On The Beach
The west coast of England, on the 18th of March 1967, was the scene of the world's first major environmentally-disastrous oil-spill. The Torrey Canyon - an underpowered and overloaded vessel registered in Monrovia, Liberia to Barracuda Shipping of Bermuda - ran aground off Land's End that day. Her tanks, containing 120,000 gallons of Kuwaiti crude bound for Milford Haven, ruptured as the bottom was ripped out of her hull by the treacherous Seven Rocks Reef. The dramatic rescue operation to take her crew to safety, was to pale into insignificance when compared with what followed. A five hundred-square-kilometre slick of crude oil was washed by the tide onto a hundred and twenty kilometres of Cornish beaches. The effect on the local wildlife was devastating: seals, cormorants and seagulls drowned in the evil brown blanket which covered their habitat, their feeding-grounds and their bodies. Emulsified by pounding waves, the toxic tar killed fish by the thousand. The beaches, viewed from the clifftops, took on a tobacco-stain hue as the poison seeped from the mortal wounds of the ship and into the sand.
The British government had to act swiftly and decisively to avert an environmental and economic disaster. The tourist season was about to start, and the economy of the entire county of Cornwall was heading for a catastrophic series of losses if the beaches were closed in the coming three months. Within days, a contingency plan was put into action. The Royal Air Force's Coastal Command flew over the coves and inlets, photographing the extent of the slick and identifying the worst-affected areas of coastline. Royal Engineers arrived at the clifftops with front-end loaders and digging equipment. A series of pumping stations were established on platforms at the end of vehicle tracks cut by the RE units. Local fire brigades donated hand-operated vacuum-pumps. The Whirlwind and Wessex helicopters of the RAF at Culdrose flew underslung loads of industrial degreaser (oil solvent) in 44-gallon drums onto the pumping stations. The 1st Battalion, Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire (1 PWO), newly reorganized as an airportable battalion, found themselves en route to a new front line over 320 kilometres away - by train.
Monday morning - 0805 - Muster Parade, and 3 Platoon prepare for their Platoon Commander's inspection. Berets have been dusted and adjusted, boots given a final rub with a cloth, elastics (illegal, but tolerated for the sake of neatness) adjusted over anklets; ties straightened, denim jackets smoothed and pleated, belt brasses rubbed clean of Brasso residue and re-aligned on web belts. Lieutenant Tony Phelan marches up to Sergeant Bill Garrod; returns a salute; receives the roll call from the sergeant; formally takes over 3 Platoon by standing them to attention, then at ease. Calling them to attention again, he starts his inspection. Within minutes, he emits a groan of disbelief, and the whole platoon know exactly who he is addressing: "I just don't believe this! Didn't you look in a mirror before you came on parade this morning? Look at you: your boots are dirty; one of your anklets is unstrapped; there's a - a - HOLE! in your trousers; your brasses are FILTHY! That jacket is PUTRID! Your tie's crooked; you've missed a patch on your chin with the razor! That beret is disgusting - and the cap-badge is crooked!" The officer pauses for breath. Private "Jebel John" Creaser turns around, stares lugubriously at his comrades, and says, "All right - who bubbled me?" The entire platoon collapse into fits of laughter. Mr Phelan shakes his head, says to Bill Garrod, "Carry on, Sergeant." He hastily returns the salute and hurries from the square, lest he disgrace himself by laughing out loud on a Company Commander's parade.
Yes, morale in 3 Platoon was good. Most of us in A Company had come through the cauldron of Aden in reasonably good shape. No dramatic personality clashes amongst the troops; the leadership was popular and professionally sound. I enjoyed soldiering with this band of brothers: I relished the teamwork and sharing which went with life in a rifle company. My grandfather - the Pater Familias of the Sweeting family - died around the time the Torrey Canyon ran aground, and I took compassionate leave for his funeral. I arrived back at Roman Barracks to scenes of intense activity. NCOs were striding through rooms, carrying out kit inspections and organizing fatigue parties to take bedding back to stores. "We're off to Cornwall!" was the reply when I asked what was going on. Ten minutes later, clad in combat kit and with my gear packed and bedding stored, I was boarding a truck for the railway station.
The stop-start journey of the troop train from Colchester in Essex to Penzance in Cornwall, took over nine hours. I shared a compartment with "Dolly" Dawson, Dave Buckley, Geoff Meakin, Alf McKenzie and Richard FitzGerald. Dawson and FitzGerald were the strangest pair of mates I've ever seen. Dawson was a typical product of the tougher areas of Kingston-on-Hull, in Yorkshire. Short, stocky, blunt of speech and sharp of wit, he played at halfback in the working-class game of Rugby League. His mate's full name was Richard Michael de Belleme Montgomery Guelph von Altdorf FitzGerald. His nickname, somewhat inevitably, was The Baron. His aristocratic bloodlines - and his height of six feet, two inches - dictated that he play Rugby Union at school as a flanker. Dolly was unimpressed: "Wot the 'ell's a flen-kah?"
"Sorry, old chap - it's impossible to describe it to someone who can't count past thirteen without taking one shoe and sock off."
"No, Baron - that's you, countin' to fifteen. To count to thirteen in 'ull, all we do is take our pants off."
"And produce a magnifying glass, no doubt."
Dolly and The Baron had an endless flow of class-rivalry cross-talk, and would continue in this vein until one fell asleep - or the chorus of groans from their long-suffering audience finally silenced them. The banter hid a deep and abiding mutual respect. Despite his public-school drawl and languid manner, Lance-Corporal FitzgGerald was a good soldier - physically tough, an excellent shot, a competent map-reader and an adaptable section leader. Alf McKenzie was the only other Hartlepudlian in the battalion; he and I would team up to hitch-hike the 600 or so kilometres home on alternate weekends. Once there, we'd either go our own ways, or arrange to meet at the Queen's Rink for the Saturday night dance. I lay on a luggage-rack and tried to doze. A "recce" of the train had uncovered one of those serendipitous oversights: an unlocked luggage van containing vast quantities of old blankets - several of which now cushioned the overhead racks to ease the discomfort of weary soldiers. So we reached Cornwall in reasonably good shape.
I looked across the sea of green fabric to the ablutions. I'd been determined I wouldn't have anyone climbing over me to get to the exit (there were only three toilets and two showers - if you only needed a leak, you went outside.) So, when we'd finally broken-out our camp-beds and spread our sleeping-bags on top and our packs alongside, I'd chosen a spot on the perimeter nearest the entrance. The tiny Territorial Army drill hall in the town of St Ives had never been intended as a long-term billet for any number of troops, let alone the ninety bodies now in occupation of the floor. The CSM, CQMS and the sergeants occupied the upstairs offices and stores, whilst the officers were put up at the hotel just across the road. As I'd feared, the downside to my strategy was the distance from the showers. By the time I'd shaved and claimed a place under the constantly-running water, it was running icy cold. Eager to sample the local night-life, we set forth fifteen minutes later, and headed across the road to the pub.
The soft west-country burr of the local speech - and the welcoming attitude of the locals themselves - put us northerners at our ease within minutes of ordering our first drinks. The arrival of the soldiers meant a double bonus for the Cornish merchants: not only were we saving the economy by scrubbing the beaches, but we were slaking our well-earned thirsts in the local hostelries. For our part, we relished the change from the jaded, barely-tolerant attitude of the townspeople in our garrison town. To walk into a pub and be greeted with a smile by the landlord! This was a place worth working for.
And work we did - from 0830 to 1730. We were deployed in company groups amongst the three main towns, St Ives, St Austell and Penzance. Alpha Company went to St Ives. The platoons were distributed throughout the pumping points along the clifftops. Sections took turns pumping degreaser from the drums, through 2-inch rubber hoses to the bottom of the cliff. Here a 4-way T-fitting would distribute the milky chemical solvent to four half-inch hoses, each ending in a brass spray nozzle. The soldiers on these spraying parties would clamber over the rocks between the beaches, hitting the worst patches of contamination with enough solvent to break it down so that the incoming tide could work it clear of the beaches and coves. Hot, sweaty work - even without the rubber gloves, goggles, oilskins and climbing-boots. One hour at a time was enough for the most enthusiastic sprayer. In places, the crude oil gathered in large globules up to 600mm in diameter, requiring huge quantities of degreaser to loosen its grip on the rocks and sand.
Morning tea was a very pleasant surprise for the boys of 3 Platoon. At 0930, the local vicar drove an old Bedford van down the vehicle track to the first pumping point. There, to the amazement - and delight - of the troops, his two beautiful teenage daughters helped him unload trays of cakes and biscuits, and two urns of piping-hot tea. This was the end of the first "stag" for the spraying party. They would gratefully make their way to the top of the cliff - either along the footpaths, or using the ropes slung from the pumping points - have their break, then take their turn at keeping the spray-nozzles supplied. Changing-over drums meant lifting the pump and replacing it in a fresh drum without losing the vacuum. The empty drums had to be manhandled to a storage point 20 metres up the slope, and deliveries of fresh degreaser were received just above the pumping point. Shortly, as dregs of solvent spilled from discarded drums and leaked onto the grass at the clifftop, the working area became a dangerous place. I soon discovered just how dangerous...
The Whirlwind clattered in over the hilltop, the six 44-gallon drums swaying in the nylon sling underneath. It resembled a fussy old matron toting her purchases in a nylon shopping-bag - except for the noise. The receiving party would stand under the net and turn it so that the drums would be side-on to the slope. This would prevent them from rolling over the cliff as soon as the quartermaster released the net. A fairly simple operation requiring little in the way of specialised skills - but calling for reasonable powers of observation. Which were missing this afternoon, as I lost my footing on the slippery ground. I instinctively grabbed for the net - a second or two before the plumb-bob landed to earth the aircraft. As a jolt of static zapped me off my feet, the net landed, spilled open, and I watched in horror as the nearest drum bounded out of the open net like an angry attack-dog. The rest of the load rolled off at various angles, but this one seemed to be radar-directed - straight up my outstretched arm, thumping me on the ear, then carrying me down the slick grass to the edge of the precipice.
I ducked my head in terror as the fiendish thing bore me down the slope. As I did so, the weight was magically lifted from my shoulder, and I felt a jolt as my foot contacted something unyielding. I heard someone shout, "Look out, below!" Then a heavy "Thump!" from sixty feet below as the drum sailed over the heads of the unsuspecting sprayers and ruptured on the rocks. I cautiously raised my head, inched my way forward up the slope, then looked back - and froze in horror. The Sappers had done a brilliant job of clearing this area for operations. In fact, only two large rocks remained embedded in the soil between the path and the cliff-edge. One was two metres from the edge, and had been a launching-ramp for the drum, bouncing it into the air to clear the edge on the full. The other, which my boot had struck to bring my slide to a halt, was a mere 300mm from the lip.
The lads were hooting with laughter as I made my way back to the pumping point. It was only then that I realized - nobody had even seen my brush with death. I learned later from the rest of the lads that the explosion of drums in all directions had not only masked me from view, but had distracted the pumping crew, who were chasing after every drum except the one that mattered (to me, at least). I could have disappeared over the edge of the cliff, and nobody would have seen a thing ... The beer tasted extra good in the pub that night.
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