"Give 'Em Fifty Lashes Mr. Christian"
The summer of 1956 was idyllic. The warm summer sun and clear blue skies made one glad to be alive. I'd recently returned from an eighteen month commission in the Mediterranean aboard HMS Duchess, a modern Daring class destroyer built by Thornycroft in 1951. The Duchess had been my first ship after passing my Telegraphist exams at HMS Mercury in August 1954.
Duties in the Med. included patrols of the seas around Cyprus trying to thwart the activities of gun runners attempting to supply the EOKA terrorists. We did, however, have periods of relaxation and spent a few enjoyable runs ashore as the guests of the British Army garrison at Limassol and Dhekelia. Another visit we made was to Alexandria and little did I know at the time that I would be back in Egypt within eighteen months.
On my return to the UK "Drafty" had smiled kindly upon me and given me a Draft to a little backwater W/T station in Portland Dockyard, a short way up the coast from the lovely holiday resort of Weymouth; I was billeted at the top of the hill in HMS Osprey and anyone who has ever walked up the hill from the dockyard will know just how steep it is; and it seems to get even steeper and longer in the heat of the sun. I did this walk normally twice a day.
Life wasn't too bad at the station. We had a direct wireless link, using Morse code, with the WRNS at Portsmouth and many a happy hour was spent exchanging pleasantries - and other personal details.
We also had the very pleasant duty of testing the transmitters at Portland Bill (a distance of about three to four miles from the dockyard). To get there we were chauffeured by "Pussers Tilley" driven by a very capable Leading WRN driver, who looked as if she could undo wheel nuts by hand. The only minor problem was the fact that the transport was only able to make the journey twice a day, once in the morning and again late in the afternoon. The testing of the transmitters took approximately thirty minutes so you will see that we had a considerable amount of time on our hands whilst awaiting it's return. To combat this, we were duly armed with reading material and plenty of goodies. We'd take along eggs, bacon, sausage, etc (the transmitter station boasted a small stove) and have ourselves a " fry up". It seemed, lying on the warm grass overlooking Portland Bay, with the smell of breakfast and the sound of Elvis' "Heartbreak Hotel" ringing in our ears, like Shangri La. It couldn't last, could it?
Annual leave came round almost without me realising it and on Friday 20th July I caught the 1305 from Weymouth station, changing at Bristol Temple Meads and arriving in Birmingham approx. 1800. The journey always seemed to take forever. This leave was going to be a bit special though because several of my mates who had been drafted into the Army for National Service were also going to be home and "Chunky Brown" of the Life Guards had arranged some celebrations. There was going to be a do on Saturday 28th July incorporating several unattached ladies.
On or about the 24th or 25th I'd been out shopping and upon my return home I was greeted with an official looking telegram. On close inspection it revealed that I'd been - RECALLED. There was no explanation, other than to say that I was to report back to HMS Osprey immediately. The precise order left little room for misunderstanding, so I couldn't stay on for Chunky's bash.
My first thought was that a submarine had failed to surface and Operation Subsunk had been initiated. As there were only half a dozen of us at Portland W/T it made sense that they would need as many personnel as possible to man the various distress and co-ordination frequencies to find the missing sub; and if I was going to be amongst the people who could help, then leave would have to wait.
On my arrival back at Osprey, however, I was informed that as far as they knew all submariners in the area were in the best of health and more importantly, accounted for. No, I was destined for far greater things. I was to do a hurried leaving routine, pack my kit and get myself and travelling warrant to Royal Naval Barracks, Portsmouth. At this stage I still had no idea that my leave and very pleasurable life style had been curtailed by Sir Anthony Eden and his French counterpart Guy Mollet. A war with Egypt was the last thing on my mind - well almost the last as I was still miffed about missing Chunky Brown's celebration party.
When we arrived at RNB we were mustered in a drill hall and told that some high-ranking Egyptian by the name of Gamel Abdel Nasser had seized the Suez Canal, and that "we were bloody well going to seize it back again". We would be joining a fleet of LCTs, which at the present time were languishing in Barry Docks, South Wales, and sail over there and put an end to this bit of bother. As I didn't know what a LCT was I couldn't quite picture the scene in my minds eye, and thinking that I may be the only one present who didn't know what one was I decided that a still tongue was my best defence. I would try to glean the information during the trip. The journey to Barry would be by rail. I hoped that it would be quicker than the one from Weymouth to Birmingham. A series of carefully worded questions during the trip and an air of all things knowledgeable about RN ships, no matter how remote, and I eventually acquired the said information. LCT stood for Landing Craft Tank; they could carry 8 x 30-ton tanks or 13 x 3-ton lorries and 42 troops. They were equipped with 4 x 25mm guns and could fly through the water at 12.5 knots - Wow!
During the weekend of 3/5 August we arrived at the docks. I'd been too busy seeking out information to notice how long the journey had taken, but I'm sure it was quicker than the Weymouth run. I think the first thought that I had on seeing my new home for the unknown future was a mixture of disbelief and amazement. I wondered if someone had been having a laugh. The LCTs were cocooned and had been laid up since I don't know when. Apparently they had been built in 1945 - 1947 by good old Thornycroft and designed for Far East service. I didn't get to find out if they ever did make it to the FES or not, but from where I stood on the jetty that day they didn't look capable of making it to the far end of Wales. The various ships' companies were allocated their LCTs and mine was LCT 4043 (later to be named HMS Counterguard). There were thirty-four of us in the crew and the only other communicator was "Snowy" White our signalman. They all seemed a very friendly bunch and I thought we would get along fine.. |
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I was rather concerned that I was unable to get into the wireless office (The door was locked and no one seemed to have a key) but I needn't have worried. The skipper informed me that if I could get in I wouldn't be able to use the equipment anyway, as it was all useless. If I thought that I'd got a problem the stokers had a bigger one - the engines didn't work either - well at least they could get to see their engines not working. Another minor hiccup was the fact that the "heads" were minus doors and the galley didn't function - but then we'd had packed meals on the way down so we shouldn't be hungry should we?
An ocean-going tug seemed to be our salvation and we were told that we would be towed to Devonport dockyard for a major makeover. About the only member of crew to be gainfully employed during this period was the lookout whose job it was to keep an eye on the tow and make sure that we did eventually follow the tug into Guzz (Devonport). At this stage, as well as the ship looking a bit dowdy, our crew would have caused any self respecting Chief GI to give his tot away. From somewhere people had acquired woolly hats and none service jumpers for the sea passage, and when we gathered in the Tank Space for a briefing by the Skipper we looked more like a bunch of brigands than the Duty Guard on Divisions. A sight that was certainly not lost on our lookout (a three badge fungus-faced AB with WW II experience) who shouted down from the Bridge - "Give 'Em Fifty Lashes Mr. Christian". The ship's comedian was born.
During all this excitement we had not been allowed to write home and inform our families or loved ones of what we were doing or where we were, but we were on our way, albeit via the knackers yard.
Her Majesties Dockyard personnel worked like men possessed (there was a rumour going round that they were on "double time - or a promise"), and pretty soon we had a ship that looked ready to fight a war. Radio equipment was installed, engines were repaired, the galley became fully functional and modesty had been restored to the "heads" with the fitting of brand new doors. All-in-all, a ship to be proud of.
We waved farewell to Plymouth Sound at 1000 Monday 20th August and set off triumphantly to test her in the Bay of Biscay. To non-seafaring people I should point out that the Bay of Biscay can sometimes get a little rough, to say the least, and a better test of our sea worthiness en route to Malta via Gibraltar would be hard to find.
Life on board quickly settled down into a routine with everyone efficiently going about their duties and, I guess, keeping their own private thoughts of the impending situation quietly to themselves. The large bunk space in the bottom of the boat was empty but this would be filled eventually by army personnel once we arrived at Malta so for the time being the ships crew were spoilt for choice as to where they wanted to 'kip' down". Myself, I managed to squeeze a foldaway camp bed into my small radio shack. I could just get it in between the door and my radio equipment. Once it was unfolded there was no room to stand or sit, other than on the bed. There was, however, method in my madness.
We were to steam in "line ahead" in company with another seven LCTs and a couple of escorts on passage to Malta and during the trip we were to maintain "Radio Silence". This meant no transmissions, on fear of death - or worse, but we did have to tune in to radio broadcasts (these were called Single Operator Periods) from the UK every four hours during the day and night. These broadcasts would give us coded information about our situation and also, very importantly, weather forecasts. Being the only radio operator I had to monitor all the reports and break the One Time Pad codes, therefore, the bed in the wireless office was ideal when not gainfully employed on the radio.
The weather forecast for the Bay of Biscay was favourable. The wind was 5 gusting to 6 and the sea moderate, which meant that it wouldn't be storm force, but it wouldn't be like a boating lake, either. There were still plenty of "Goffers" and we would ride to the crest of one, then come crashing down into the trough of another shaking every rivet in the ship. Well, Mr. Thornycroft and his lads had taken me safely to the Med. and back in the Duchess and I hoped he wasn't going to fail me now. He didn't and we duly arrived in Gibraltar at 2000 Saturday 25th. Leave to both watches was given, but because their Lordships at the Admiralty were anxious to get us into the fray our stay was short-lived and we set sail again for Malta the next day, Sunday 26th August at 2000 (exactly 24 hours to the minute of our arrival).
The weather was now getting noticeably warmer and the sea calmer creating an air of joviality amongst the crew, so much so that it prompted us into a little physical exercise in the form of a game of volley ball, in the tank space, and even a spot of swimming. The former, however, was abruptly terminated, with the disappearance, over the side, of the third ball. Naval coffers would certainly not stretch to the unending supply of footballs to satisfy the crew of HMS Counterguard.
On the afternoon of the 28th we had a spot of excitement when the El Queher, an Egyptian destroyer (out from Portsmouth) passed us on the port side, followed shortly afterwards by an unknown aircraft overhead. Could they have rumbled us already?
You can't mistake Malta with its vivid white buildings and church domes rising up out of the blue Mediterranean Sea. To us 'matelots' it was fondly known as "the land of bells, smells and pregnant women". That may have been a little unkind - it didn't smell that badly. In fact it was a rather pleasant watering hole to arrive at after several days at sea. After all, didn't it boast the infamous "Gut"? (Or Straight Street as some of the locals preferred to call it) with it's exotic sounding bar names like Brummies Bar, The Gippo Queen and the Four Aces, all complete with their colourful characters.
We'd arrived at 1220 Friday 31st and tied up at Canteen Wharf. All this heady enjoyment was now going to be our lot for the next couple of months, apart from a weekend break to Syracuse at the end of September. It wasn't all fun and games though, as every day was taken up with shifting berth, embarking and disembarking vehicles and troops, loading stores and the occasional daily trip out to sea to test the guns. Apparently, unless we were actually being attacked by aircraft, we were not allowed to fire the guns in Grand Harbour. Whether this was a religious edict or simply an order by the Union of Dhaisa owners we never did find out.
It was whilst we were in Malta awaiting the arrival of our guests that we managed to get a few games of football in, and discovered that although we were not a large crew in total, we had a remarkably good side. This would become evident later at Suez.
On the 30th October at 2255 we departed Grand Harbour, having, presumably, convinced the powers-that-be that we were fully capable of landing troops and vehicles on the beach and not in the sea. Personnel from the RASC, complete with tools and vehicles, were already embarked as we set sail for Port Said. We were again in "line ahead" only this time we were protected by an escort of the cruiser HMS Jamaica, the destroyer HMS Chaplet and the frigate HMS Meon (the Amphibious Warfare Squadron OIC).
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My radio office was next to the wheelhouse and during periods of inaction on the broadcast I relieved the Quartermaster on the wheel. Advising the bridge accordingly, "Sparks on the wheel sir"; We were not steering to a compass bearing so as long as I managed to keep our "Jack Stay" in line with the centre of the stern of the ship in front there was no danger of us getting lost. At this time I didn't consider what the prospects of our forthcoming drama might be. I was enjoying my newfound skill as a "driver" too much. Fortunately I wasn't manning the wheel when at 1910 on the 2nd November HMS Portcullis, who was ahead of us, signalled that " they'd lost a man overboard". Ten minutes later HMS Sallyport, the last ship in the convoy managed to pull a very wet, lucky and bemused sailor on board, much to the relief of all concerned. |
During the trip water rationing was imposed but as long as we had enough for cooking and washing (no showers) we would be ok. This situation, however, posed the problem of how to get our clothes clean. They do say though, that "Necessity is the mother of invention" so armed with a length of line and a packet of Dhobey Dust we would stuff our pockets with the cleansing agent, tie the line to a sleeve or trouser leg and hoist the lot over the side, until washed. This worked very well for the naval contingent, but unfortunately when the army tried, they ended up with nothing on the end of their lines. One can only assume they were using "slip knots".
Other than the "Man Overboard" scare and the "Dhobeying fiasco" our voyage from Malta to Suez was singularly unspectacular. The lapping of the waves against the hull was broken only by the intermittent rat-tat-tat of the guns as each ship tested and practised their firepower. Journey's end now became more of a reality than a figment of the imagination. Then at 1750 on Sunday 4th November flares and flashing were seen on the distant horizon. We had definitely reached the point of no return.
There had been some intense discussion amongst members of the Seamanship branch as to who would LIKE to be in the bow party when we landed. For some unexplained reason everyone had volunteered for the stern party. I wondered if the army lads had had a similar discussion about who would be driving off first when the bow doors were opened. There was very little protection at that end. In fact there wasn't any at all.
One of our older seamen (the three badge scurse from WW II) related an anecdote telling of how he had been on a Landing Craft in France and on their departure from the beach had hit a mine. The crew then had to swim back ashore. He had managed to find a hostelry, and armed with a few bottles of French 'plonk', sat and awaited his inevitable incarceration by the German Army. I didn't think our situation was going to be that bad, but thanked him for his cheering story anyway.
The bridge and rear gun platform were open to the elements, and had been fortified with sandbags during our passage, this together with Anti-Flash gear and tin helmets would afford us a modicum of protection, but as I was wearing earphones I was unable to get my tin helmet on. My Action Station was on the port side of the bridge behind the Skipper; 'Snowy' White was on the starboard side. "Action stations" were sounded at 0330 on the 6th November.
As dawn broke the heavy guns of the destroyers and frigates commenced their shelling of Port Said. This firework display temporarily took our minds off the problems that could arise a little later on, but surely there wouldn't be any opposition left after that onslaught, would there? I remember a feeling of excitement tinged with uncertainty and wondered how I should feel and how anyone else was feeling. One or two humorous comments from the gun platform behind us were intended more to settle the nerves and bolster spirits than anything else I suspect.
Gradually as the morning began to unfold the air became heavy with smoke and the acrid smell of burning. From the ship we could see that many fires had been started ashore. It looked as if an oil refinery or two had been hit as plumes of black smoke rose like giant thunderclouds into the sky and the brightening dawn gradually gave way to semi-darkness.
At the conclusion of the bombardment minesweepers were despatched to clear a safe channel to the beach. This they did without incident and at 0520 we were detailed to stand by to go in and proceed down the "swept channel".
An attempt to block the Canal had been made by the Egyptians and as we made our way towards the shore we manoeuvred past wrecks of sunken ships, their masts and funnels rising eerily out of the still water, pointing like ghostly fingers towards the sky. They appeared to be at varying angles to the shore and consisted of both large and small boats. Some appeared to be large merchantmen, and as we passed, I thought, what a waste. Had these ships been commandeered or offered for service to help the cause?
Whose ships were they?
Where were their crews?
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Dwelling on these questions was not a luxury I could afford. A voice was earnestly giving directions through my headphones. We were getting perilously close to shore now. Off to our port bow loomed the Casino Palace Hotel and we could see that it had received a hit, although rifle fire was still being directed from its rooms. We couldn't see the perpetrators and could only guess that they were Egyptians and that they were trying to target our lads in the streets below.
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The bow doors were opened and troops and vehicles disembarked all exactly to plan and just as we had practised many, many times in Malta during the previous two months. We were fortunate that the Egyptians had no heavy artillery covering the landings; otherwise we would have been sitting ducks. We were also fortunate that the Egyptian gunners, through reasons of their own, had not directed their fire at the disembarking troops. Maybe this was due to the fact that they were being engaged by Royal Marines who were now established in the streets below the Hotel.
Our instructions were to remain on the beach until required for further duties. At 1310 we were ordered to slip and proceed to the Empire Ken where we would off-load vehicles, then on to HMS Theseus where we would take on stores and finally back to the Casino Palace, off-loading once again at 2345. It was deemed too dangerous to remain on the beach during the night so at 0020 we berthed alongside HMS Theseus again. This first day had been a long and tiring one but had ended, thankfully, with all the crew safe and well. We were getting reports of casualties ashore though and wondered if any of the lads whom we had disembarked earlier were amongst them.
On the morning of 7th November we were again ordered to transfer troops from the Empire Ken to the Casino Palace, completing the disembarkation at 1115. It was during this trip that one or two of us slipped ashore after the troops had landed and made our way towards the direction of the main street. Firing was still coming from further up the road and we had to hurriedly take shelter in a house which had been commandeered by the army. Apparently it had belonged to a doctor and I remember that the front garden was filled with fruit trees. Our lads had set up a vantage point in the front bedroom. Almost directly opposite were a few shops and a snooker hall, the latter of which had either received a hit or had been destroyed during the street fighting the previous day. Snooker balls littered the street and broken snooker cues were lying around like snapped twigs. This was not a safe place to be, so we decided against further sight seeing that day and made our way back onboard. During this brief sojourn, however, we did notice an imposing building with large heavy doors situated on the jetty a short distance from the Casino Palace and came to the conclusion that this must be some kind of Bonded Warehouse and was worthy of a second look if safety permitted.
Quite unexpectedly the next day an opportunity presented itself when we were given orders to destroy the numerous small craft tied up alongside the jetty. (This was to prevent any would-be saboteur using these craft to get alongside our ships to plant mines). We carried out this scuttling process with extreme haste as we worked our way along the jetty and nearer by the minute to the Bonded Warehouse where Christmas would come early for the men of the Amphibious Warfare Squadron.
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The doors of the warehouse were extremely sturdy, and rightly so, they didn't want any Tom, Dick or Harry - or Jack getting their hands on all that booze and fags and it took a couple of hours before we managed to get them open. Our mouths dropped open in amazement when we gazed upon the scene inside. The place was full of surplus army gaiters. Why would anyone want to go to such lengths to protect such a cargo?
Still reeling from the shock of the gaiters we had another shock this evening - a cease fire was called for, commencing at midnight 8th November. To say that confusion reigned upon the mess deck would be an understatement. We had no idea why this state of affairs had arisen. The natives still seemed hostile enough so it didn't appear to be their idea. Perhaps some big wig in Government would provide an eventual answer - stand by for increased signal traffic.
Just to be on the safe side it was adjudged that we should still continue the shore side patrols but with a slight difference. We wouldn't have any bullets in our rifles; after all, their Lordships didn't want Jack shooting somebody and setting the whole thing off again did they? It's amazing how naked one feels when armed with an empty .303. I did wonder whether or not I should shout BANG if any unauthorised person did approach, but fortunately I was spared that executive decision.
For a while it seemed that we were not alone in our confused state, as there appeared to be several people who hadn't a clue what they were expected to do. This may have been normal practice for some, but it was difficult to judge without knowing them. Anyway, confusion or not, life must go on and we were assigned the task of ferrying personnel, transport and stores from ship-to-shore and vice versa. It was during one of these transfers that we, most of the ship's company that is, discovered our Utopia - "K Rations"! We were transferring boxes of goodies ashore for the army and it didn't take us long to discover that not all boxes were the same as some had a far superior content than others. Perhaps some were for the Officers Mess, others for the Sergeants Mess and the inferior ones for the squaddies.
The tank space would be loaded to the gunnels. A gangway ran either side and on the starboard side was a ladder leading down to the Electricians store. It was, therefore, quite a simple matter to magic one or two boxes from the pile and down the hatch, making certain, of course, that they were the right ones. These rations certainly were a God send and helped supplement our daily diet. Our food was good, it was just the fact that every time we asked "Chef" what was for lunch he'd say, "What do you feel like cooking?" Needless to say chips were constantly on the menu. We only had the one Leading Cook and I think he was more used to a supervisory role. Still the boy done good in the end. As we shall see later.
On Sunday 25th November official leave was granted for the first time from 1430 until 1830. This is when we discovered just how good our football team was. During two or three weeks we played most of the fleet without losing a match and it was not until we played HMS Forth on the 16th December that we lost our first match in an exciting 4 - 3 finish, but had we have known then what we later found out, we may have increased our pace a little - an unexploded shell was found near the touch line on the improvised pitch where we had held our game.
I played right wing and would have probably overtaken, not only the whole of the opposition defence but the gathering crowd of curious onlookers as well, if I had trodden on that.
The final days of November slipped almost unnoticed into the pages of naval history. A couple of hours leave were granted from 1430 to 1630 each day; Ferrying of vehicles and stores were still taking place, but the sense of urgency had definitely departed the scene, however, another more urgent situation had arisen, how could we not have thought of it? Of course, the ship needed painting. It never ceased to amaze me that some forward thinking individual at the Admiralty had the foresight to include, amongst all the preparations for warfare, gallons of Pusser's Grey paint, just in case there was a lull in the fighting I suppose. The ship's company had their minds on much more important things though - Where would we be for Christmas? On Wednesday 5th December we had been taking on water from Eddybeach and then alongside Tiderace and it was whilst we were alongside her that we had orders at 1200 to "half-mast" the ensign as the skipper of the Eddybeach had died. I didn't get to hear of the circumstances of his death, but certainly it was a sad day for all concerned. |
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There was now, during the early days of December, a different feeling in the air, something that you couldn't quite put your finger on, but nevertheless you could feel that something was happening. There seemed to be an increase in ship movement, our two-hour leave periods had been suspended, and apart from recreational leave, we were now alternately either at 30 minutes or 45 minutes notice to sail.
Then on Friday 14th December we had a thirty-five minute visit on board the LST (Landing Ship Tank)- HMS Striker by the First Lord of the Admiralty, Viscount Hailsham. As I recall he thanked us for our hard work and professionalism, but omitted to explain what had brought a sudden halt to the proceedings. The answer to that question only became evident long after I'd left Suez.
It was now an open secret that our days at Suez were fast drawing to an end, although everyone had to keep up the pretence that we were indeed here for the duration. After all we didn't want the locals to start storming the jetty in their eagerness to see us off - literally. Many of them still had firearms and we would rather leave without a sending off party, but we still had a little surprise up our sleeve to remind them of our visit, which will be explained shortly.
We had a period of light relief today Wednesday 19th December. Whilst loading French vehicles onto the French merchantman Brest another French merchantman Epinal was loading an LCA (small type of Landing Craft) nearby and on board the LCA was a private yacht - wonder where that came from? When all of a sudden the derrick buckled and dropped the LCA into the water. It is not clear what happened to the yacht, but thankfully the LCA suffered no lasting damage. Funny what sometimes makes you laugh?
Today 21st December was to be our penultimate day here, the day that we would leave a lasting reminder of our sojourn into the land of the Pharaohs. It was decided by some wit that it would be a good idea to climb the statue of Ferdinand De Lesseps and place a British and French flag in his hand. Well his statue had been guarding the entrance to the Canal at Port Said ever since its completion in 1869 and nothing like this, to our knowledge, had ever happened to him before. An added attraction was the greasing of the statue on the way down making it almost impossible for anyone to climb back up and remove the flags.
At 1630 we slipped from Casino Wharf for the last time and made our way past the still grotesque fingers of the sunken wrecks to Fishing Harbour. A note in the ship's log for 1930 reads, "Scattered firing heard coming from the direction of the town". They must have noticed the flags!
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Saturday 22nd December at 1730 we proceeded out of the harbour and dropped anchor whilst awaiting further instructions to join the convoy, which we did at 2225. It was all over and we were on our way back home, not knowing which side had won or whether indeed the umpires had declared a draw. The journey back to Malta would take about five and a half days so Christmas Day would be spent at sea. On Christmas Eve at 0710 HMS Decoy together with HMS Duchess passed through the convoy wishing everyone "A Merry Christmas" - what a nice thought. Then at 0001 Christmas morning various ships let off rockets and other forms of pyrotechnics, but fortunately we were far enough away from Port Said not to cause utter panic by the locals at the thought of a re-invasion. Before joining the navy I had always looked forward to Christmas lunch, it was one of those special meals that only seemed to turn up once a year. A large roast turkey complete with all the trimmings followed by Christmas pud, and then afterwards the uncomfortable feeling of being too stuffed to move. This Christmas was different to say the least. I don't know whether it was the fact that there were no turkeys on board or that conditions didn't lend themselves to cooking a full-blown Christmas menu with the sea being a little rough. Anyway, the hastily convened gourmet committee, in their wisdom, decided that Christmas lunch could wait until Malta, and settled for egg and the obligatory chips- what else? |
We arrived back in Malta on December 28th at 1230 and tied up at Shipwright Wharf where we landed a few army vehicles that we had transported back from Suez. The remaining days of 1956 were really an anti climax with the exception of New Years Eve when our Chef cooked a most fantastic Christmas/New year lunch - well worth the wait.
During early January we were wishing each other fond farewells as the ship's company were split up and returned to their respective shore stations in the UK. I was flown back home in a dilapidated Dakota, World War II vintage I think, and returned, not to the idyll of the sunny cliffs of Dorset, but instead to join the Cruiser HMS Sheffield via the Signal School at HMS Mercury, Hampshire.
Footnote: The flag-waving statue of Ferdinand De Lesseps was blown up by the Egyptians on Christmas Eve..
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