the local bobby started paying more attention to us, as did the customs officer. I took it to be their way of getting back at us. It only lasted a month, but the incident became the biggest joke the town had suffered.

Some time later, when the skipper and I were on the bridge and having a good yap, he asked about the visit of his family and how it was that word got round that the Royal family was coming. He had wondered what was up when he saw the people there with flags, as his parents had asked him about it all. Deep down, I thought that he knew what happened and who the culprit was, but he never let on that he knew.

Still, the ship did have a happy birthday.

**

Upriver from Appledore there were a lot of American Liberty ships. These were a special type of quick-built cargo ship, built in the States and manned by men of the US Merchant Marine. They had been there a couple of months, and the crews were living a soft life. There was no doubt in our minds that these cargo ships were being hidden from prying enemy eyes, and that an invasion fleet was being assembled at out of the way ports like this one.

The residents of the town were angry at the waste of good food by the crews. The locals kept finding large tins of fruit thrown overboard, with two holes punched in the top so that the juice could be extracted, and the fruit was then thrown away. This got some of the locals mad, for as they said, didn't they know that there was a war on and that food was strictly rationed? The fruit was such that had not been seen for years such as peaches, apricots, and the like.

A deputation went to see the Mayor of Bideford. They wanted him to lodge a complaint with the American authorities about this waste of food. The mayor finally gave way and went to see the NOIC to lodge his complaint. He, in turn, contacted the senior American officer and an official complaint was made.

The result was that no more tins of fruit were found in the river, and an official system of waste collection was started. This had the desired result with the populace, as the local farmers benefitted from this new system. All food waste from that day on was collected daily and taken to local farms, where it was used as pig swill. All the farmers had to do was collect it, and so for quite a while they had free pig food. No doubt the pigs enjoyed their new diet, and I often wondered just how much of the fruit went to the pigs.

I know the ships gave away more than waste food, though. The customs officers had a whale of a time checking out the bins of pig food for contraband. After a while they stopped the regular searches, and only did raids now and again. I was friendly with the village bobby in Appledore, and he told me a lot of things. He was a good source of information, and he did enjoy smoking the Camel cigarettes that his buddy in Bideford supplied him with.

In April 1944, 497 was assigned to the Royal Marine Commando Unit that was based in Appledore. This unit was to be trained in the art of underwater demolition, and it was clear that this training was in preparation for the inevitable invasion of Europe. A training area had been prepared at a place called Tenby. Tenby was a coastal town in Pembroke, South Wales, on the coast of Carmathen Bay.

Nearby to Tenby was a small island. Our job was to transport the trainees across to Tenby, wait for them to do their stuff and bring them back again. 497 was selected for this job because we had sickbay facilities and a sick berth attendant about. We were a sort of hospital in case of injuries.

These training exercised were kept secret so as to prevent the spies from passing on information to the enemy. The whole course lasted about two months. During this time our medical services were not needed at all, but nevertheless the unit lost two of its members. They were killed when a demolition charge blew up prematurely.

We noticed that the Liberty ships that had been moored for so long up the river near Bideford had gone. The river was empty of shipping. This, plus the training of the Royal Marines over at Tenby, was a sure sign that something big was in the works. It was the invasion of Europe, which was launched on the sixth of June, and we expected to be moved from Appledore to where the action was.

**

The few days' leave that I had passed far too quickly, and I had to leave my loved ones to go back to my ship. When I got back on board there was hell to pay. It turned out that whilst on the patrol that I had missed, they got a sounding and sighting of the mysterious U-boat, so they thought. When they tried to use the forward gun, the pom-pom, the turret wouldn't work properly and I was given hell for not ensuring all was in good order when I left.

What it was, I asked the other two stokers what went wrong, and they didn't know what the motor mechanic had done to the system. The system was hydraulic and had to be bled of air every other day. When I checked the system, I found that a bleed point had been left open a bit, and the oil had escaped and was in the bilges. I was mad at my two stokers for this, and told them so in no uncertain terms. Within ten minutes I had it in good working order.

Later, Monty told me that the MM was a know-it-all and didn't listen to them. When I went to the base and saw the Engineering Officer, I told him what had happened and he wasn't very pleased about it. He told me that he had received a signal to say that I had to take my trade test for promotion. He came on the next patrol to watch me and to see my work. After the patrol, I had to take a written test. I passed the test and was promoted to Petty Officer, which meant that I had to have gold buttons and a cap badge, so I had a lot of sewing to do.

It wasn't long after this that we were told that we would be leaving the base. Reluctantly, we said goodbye to our friends and left Appledore. At sea the skipper told us that we were going to be based at Dartmouth, a place on the south coast.

One day, the skipper had the coxswain and myself in his cabin to say farewell, as he had been promoted and was going to be flotilla leader of some landing craft. He told us that his relief was due in two days. When the new skipper came, it turned out that he was an Aussie, and as far as I was concerned he never should have left Australia.

He was a foul-mouthed, ignorant devil who, I'm sure, didn't like the "Limeys." He sent for the coxswain and had a talk with him about the crew, then he sent for me. He asked me about my background. When I told him that I was a policeman before joining up he seemed pleased, for he said, "That is good, for I will be able to get to know all that goes on forward."

Then I made my biggest mistake, for I asked how he was going to get this information. "From you, of course," he said. Then I really put my foot in my mouth, for I told him that if he wanted information about the goings-on with the crew, he would have to ask them as I would not be an informant. He got angry and told me to go.

A couple of days later, Jimmy the One told me that the skipper was having a Gin Party and would be having a lot of guests aboard, and that they would require food for the guests. With the old skipper I used to prepare the food for the parties, but that was in the past. I told Jimmy that, and said that he would have to get the flunkey to do the catering.

On the day of the party the skipper sent for me and asked what food there was for the guests. I told him that I didn't know and that he would have to ask Barney Hedridge, the wardroom flunkey. He told me that Jimmy the One had assured him that a good lot of snacks would be available for his guests and that I would, as before, prepare them.

I told him that I had given that up, as it interfered with my other duties. He got mad and said that he was giving me an order to prepare food for his guests. Now the gloves were off. I stood my ground and told him that I was a mechanic, not a chef, and that he had no authority to give me such an order.

I then left, knowing full well that I would have to lay in the bed I had made. I knew that in the future I would have to work according to the book, and so I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and to speak when spoken to. One day Jimmy the One asked me why I wasn't as friendly as I used to be. I told him that I realized oil and water didn't mix, and he got the hint.

Once in Dartmouth, our first job was to escort a Yankee destroyer that had had its rear end damaged by a torpedo to Milford Haven. That was a place in South Wales, and it was a long trip. We left port and picked up the crippled ship. She was under tow by two small tugs and had no steerage. This proved to be very boring, as we were only making three knots. It was awful to travel at such a stop-and-go speed.

It took us five days to do the trip, and when we arrived at Milford we were just about out of petrol and food. Fortunately enough we were able to get some fish from a passing fisherman, otherwise we would have had no dinner that night. As soon as we had tied up the skipper bolted ashore, leaving Jimmy in charge.

Through being later than expected, the dinner was not a nice sight. Jimmy the One sent for me and started laying into me about the state of the food, and told me that I had better take over the catering if I knew what was good for me. That was the straw that broke the camel's back.

I grabbed him by the throat. I was mad. I told him that he had better lay off me, or else he would find himself pushed overboard one dark night. I then poured out all that had riled me since coming aboard, and finally told him to keep out of my engine room, where he made a mess doing model-making and never cleaning up after himself. I should think the whole episode lasted no more than five minutes.

Jimmy the One was white as a ghost when I left, and he threatened to have me court martialled for assault and insubordination. I told him that he would have to prove his case, and as there were no witnesses he couldn't do it as he bore no marks of the alleged assault. As I left, to my horror, I saw the flunkey in the pantry. When he came forward he came to me and said, "Mick, that's the best thing to have happened on this boat since I came aboard."

The result of this fracas was that Jimmy the One was a changed man, and his attitude toward me changed for the better. We only stopped for one night in Milford Haven, and the next morning we took on supplies and returned to Dartmouth.

**

One patrol we did was not very nice, though. One afternoon a troop of Royal Marine Commandos came aboard 497. They were led by a Lieutenant who had been a Metropolitan Policeman before the war, and he wore a pair of carpet slippers with sponge soles. He said that he always put them on before going ashore on a raid.

There were eight commandos in all and they had four kayaks to get them ashore, wherever "ashore" was. We slipped our moorings and sailed out. The skipper was glad to go on this patrol, as he was after a chest full of medals and here was a chance to get one, so he hoped.

Once we cleared land we were briefed, and we learned that we were going to take the commandos over to the Channel Islands, occupied by the Germans, to try to take some prisoners. The Officer-in-Charge of the Marines told us that they had information that a top brass conference had been arranged on one of the islands by the Germans, and that his crew was going to spoil it.

The plan was that we would take them in to about a mile or so off shore. If we got in undetected, they would then go ashore in the kayaks. One of the kayaks would return to us with, they hoped, a captured sentry, who would be left with us. Then we could leave the area, only to return at five thirty in the morning for rendezvous, that being just before dawn.

As we neared our objective, the OIC said, "Just look at that." We saw what looked like a car travelling on a road then stop, and then a door open and close. All the lights were visible, none were screened like they were in England. That building, the OIC said, was the object of our attention.

The raiders had, by this time, blackened their faces and were ready to go. The kayaks were launched and away they went and thus started our vigil. After what seemed to be a long time we heard someone hailing us, and after recognition signals had been exchanged a kayak came alongside. Bound and gagged and tied across the kayak was an unconscious figure in an army uniform. He was only about seventeen years old, and had been the sentry on the quayside. We took him aboard and the men left to return to their mates.

The prisoner was carried below and was fastened to one of the bunks, where he finished out his sleep. Our sick berth attendant was his guard. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew were on deck as lookouts. We started our engines and sailed away to a safe distance to await the rendezvous time.

We saw what we thought was a door open and then close, and then an explosion. We surmised that the commandos had succeeded in blowing up the building, thus interrupting the conference in the manner the Marines wanted it done. After a while, small arms fire could be heard.

At two o'clock we started back to meet the commandos. They were all there except two. The Lieutenant told the skipper to head back to port, but to my surprise he refused. He said that it was his understanding that we would wait until two thirty, and it was not that time yet. The engines were cut and everybody was ordered to be quiet.

After what seemed an eternity, we heard a muffled "ahoy." A return "ahoy" was made and then the last kayak came into view. A body was tied across the bow. We took them aboard and found that one of the men was dead. He had ripped his leg off at the knee on the underwater defences and had lost so much blood that he had died. His mate said that he was determined not to leave his mate behind for "Jerry," and if we hadn't waited he would have tried to reach England himself. He was eventually awarded the Military Medal for this action.

We started the engines and left in a hurry. Radar must have picked us up, for the big guns started shooting and we saw the muzzle flashes. We soon got out of their range, so we thought. Suddenly the top of our mast "fell off." We didn't know if it was a direct hit or a bit of shrapnel, but something had hit us and that was scary. Once again my guardian angel was with me. That was the only time we faced enemy gunfire during the whole of the war. We were lucky.

We returned to base safely. On the trip back there was a big row in the wardroom between the Royal Marines Lieutenant and the skipper over his failure to leave at the set hour. As we neared port he came to me and said, "I don't envy you with that skipper, he's a bloody idiot." That was the only real commando raid we ever did.

I often thought of that poor prisoner who we had aboard for a few hours. I wondered what he thought when he came to and realized where he was and what had happened. I should think it was a night that he would never forget and would have never thought that it would happen to him - such is war!

We had to wait a few days for the mast to be repaired, and then we were again ready to go to sea. We left port one morning and sailed toward the invasion area. Once at sea, we were told that we were to be the marker ship for the Airborne forces. We were to tie up to a buoy and await the airborne forces, the gliders and their towing planes.

They would fly out to us, then turn and fly east to land behind the German troops. It was a wonderful sight to see all the gliders in the air, with the protecting fighter planes buzzing around them like bees. It lasted for hours and not one of them came down in our area. We didn't know what was going on, as we did not have an ordinary radio to listen to the BBC reports, so we had to wait until we returned to port to hear the news.

The next day, we were told that our stay in Dartmouth was over and that we were going to the east coast, where all the action was. This I didn't mind, for we would be free from the commando raids. We left harbour early one morning to make our way to the east coast. We spent one night at Newhaven, where we had shore leave, and the next day we made our way to Harwich. There we were told that we would be based across the river at Felixstowe, but there was no berth for us yet. The departure of the MTB flotilla there had been delayed, so we would be staying at Harwich for a few days.

Up to that point the new skipper, the Aussie, had been bearable, and while we had the few days' rest we didn't see much of him, for he spent a lot of time ashore with his women. The first lunch time that we were in harbour, the watchkeeper called me and said that I had a visitor. I had no idea who it could be, for while HMS Ganges was not far away, I knew nobody in the area.

Downstairs came a big fellow, a chief chippy. I could tell by his manner that he was an ex-policeman, and he was from the Metropolitan Police. He told me that he had learned from our watchkeeper that I was an ex-bobby, and he wanted to meet me and make my stay pleasant in the company of his pals, all ex-policemen. He told me that he would pick me up at six thirty to go and see his pals, and to be dressed for going ashore.

When he came again, we went ashore and walked down the jetty and went aboard a minesweeper. In fact, it was the flotilla leader's boat. To my surprise, we went aft and down into the wardroom. Here there were two officers in shirt sleeves. After the introductions we sat down, and out came the beer. When I told them that I played solo whist, a card game, they were happy. They told me that I was manna from heaven, as they had been waiting for a fourth to come along for a while. We had a good night together, and the game broke up around midnight.

The next morning, Jimmy the One asked me where I had been, as it was unusual for me to go ashore at night. I knew he was asking for the skipper, and so I didn't tell him. He told me that the skipper was having some friends aboard for drinks the next night - what else was new! I was watch aboard that night, so I got the coxswain to trade watches with me. I worked hard all day, and did more than I needed to do so that I would be free for the evening's card game.

On the third night of the card school, we had just got started when who should walk into the wardroom but my skipper. He was fuming and started being abusive. With that our host put his tunic on, and then I saw that he was a two and a half ringer. He outranked my idiot of a skipper by a half stripe. He then laid into my skipper and ordered him off his boat with a warning.

My skipper had had one too many and was mad that I wasn't aboard to prepare snacks for his lady friends. For the next few days until we moved across to Felixstowe, he avoided me. The two and a half ringer told me that he was pally with the Engineering Officer in Felixstowe and would have words with him. We said our goodbyes and then went off to our new berth, across the river in Felixstowe.

As we tied up, I saw a three-ringed engineer officer waiting for us. He came aboard and introduced himself to the skipper, and then I was sent for. I thought, "Oh oh, what's ahead." He told the skipper that he was going to inspect my engine room and wanted to meet my stokers, so away to the engine room we went. When we were alone we had a conflab about things in general and he gave my engine room a good going-over. Then we talked.

He told me that he knew my skipper of old, and that he had a reputation. He told me to work according to the book and not give him cause to complain, and if I did this right he would be behind me all the way. I called my two stokers down and he had a good talk with them. After my new boss had gone, the three of us got our heads together and decided to work strictly by the book and avoid all confrontation. This did work out very well.

When we got into the harbour, we found that the rest of the flotilla was there, plus an awful lot of Motor Torpedo Boats and Motor Gun Boats. The latter were partially manned by Poles, French, Norwegians, and Dutch. They were all part of the Allied Forces Navy. Our flotilla leader was a nice, humane man by the name of Andrews. His boat was RML 527.

By this time, the Air Sea Rescue had been organized properly. The North Sea had been divided into areas in such a manner that if a pilot came down during daylight he would be pretty certain to be spotted by an Air Sea Rescue boat, no matter how far he drifted in the water. At this time, round-the-clock bombing was being performed by thousands of planes. The daytime bombing was done by the US Air Force, and the nighttime bombing was performed by the RAF.

When the big raids were on we used to put to sea very early in the morning, around five AM. That allowed us to get into position for the returning RAF planes and the outgoing Yanks. The Yanks were good to work with, for they flew out en masse, dropped their bombs over the target en masse then returned en masse. After that, we would get recalled to harbour if there was no searching for downed planes to be done.

The RAF, by contrast, would fly out in formation and hover over the target while each individual plane did its bombing run and drop its load, then they would each make their own way back to base. That always took a long time, but we never had much searching to do and we were always helped by the RAF crash launches.

One funny thing did happen, though. On one patrol when it got dark early, Jimmy the One miscalculated our whereabouts in the North Sea. In fact, we were lost. Our recall had been sent to us an hour or so earlier, and the base was worried. We were chugging along at ten knots when I heard the clicking of the Aldis lamp, used for signalling. Then there was a voice on a loud hailer.

Apparently, a destroyer from the Harwich Patrol had been alerted and told to try and find us, and had picked us up on radar. Our skipper had the nerve to tell them that he had been about to open fire, had they not responded to our recognition signal lights. Now, the destroyer was about four times bigger than us and had big guns.

Moreover, the Harwich Patrol were noted for having itchy trigger fingers, and would - and did - shoot at anything. We were told that they had been told to search for us and had found us on their radar. They surmised that it was us, and that is why they didn't blow us out of the water. Their skipper gave us a course to get back to base. When we did get back, we were two hours late. Jimmy the One told me how lucky we were, as we had come through two minefields.

After leaving the destroyer, we were only able to come through the minefields safely because we had a wooden hull painted with a degaussing paint. This was a special paint that prevented magnetic mines from being attracted by the boat. Once again, my guardian angel was with me.

Another close call we had involved a Beaufighter plane, flown by a Polish pilot. It was just going dark and our lookouts spotted the plane, so we manned our guns, and when the plane was identified as being one of ours the recognition lights were switched on. These consisted of three lights - red, white, and green - the sequence of which was changed every hour, but there were always two colours in the sequence no matter its formation.

Anyway, this plane came diving down at us with all his guns blazing away. Fortunately, nobody was hit and damage to the ship was minimal. Suddenly he veered away and called us up on the VHF radio. He apologized for shooting at us and said that he had forgotten to change the recognition signals. With that, he flew off. When we got back to base we reported the incident, but nothing came of it.

We were very fortunate, though, for we never had to pick any pilots out of the water. Once a week, a boat used to check the Trinity House buoys. These had been modified so that a downed airman could enter one for safety. Inside there were first aid dressings, food and blankets, but we never found a pilot in one.

One day we were returning to base after a Yankee raid when we saw a plane in trouble. It was flying at a low altitude, and we knew it was in trouble as we could see the crew throwing things out of the plane to make it lighter so that the pilot could get enough altitude to return to base safely. The pilot called us up on the VHF - we were Seagull 9 - and told us that he was in trouble. He told us to head out to sea at maximum speed, and that he would come alongside us.

Now this was a big plane, a Flying Fortress, it was huge and fast. As it neared we saw that it only had one engine working, so he came in for a landing and landed alongside us on the water. The crew stepped out of the plane, walked across the wing and stepped onto the boat. They didn't even get their feet wet.

It was a copybook rescue, and we sank the plane with gunfire and headed into port. The Yanks went back to their base, very happy. Later they invited the skipper and Jimmy the One to a thank you party at the Yankee airfield.

The one good thing about Felixstowe was that there was a spirit of comradeship amongst the crews of the boats. Whether they were English, Dutch, French, Norwegian or Canadian, they were all pals together, and we used to go aboard each other's boats just to have a chinwag and get the news. There were even a few celebrities as skippers of the boats.

One was a BBC comedian, I forget his name, but his catchphrase was "Hello Mrs. Gibson." Peter Scott, the son of the famous Arctic explorer, often came in. There was one particular skipper, though, who was very popular. His name was Hitchens, and before the war he had been a race car driver, so he knew a lot about engines. The engines on the boats were like car engines, only a lot bigger, and he used to tune his own engines. He would not allow anyone to touch his engines, and even his own mechanic was just his helper.

I went aboard one day looking for the motor mechanic, and I saw Hitchens up to his eyes in grease. He was checking the engines for that night's patrol, as the MTBs and MGBs were night larks. Hitchens was well known for his "madness" at sea. When in actions he would stand on his seat on the bridge and direct operations, but he did it once too often for he was killed in action from a shell to his head. He was a brave man and his loss was felt by all in the base, but captains were as expendable as their crew and boats.

We had four RMLs stationed at Felixstowe, and each one used to spend three days at sea with one day off. We used to return to base each night and leave again early in the morning, weather permitting of course. 497 had a round bottom, and she would roll easily - one could blow on her and she would roll. In heavy seas, she would roll so much that the gunwales were awash and each propeller in turn would clear the water, thus causing the engine to race until the prop was back in the water.

In rough weather the RAF boats couldn't put to sea, but we could. The only times we stayed in harbour was when there was a force six, seven or eight gale blowing, but in an emergency we had to go out no matter the weather. Fortunately, we never had to go out in a force eight gale. The MTBs and MGBs were out every night the weather was reasonable. How they did it I never knew, but they did, for they had to carry the war to the enemy coast. Never once did the E-boats attack our shores.

One day when we were off on standby, we got a call to put to sea at about five in the morning. During the night there had been an action of the Dutch coasts when the MTBs had attacked a German convoy. There had been a shootout between the defending E-boats, R-boats and flak ships and our MTBs, MGBs and the mother ship, the frigate HMS _Dakins. During the battle, the _Dakins_ had been had been hit with a torpedo below the waterline. We had to go out to help, if necessary, and to bring in any wounded and survivors.

A frigate normally had fourteen feet of freeboard amidships, but when we saw the _Dakins_ limping home, she only had about two feet of freeboard. She had taken in so much water that had it not been for damage control she would have sunk, of that there was no doubt. Damage control was a system whereby parts of the ship could be isolated by closing watertight doors.

The _Dakins_ refused our help, as she said that she could make it back to Harwich under her own steam, so we were sent for survivors in the water. We searched around for hours until we finally found one body in the water. When we got him aboard, he was dead, and it turned out that he was a German sailor.

He was Obermachinist Pigorsch, and he had been a mechanic on a sunken E-boat. He must have been due to go on leave when he returned to his base, as he had a small suitcase fastened to his body. That's how we learned who he was. It contained some bars of ersatz soap, the metal parts of a scooter and a photo of him, his wife and a five or six year old boy. So we took him back to base with us.

When we got back to base, we fuelled up and prepared for the next day's regular patrol. As we were about to leave harbour the next day, we were ordered to tie up at the main jetty. There we saw a padre in his clerical rig and a body draped in the German flag. We were told that it was the body of the dead sailor we had brought in, and that we were going to bury him at sea in sight of his homeland. The padre was to spend the day with us.

We knew roughly where the E-boats were, a place called IJmuiden in Belgium. It was the nearest German base to our patrol, so that was where the skipper headed. The sea was calm and we had a very quiet crossing. We must have been within the three-mile limit of the port when an E-boat was seen racing toward us at high speed, as we must have appeared on their radar.

The padre was on the bridge, the flag-draped body was on the quarterdeck and our ensign was at half-mast, so it was obvious what we were doing. The E-boat came within a hundred yards of us. The crew, we could see, were at their action stations. The skipper no doubt had his glasses on us, for we saw the crew leave their action stations and line the deck. Then the German skipper hailed us on his PA system. His voice, I am sure, was that of the chap we saw and heard at the buoy off Weymouth whilst I was in training.

He asked who we were burying, so he was told, and he came nearer and threw a heaving line over to us, on which we fastened a bag containing Pigorsch's possessions. We were then ordered to follow them and I thought, "here goes, time in a POW camp," but I was wrong, thank goodness.

About a mile offshore we stopped, placed the boat in such a position as to allow the dead sailor to face the coastline, and were ordered to proceed with the funeral service. We had no bugles. They fired a volley as the body sunk to the shrill whistle of the bosun's pipe. After it was all over, the German skipper told us to follow him out to sea. He escorted us part of the way back.

Before leaving us, he thanked us for what we had done. He spoke in a very cultured voice, like that of a BBC person. His final words to us were "I hope we don't have to meet again under different circumstances." Then the E-boat sped away. After he had gone we all said a little prayer with the padre and breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was plain to see that the E-boat captain was not a Nazi fanatic. Had he been, we may have ended up being guests of Adolf Hitler.

The rest of the day went well, and nothing happened. I'm sure the padre had had a really good day, for it was the first time that he had sailed on a small boat like 497, let alone be in the company of the enemy. When we got back to base our skipper was sent for, and had to report on our patrol to the burial site.

*****

Towards the end of the summer of '44, there was a lot of movement in the harbour. The Norwegian boats moved out, as did some of the RN boats, and in came some Canadian boats to replace them. From the looks of their boats it was hard to tell who were crazier, them or the French, for both sets of boats bore the marks of many battles.

The bullet holes on the hulls were patched with what were known as "tingles." The French painted swastikas on their bridge to signify each kill that they had. One could also easily tell if there had been a shootout the previous night. When the boats returned to base, they used to refuel and take on more ammo and torpedoes.

Our skipper was due for a leave, but he had to find a replacement skipper as there were no spares to be had. One morning, a French boat limped into harbour after a shootout over the other side. The boat was badly damaged and the repairs would take a week to effect, so our skipper got the Frenchman to take 497 until his was once again seaworthy. We knew we might be in for a rough time, as the French boat had six swastikas painted on the bridge, indicating that they had sunk six enemy boats.

The two skippers had a conflab, and ours then left for a ten day leave in London. The Frog skipper inspected the boat, went ashore and returned later with a load of hand grenades and miniature depth charges. He said that these were to throw at the enemy boats when we got into action.

Well, you can guess how we felt at that, for our guns had not been fired in anger since the boat was launched. We were a sort of hospital ship. We told the CO that we were an Air Sea Rescue Launch, not an MGB or MTB, but he was adamant that we had to be ready to hit the Boches at all times.

Anyway, we did a couple of uneventful patrols with him. He couldn't get off the boat quick enough, as he wanted more action. When he left he took his extra armaments with him, thank goodness.

Winter was fast approaching, and the North Sea was getting angrier. When at sea we had no heat on the boat. Only the galley and engine room were warm and conditions were getting worse, but we still had to go on patrol. The worst thing was that when the weather was bad we couldn't cook our meals, so we had to live on sandwiches of toast, ham, spam or corned beef. The cook did his best, but at times the odds were against him to provide hot meals, so we had to make do.

For warm drinks, we drank a lot of cocoa. This was made from slabs of cocoa chocolate and was sweetened with Carnation evaporated milk and brown sugar. At least it was sweet and hot.

When we were in harbour, we used to hook up to the shore electric system, and so the boat was nice and warm. The wardroom was always cold, according to the skipper, so he had me make him an electric fire. He got the parts from a shop ashore. One day the EO came to see me and saw the electric cable running aft from the fuse box on the bridge. He pulled the cable out and coiled it up.

As he neared the wardroom hatch, there was such a yell asking who pulled the so-and-so cable out. Then followed a very heated discussion, full of threats between the EO and the skipper. It ended with the EO confiscating the fire and a lecture to me about fire safety. In front of the skipper the EO told me that it was a fire hazard, which I already knew, and that it must not be repeated or else. For days afterward, the skipper was like a bear with a sore backside.

On our days off patrol, we had a routine to follow. The engines had to be carefully maintained. Every twenty-five running hours we changed the spark plugs, all forty-eight of them, and every fifty hours we performed an oil and filter change. To keep track of all this we had a log book for each engine, which was regularly inspected by the base Engineer Officer. In addition to the engine room, everything on the boat with moving parts was my responsibility to maintain.

Whilst the skipper was on his leave he must have met a girlfriend, for he spent a lot of time ashore and couldn't get back into harbour quick enough. When returning from patrols, he would always ring down for more speed. On one occasion, I was called to the engine room as there was a funny hissing noise coming from the port engine, as well as a smell of petrol.

I rang the bridge and told them that I was shutting down the port engine to find the fault, and that he would have to make do with one engine. That made the skipper mad, and he said not to bother. I went ahead and shut off the engine, opened the portholes and switched off the ventilating fans. Before switching off the engine, I found that one of the spark plugs had worked itself loose, and the hissing sound was the mixture of petrol and air being forced out as the piston was on its compression cycle. It took about five minutes to rectify.

The next day we were the standby boat, so I checked the engines out. I found that in the plug hole there were three washers, not one. Each plug was fitted with an asbestos copper-covered washer to give the plug a good seating in the engine block. What had happened was when the old plugs were taken out, the old washers were not removed. I removed the washers from the hole, and I gave my stokers the rounds of the kitchen.

All the plugs were then removed and a hooked device was used to remove all the washers. There were a lot, far too many in fact. The job was a bit slow for Biff, one of the stokers, so he had used a file tang and a hammer. In doing so, he scored the thread in the hole and made it impossible to replace the plug, so we had to have a new cylinder block fitted. The base mechanic who did the job was good, for he didn't tell the truth about how the plug worked loose. It cost me a bottle of rum for the deception, but it was worth it.

Returning from a patrol one day, the starboard engine developed a fault. At two thousand revolutions, she started backfiring through one of the carburetors. It was rather alarming, for it produced a rather loud bang. I reduced speed and it stopped, and then I had another row with the skipper. I reported it to the base, and the Chief Mechanic decided to see for himself, so he came on the next patrol.

Sure enough, on our return the telegraph rang for two thousand revolutions, which I gave, and the banging started anew. We lowered the speed and it stopped. The chief couldn't understand it, so he decided to lift the entire engine out. The skipper played hell, for he couldn't have his top speed which meant that he would be late getting back to base.

The chief told me that unless it was an emergency, henceforth the top speed must not be used to return to base. He advised me to, in the future, refuse to give top speed unless it was an emergency. He said that if the skipper got funny about it, to take the log books to him and have him sign a notation to the effect that he ordered the top speed without an emergency. That would make him liable for any damage caused.

The next day we went alongside the jetty, had the coach deck lifted off and another engine installed, and went on our trials. The next day we went on patrol, and sure enough on our return the skipper rang for top speed. I had given the stokers orders that they were not to exceed sixteen hundred revolutions without my permission, no matter what.

I heard the bell of the revolution counter ring, accompanied by no change in engine speed. After the shrill ring, I heard the skipper at the hatch calling for me. Boy, was he angry.

"What's up with those f***ing stokers of yours?" he shouted in a loud voice. "Are they asleep? They refuse to respond to the telegraph!"

I had a good look around and saw no other ships, so I asked him why I wanted more speed. "To get back to base as soon as I can," he said.

I went to the engine room and wrote in the log book, "I, Lieut. ______, have ordered the engines to be run at two thousand revolutions, so that I can get to base quickly. There is no emergency." I asked the skipper to sign each book, and then I would go and give him the speed he wanted. He refused to sign, and told me to get off the bridge and that he would have me demoted for this.

The next morning I went ashore and explained the situation to the Engineer Admiral, who was a great chap. He told me not to worry, as he knew all about the problem. Later on, I saw the skipper go ashore, and when he returned he had his tail between his legs. I never learned what happened, but it did a lot of good, for he never travelled at excess speed again when we returned from a patrol.

**

Time rolled by, and the war was going well for the Allies. As various ports on the continent were captured, boats of the Coastal Forces took command of them as it saved them many hours of travelling time across the North Sea. The weather was not very kind to us during the latter part of 1944, but we still had to go out to sea since the planes were still on their bombing missions.

Fortunately, none of them were shot down in our area. We saw many planes fly overhead, and had many a conversation with them through our VHF set. They seemed to welcome the chat, and were relieved to know that there was somebody below to rescue them if the need arose.

One day, all the motor mechanics had a lecture given by the Engineer Admiral. He told us that there was going to be a big airborne invasion launched soon, and we had to be sure that we would be ready for it, as there would be a lot of gliders in the air. We were ordered to sea one day at four thirty in the morning, and every Motor Launch was sent out. The only boats in the harbour would be the MGBs and MTBs when they came off patrol, so when we left the harbour was empty.

As we left, we got a signal that all crews were to wear life jackets. Now we knew that something big was on, for we had never been given such an order before. I was lucky, as I had an RAF Mae West. It was just like wearing a coat, and was inflated by an air bottle. I got it off an RAF pilot.

Whilst on patrol we heard the sounds of planes overhead, but because of the low clouds we couldn't see any. Later that afternoon we got our recall and sailed for base. Once we tied up and were off the air, we were able to listen to the BBC. From the news bulletin, we learned that the airborne division had landed at a place called Arnhem, so we knew that was the reason for the patrol we had just come from. All our boats returned unscathed and without casualties.

Sometime after this, the harbour was again emptied when all the Canadian MGBs and MTBs left to take up residence in Ostend. It was there that a tragedy happened. One of the Canadian boats had pumped out its bilges into the harbour, and the bilge water contained an amount of petrol.

A rating, so we heard, threw a cigarette stub overboard, and it ignited the petrol floating on the water and set boats alight. Guy Fawkes Night wasn't in it. Had the tide been on the flood and not the ebb, the port could have caught fire. The result of this mishap was the loss of quite a few lives and a couple of boats.

A tragedy like that was inevitable, since those boats burned one hundred octane petrol. During the shootouts they had with the E-boats, petrol was bound to leak from the holed tanks, even though they were coated with a supposed self-sealing compound. Those petrol tanks were like time bombs. 497 used eighty-seven octane petrol, but the danger was still there.

I always used to use petrol from my two inboard tanks, and leave the outboard tanks full. When I fuelled up, it was very rare that I had to put much petrol in either of the two outboard tanks. On my course I had learned that an empty tank that contained only vapour was as dangerous as a bomb.

When I was on watch at sea, I was more than aware of the fact that four possible bombs were at my back, and that was my only worry. I never thought about the possibility of getting into a gunfight, just those damn empty petrol tanks. Thanks to my guardian angel, though, all my worries were in vain as nothing ever happened. It was a worry that the E-boats didn't have, as they used diesel fuel.

The winter weather was not too kind to us, for it was rough at sea and the harbour was closed on many days, and on those days we were able to perform a lot of maintenance work. The crew, to keep busy during the day, repainted the ship. One day I decided to run a check on my fire extinguishers, and found that all the Pyrene ones were empty. I couldn't understand why, as we had not had a fire aboard.

I kept watch from my cabin after refilling the extinguishers, and lo and behold one of the ratings used the contents of one of the extinguishers to remove paint from his clothes. The extinguishers were filled with carbon tetrachloride, and because it evaporated quickly it was an ideal agent to use to remove paint from one's uniform. I gave them a tin of CTC to keep them from using the extinguishers, and that ended the problem.

From the news releases it was obvious that the war was going well for the good people - us - and the speculation was about when it would all end. We carried on our patrols and spent a lot of time at sea with the spring of 1945. We had nice sailing conditions, and we were able to enjoy reasonably warm weather. The thought of being able to go on watch without wrapping up in all sorts of clothes to keep warm was uppermost. Around April the rumours started again, and the time of peace, it seemed, was at last in sight.

We finally got the news that an armistice would take place early in May. On the afternoon of May 6th, there was a broadcast from the base PA system that no boats would go out on patrol that night, or any other night, as an armistice had been arrived at and hostilities would cease at 0230, May 7th. What a birthday present that was for me.

During the afternoon of May 7th, Peter Scott, the SO of the SGBs, escorted an E-boat into the harbour. Aboard this boat was a high-ranking German naval officer, whose only purpose was to surrender his fleet of E-boats to the Royal Navy. These boats were beautiful to look at, and once they were cleaned up, we were allowed to look over this one.

The crew's quarters were dirty compared with ours, but the wardroom was scrumptious and nicely fitted out. The E-boat was powered by three Daimler-Benz diesel engines. They were huge, and it was no wonder they could outrun our boats.

They had one snag, though, if you could call it one. Whilst they were moored, they had to have a "Jenny" pump hot water through the main engines to keep them warm and ready for immediate use. Also, they had no gearbox. When the engines were started, the boat moved at three knots and was in direct drive. To go astern, the rotation of the camshafts had to be reversed.

The German crew trained one of our crews to handle the boat. Then our men took the E-boat on a tour of the bases on the east coast that had played host to our own boats during the war.

With the war in Europe over, we had to wait to see what was going to happen. One strange thing did happen, though. On the night of May 7th there was no order broadcast at sunset to darken ship, as had been the case for the last five years. It was a strange sight that night. All the lights in the harbour were on, and lights could be seen on all the boats as the hatches and portholes were not battened down.

It was a wonderful, almost forgotten sight. Most of the crews of the boats went up to London that night, and everybody celebrated. As the coxswain was from London, I stayed aboard on watch and let him go to see his family. I went ashore the next night and had my photo taken with my two stokers, Biff and Monty.

**

We were detailed for one more patrol, and that was to take a person from Trinity House to check all the buoys in the area. This took us three days. We returned to base each night, and each night we saw fewer and fewer boats in the harbour. They had all gone to be decommissioned and paid off, and we knew that it wouldn't be long before we were paid off.

One of the nicest orders in the Navy was "Harbour Stations," and it was given when entering or leaving harbour. All the crew lined the deck facing the base and stood at attention as the skipper saluted the duty officer. This was to allow the crew a last look at land as they left, in case they didn't return, and as they entered it was to allow them to be thankful for their return. I did like it, although I never participated, as I was always below in the engine room.

The day we left for Dartmouth I watched the land disappear and had a lump in my throat. Why, I didn't know, but I knew that I was leaving something behind. We were on our way to pay the boat off and go home.

All we had to be careful of was that we didn't hit a mine. There were plenty around, but the minesweepers were already hard at it, clearing the minefields and reopening the channels to shipping. To be sure we didn't hit a mine, a lookout was posted up forward and lay on the deck over the bullring in the bow.

Our first stop was at Newhaven, where we spent the night. There, there was a thirty-two foot rise and fall tide. The boats were rafted, and the inner boat was moored to a pontoon that was fastened to the bollard on shore. As the tide went out the watchkeeper had to release and let out the ropes mooring the pontoon to the shore, and the reverse was done when the tide was on the flood.

The watchkeeping was done by men from the base, allowing the boat crews to get some much-needed rest. To get ashore when the tide was out, one had to cross the pontoon and climb up a series of ladders, like the wall bars of a gymnasium, to get ashore.

That night I went ashore to celebrate, and celebrate I did. It was my one and only real bender. We started off with beer and cherry brandy chasers, and what a night it was. The last thing I remember happening was slapping Jimmy the One on the back in a pub and telling him it was time he bought the crew a drink. Everything else was a blur until I woke up in my cabin aboard 497. From what I was told, I flaked out and the crew carried me to the base, lowered me down the ladders and onto the boat, where they put me on my bunk.

The next morning we put to see, and I didn't know which was greener, me or the water. The coxswain had had to remain in Felixstowe, so one of the ratings was made acting swain and I was in charge of the crew. As we put into Torquay, I asked the skipper if there was shore leave for the crew. "Yes," he said, "but not for you. You had enough last night." I didn't intend going ashore anyway.

The next day we left for 497's final resting place, Dartmouth. The River Dart was the graveyard for many, many Motor Gun Boats, Motor Torpedo Boats, and Motor Launches. There were dozens of them tied up. We tied up to a jetty, and there a work crew removed our guns, ammo, depth charges and CSA gear, while the crew unloaded their own gear.

We could leave nothing aboard. I shared my stock of cigarettes with the crew. From the bridge I took the ship's badge, which I had made, as a keepsake and reminder of my days aboard 497. As I left the boat I felt a little sad, as it had been my home for so long.