Date: Wed, 26 Mar 2008 18:10:20 -0400
From: John Ellison <paradegi@sympatico.ca>
Subject: A Sailor's Tale - Chapter 7

"A Sailor's Tale" is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living
or dead is purely coincidental.

The following contains graphic descriptions of consensual sex between
men. If reading gay erotica offends you, please move on. I am also required
by law to remind readers that in certain states, provinces, city, towns and
hamlets reading, downloading or possessing gay erotica is forbidden by law
and that readers must be 18 years of age or over.

Copyright 2008 by John R. Ellison



A Sailor's Tale

Chapter Seven


	Every navy is different, with different customs, different
traditions, but all based on a single unit: the ship. In a steel container,
all more or less the same, is a group of disparate men, each in his own way
unique. Each contributes, again in his own way, to the character of the
ship, and whether or not she has reached the ideal: a happy and efficient
ship. One follows the other as sure as night follows day. There are many
variables, of course, but each in its own way contributes to the ideal.
	First there is the ship. If she is old, and cranky, she impacts on
the crew. If she is new, or fresh out of refit, she can be moulded and
formed into something wonderful.
	HMCS St. Laurent was a purpose built destroyer, the first of a
seven ship class that would be known as the "Cadillac of Destroyers."
Designed and built in Canada, the class incorporated the latest technology,
with close attention paid to her survival in the event of a nuclear
confrontation. Everything was sleek and streamlined. Gone were the
superfluous upper deck fittings. Gone was the traditional straight lined
design of hull and deck house. She had a rounded hull designed for sea
keeping, and to counter the formation of ice. There was a built-in
pre-wetting system that could be used to wash the decks of radioactive
fallout. Her armament was the most up-to-date that could be installed, and
the main armament, originally four 3"/50 guns in two turrets, radar
controlled.
	To reduce weight, aluminium was used to form the superstructure,
funnel casing, masts, storerooms and so on. There were no scuttles or
windows, except those fitted in the bridge superstructure, and those were
heated, as were the capstans, located under the forecastle.
	Care had also been given to the comfort and feeding of the
crew. There were no square corners. Everything was rounded to aid
cleaning. There were mess decks, as there had to be, but the huge open
spaces had been replaced with carefully designed berthing areas, and the
crew no longer had to swing a hammock. Everybody had a bunk, a great luxury
when compared to earlier classes of warships. Gone were the small storage
lockers located in the mess deck seats. Everybody had a locker now, and to
aid in the general comfort of all hands the ship was air conditioned!
	The old system of each mess drawing cooked rations from the galley
was replaced by a below decks central galley and "main cafeteria", which
doubled as the Junior Rates Mess, with separate Messes for the Chiefs,
Petty Officers, and Engineers. Meals were no longer soggy and cold, or
mouldy. Everything was stored below decks, and easily accessible via the
wide corridor that ran fore and aft, called "Burma Road" by the crew.
	When I joined her in 1963, St. Laurent was fresh out of refit. The
superstructure had been remodelled and now much of it was a hangar deck, to
accommodate the Sea King helicopter that would aid in the ship's primary
anti-submarine role. Everything was state-of-the art, and modern, from the
larger bridge to an expanded Combat Control Room. No longer did a captain
fight his ship from the bridge. He was below decks, aided by modern
detection equipment. Purists might grumble but as the then Executive
Officer put it, St. Laurent was now a part of the "Nuclear Navy" and the
old farts could like it or lump it.

******

	Of primary importance in the making of an efficient ship into a
"happy ship" was the crew. Every man was a part of a chain, so to speak,
and on him depended the strength of the others. Some ships were clean and
efficient, but not happy. A ship could have a hand picked crew, each man
dedicated and professional, and each aware of Hopwood's second dictum:

"As naught may outrun the destroyer,
So it is with the law and its grip,
For the strength of a ship is the Service,
And the strength of the Service the ship."

	In pre-Unification days, life as a sailor was considered a
profession, and not a job. Life in the Navy was unique and damned near
every man who lived it, and breathed it, believed without doubt that Divine
Providence had marked him as a member of a special breed of humanity: a
sailor. It did not matter if the sailor was English, or Canadian, American
or German, he was dedicated to his Service, his ship, and his
shipmates. The Law of the Sea, which recognized his kinship with all
sailors, had long been observed. A sailor was a part of Nelson's "Band of
Brothers", each dedicated to the other. He had to be for once the mooring
lines were slipped and the bows pointed toward the sea, he had no one else.
	A ship, and her crews, is a unique creature throughout her active
life and when she is no more, all anyone is left with is memories and
perhaps a collection of faded photographs and unless a newer ship is named
for her, she disappears into the mists of time and talked about only at
reunions and dinners, or when old shipmates meet by chance. There are no
museums dedicated to a particular ship, no Regimental "Colour" to lay up
with pomp and circumstance in a local church. The Navy has a Colour, a
White Ensign signed with the Sovereign's Ensign, but it is rarely paraded
and kept in a case in the Halifax wardroom, growing discoloured and
dusty. There are no "Regimental Drums" with the battle honours painted on
them, for the ship has no Band. There is a Band, composed of professional
musicians, but it is supposed to represent the navy as a whole. At the end
of the day all a sailor really has is the ship, and his shipmates, his
"Band of Brothers".

******

	Hopwood's fifth dictum opines:

On the strength of one link in the cable,
Dependeth the might of the chain.
Who knows when thou may'st be tested?
So live that thou bearest the strain!


	The might of the chain also depends on the strength of the shackles
that hold the lengths of chain together: the officers. The main shackle, if
you will, is the man who commands. The captain is "Sole Master, After God",
and the nearest thing to an Absolute Monarch left on Earth, and the
personification of the saying that the navy is not a democracy.
	The character of the captain and his methods of command can make or
break a ship. I have served with captains who were martinets, and despots,
men who were more concerned with their "image" and impressing their
superiors than they were with the men they commanded. I once served with an
odious toad of a man who, when he was Executive Officer of the ship, knew
he was on the fast track to succeed the Captain, and went around saying
"One Day I WILL Be King!" Sadly this happened and in the space of a year he
destroyed the morale of a happy and efficient ship.
	Equally sadly, his conduct and indifference, and pettiness were
well known to his superiors. They did nothing, for he had friends in high
places and slavishly followed the party line, CF all the way. After four
years of wreaking havoc he was finally promoted to four-ring Captain and
"honoured" as Saluting Officer at the Battle of the Atlantic Parade. It
pays to have friends in high places, in more ways than one.

******

	I lucked out with my first ship. The Commanding Officer was a gem
of a man. At first glance he came across as a transplanted Englishman, the
product of a classical, English public school education, filled with his
own importance and very conscious of his position in the stern class
structure that existed at the time. A tall man, he stood six foot
something, and spoke with a broad, crisp, upper class accent that can only
come from an education in the Anglican tradition. But behind the veneer was
a man, a mensch, who understood the differences in his fellows, who
realized that mistakes would be made and who could, and did, try to make a
difference. He was no pushover, and while he relied on the ingrained
discipline in each of his sailors, he knew when to lower the boom, and when
to cut his "lads" some slack.
	While he never allowed liberties - he was, after all was said and
done, the Captain - he believed in listening to his people, and leading by
example. He wanted an efficient ship, but more importantly he wanted a
happy ship, where the men under his command would willingly follow him. It
helped that he had charisma, had been born a leader, and possessed a wicked
sense of humour. He could laugh with the men, and willingly allowed himself
to be lampooned at the annual "Sod's Opera", a series of skits performed by
the crew as part of the ship's banyan, a beach party, where anything
went. He encouraged the shenanigans because he knew that the crew needed a
way to blow of steam, to point out perceived inadequacies - real or
imagined - and generally cock a snook at the officers and senior Chiefs and
Petty Officers. It was in one of these skits that he learned that the
ratings called him "Bugnuts", a play on his name. He laughed uproariously
and opined that at least they didn't call him a rotten son of a bitch!
	The humorous imp in Bugnuts was rarely seen for the most part, but
it did pop out every now and then.
	As was the custom at the time, we went on a spring cruise to
Bermuda, "Bermadoo," as we called the island, to the Bahamas and on to the
Antilles. Officially we would participate in war games with the USN, based
in Roosevelt Roads. We would also take the opportunity to paint ship. Once
the painting stages were rigged, and over the side, the captain was the
first one to shimmy down the rope, paint brush in hand. The officers
weren't too pleased, but they really had no choice in the matter, not with
Bugnuts, dressed in a pair of ratty old shorts and a singlet, slapping
paint hither and yon with gusto.
	The officers did not mind painting ship so much as what would
happen to them if they had the misfortune to share a painting stage with
the captain. He did not suffer fools gladly, and felt that deflating a
pompous ego (we had several) was one of his responsibilities. Any officer
who met the criteria was stuck on the painting stage with him. Those in the
know dressed appropriately, usually in boiler suits cadged from the Chief
Engineer. The captain, his shorts spotted with paint, his hair awry (he was
balding and allowed one side to grow longer so he could comb it over his
thinning pate), chatty and laughing, sometimes singing along with the band
that thumped and pumped away in a whaler as they circled the anchored ship
(more of that later), but carefully watching his stage made to see his
reaction. A smile and a laugh met with equanimity and the captain left his
mate alone. A frown, a muttered oath, demanded retaliation. This took the
form of a swipe across the face, back of the head or, if the stage mate was
standing, the butt, with a paint-laden brush.
	The officers eventually caught on to the Captain's idea that while
yes, we worked hard, working hard did not mean that we could not have fun
while we did it. The ship's surgeon, a dour Scot if ever there was one,
having been the recipient of a swipe of green/grey paint, retaliated by
procuring, somewhere, a gorilla costume. He topped it off with the
traditional, round sailor's cap and was lowered over the side by his
fellow-conspirators, the Executive Officer and the Buffer. At first the
Captain was too stunned to react and then he started laughing. The surgeon,
making appropriate monkey noises, reached into a fold of his costume and
brought forth a banana, which he offered to the Captain, who laughed so
hard he leaned back and rolled off the painting stage and into the deep
blue waters of Rosey Roads. He was rescued by the band whaler and spent the
rest of his "watch" directing the horn blowers and having a hell of a time.

******

	As an old gunnery type, Bugnuts revelled in tradition. He loved
pomp and circumstance; he loved the "Navy" way of doing things. He believed
implicitly that a sailor was a superior being, although like all beings he
had his faults. Properly led, a sailor could rule the world; treat him
fairly, feed him properly, let him blow off steam every now and then and he
would be invincible. Most importantly, respect him as a man.
	At the time, discipline was very strict, to the extent that when
Jack Tar was charged with anything, he was adjudged guilty before and after
the fact. The saying was "March the Guilty Bastard In!" All too often it
did not matter that the man might be best in his trade. What mattered was
that he had transgressed and all too often the presiding officer forgot, or
pointedly ignored that Queen's Regulations and Orders (QR&Os) specified a
maximum and minimum sentence for any infraction. Bugnuts knew the
regulations, but he more often than not wanted to know the underlying cause
of the infraction. As most of the charges brought at Captain's defaulters
involved drinking to excess, coming aboard drunk, and the like, he really
didn't have too many problems. He did draw the line at wilful destruction
of property.
	At the time motorcars were a rarity in the Bahamas and those that
were available for rental were ruinously expensive. Jack Tar, needing
transportation, hired a moped, readily available through a large,
entrepreneurial black gentleman who, with his numberless children,
maintained a concession fleet on the jetty where we always tied up. He
always had a ready supply of vehicles and more importantly, they were for
hire, cheap, a few Bahamian dollars a day. The only fly in the ointment was
that Jolly Jack, when in his cups, felt the urge to proceed with incaution
when returning the moped for the night. At least once a week, sometimes
more, Jolly Jack thought it great fun to speed down the jetty and into the
harbour, arms and legs akimbo and laughing maniacally. When the shouting
and tumult subsided, Jolly Jack would be hauled aboard one of the bumboats
that always seemed to be lingering at the stern of the ship. This was also
a concession owned by the black gentleman. The boat was manned by one of
his sons and the standard fee for rescuing a not so drowning, but very
drunk, sailor, was five dollars, American, and no argument.
	The next morning the Supply Officer would trundle down the gangway,
a wad of cash in his hand, to negotiate "compensation". The waterlogged,
and mud covered, moped, would be offered in evidence. There would follow a
period of weeping, wailing, hand wringing and teeth gnashing, and not a
little shouting about loss of income and taking the bread from the mouths
of starving black children! Why the Supply Officer bothered I don't
know. Everybody knew that he would pay up in the end, just as everybody
knew that the moped, dried out, and with its innards tinkered with, would
soon rejoin the fleet.
	Jolly Jack, sober, and cleaned into his best No. 1 uniform, would
be called to face Navy Justice. Bugnuts, laughing inwardly, would shake his
head ask why Jack had deciding to go swimming. The stock answers were
usually "I don't know, I was too drunk at the time", "It seemed a good
idea" and "The night was very hot and I thought it would be nice to take a
swim". Bugnuts would laugh, find Jolly Jack guilty and order him to pay
restitution (a financial burden, given the pay at the time) and stop his
leave.
	Stoppage of Leave was worse than having to pay back the Ship's
Fund. The next port of call was always one of the islands in the Lesser
Antilles, where living was easy, and so were the women. For a few guilders
one could, and Jack did, drink himself into a stupor and get his ashes
hauled. The island was overrun with ladies of all colours, from dusky black
to blonde perfection. It was a very popular port of call and always an
excuse for the Surgeon to stage his "Ciné Bleu Festival". This consisted of
gathering everybody in the hangar and screening a series of films warning
of the dangers of uninhibited sex with women of doubtful virtue, and always
ending with a warning for Jack not to stick his private member somewhere
Doc would not stick his walking stick!
	This always elicited an evil cackle from the Sick Bay Tiffy who
knew that there would be at least one candidate for the "Pecker Checker's
Cocktail", a broad spectrum of antibiotics used to cure what was politely
referred to as a "social disease." Bugnuts would then remind all hands that
it was his duty to point out that contracting a social disease was a
chargeable offence, and that in addition to having one's bottom poked with
a dull needle, one was prohibited from sex for 90 days so he hoped all
hands would sin only a little.

******

	While the Captain is God, his familiars are the officers, and his
Sword is the Executive Officer, who is responsible for the actual training
and running of any ship. On his shoulders lies a great burden, with little
to show for his successes for if the ship was happy and efficient the
Captain got all the credit. If it was a pit, and always late for any
exercise, the XO got the blame. He is part CEO and part hatchet man, and
his actions can, and have, ruined a good ship's company.
	Our Executive Officer was very good indeed. He was tall, and
stocky, and wore black-rimmed spectacles, which led to him being nicknamed
"Magoo", for the cartoon character of note. Magoo was not blind, far from
it, for he had a sharp eye and missed nothing. He was also the most
"complete" sailor I ever had the good fortune to sail with. The sea, the
wind, the tides, even the engines far down below, seemed to whisper in his
ear. He was so competent that never once in his entire career did he put a
ship handling misstep forward. He delighted in panache, to the extent that
he never brought the ship away from, or alongside to, a jetty using tugs -
which he dismissed as an American affectation. So far as Magoo was
concerned a tug was there to stand by and stay out of the way. Magoo would
stand on the bridge wing, eyeing the jetty, snarling at the tide, sniffing
the wind, and never misjudging his position. He could bring a destroyer or
a rowboat to berth as slick as shit through a goose.
	Magoo hated the shouting and tumult that seemed to accompany any
movement of the ship. He decided we could do it better, and quieter, so he
devised a system of hand signals. He drilled the boatswains relentlessly,
refined the system and as sure as fate the damned thing worked. Much to the
chagrin of his fellow destroyer XOs, St. Laurent would come alongside as
silent as a shark cruising a beach.
	Magoo was not ungrateful. At the time the only booze on board was
Pusser rum, dark, potent liquor. Every morning at 1100 the Boatswain would
pipe "Up Spirits" and we would be issued a tot of the stuff. Leading Seamen
and below had to mix their tots with water or Coca Cola, and drink it down
there and then. Petty Officers and Chiefs drew their tots neat, and could
take it away to their mess, to be enjoyed later if they wished. Officers
did not draw tots as they had a wardroom bar and a steward to serve their
gins and it – good London gin with a splash of Angostura bitters.
	To a lower decker the tot was more precious than fine gold. He
could drink it, he could use it as a medium of exchange, or repay favours,
or beg one. Magoo, knowing how precious the tot was to Jolly Jack, would
shamble along the waist and hand the Buffer a brown paper bag. The Buffer
would shuffle below and the hands would gather. Magoo never missed and
where he got the bottle of Pusser's Neats no one ever knew, as it was not
for sale. Rumour had it that Magoo had an in with an irascible, grumpy,
plump cook in the barracks who seemed to have infinite resources when it
came to rum.
	Magoo also possessed a sense of humour. He was always smiling, and
once fended off a boarding party by locking himself in the cable locker
dressed as a harridan, and armed with a deck mop and a fire hose. Shrieking
imprecations in an accent of no known ethnicity, he harried the hapless
boarders and only surrendered when the Buffer snaked a fire hose through
hawse pipe and threatened to drown him. As the saying went, Magoo had
bottom.
	The other officers were a fairly decent lot, including the two Sea
King pilots, although they were more or less dismissed as "Airdales" and
not worthy of a true sailors notice. The Surgeon was a dour old Scot, but
he had his moments, as did the NavO, called "Pilot". He was a slim,
blond-haired young man who specialized in getting the ship from point A to
point B. He was also the only officer I knew who still knew how to use a
sextant (the instrument having been replaced by radar fixes). The Pilot was
a methodical man who "shot the sun" every day at noon, and was never more
than a yard out on his fix. Both the Gunnery Officer (known as "Guns") and
the Engineering Officer were competent, able men who took their lead from
Bugnuts and enjoyed being sailors.
	The Gunroom, the space occupied by the Sub-Lieutenants (there were
three) and two midshipmen, bore more of a resemblance to a frat house than
a naval officers' mess. It was always littered with books, navigating
instruments and dirty laundry. The Surgeon, who had nominal charge of the
"young gentlemen", was always railing at the mess and threatened more than
once to take a flame thrower to it. Nothing changed except the
midshipmen. As "officers in training" they only stayed on board for three
months. They were always impossibly young, pink-cheeked, and usually as
rambunctious as puppies. I am almost ashamed to say that few of us resisted
the urge to pat the lads on the head from time to time, much as one would
pat a loved nephew.
	The only Nubian in the fuel supply was the Supply Officer, Nabob
the Paybob. It was universally held that he was a prat of the first
water. Short, slim, with thin blond hair, he was a sly, sneaky little
bastard, always sticking his nose in places it did not belong. He was very
conscious of his rank, his position and his dignity. He demanded respect
where none was due, and was always charging the cooks, or the stewards,
with some infraction or other. Bugnuts never trusted him, and Magoo loathed
him. However, Nabob had friends in high places and stayed and stayed. He
had no sense of humour and took great umbrage when Bugnuts decided to poke
him with stick and hold a "Muster by the Open Book".
	Mustering by the Open Book was a throwback to the days when ships
were wooden and men were iron. In the days of sail a Captain was given a
fixed sum of money to pay and provision his ship. The money was
administered by the Purser, an appointed position, and more often than not
collaboration between the Captain and the Purser included collusion. If a
ship was rated 200 seamen, for example, the Purser would draw money from
Admiralty Funds to pay that number of men, and stores from the dockyard to
feed and clothe them, presenting as proof the Muster Book where each man
had signed or made his mark. It was a situation ripe for graft and
embezzlement, which was almost a way of life in the Royal Navy, because
while there might be the names of 200 ratings in the book, the clerks at
the Admiralty took on faith that each name actually was that of a real
man. The clerks really had no way of checking if the victuals issued were
actually being eaten by 200 men, or if the fresh rations were actually on
board when a ship sailed. It was rumoured that more than one captain padded
his income by selling the fresh rations ashore, and keeping the names of
men who were long dead on the books, and drawing their pay.
	To counter the theft and graft, the Lords Commissioners of the
Admiralty devised "Mustering by the Open Book". Once a commission the crew
was mustered and each sailor presented himself at the Captain's table,
tugged his forelock and identified himself. He would then be checked off
the "open book" listing every member of the crew, and proving that he
actually existed and was not a "spare hand of the watch" that existed only
on the Purser's Crew Roster.
	Bugnuts, as an old traditionalist, and having served a watch or
three in the RN, was aware of Mustering by the Open Book. He was also aware
that it hadn't happened in at least a hundred years, and probably wouldn't
have called for it if the Paybob hadn't pissed him off by demanding that
the wine accounts be settled promptly, thus casting doubts on his fellow
officers' integrity.
	Nabob the Paybob was livid when Bugnuts directed a Muster by the
Open Book. To the Paybob's mind this was an insult to his honesty and
character. The ratings were paid, in cash, once a month and the officers by
cheque, also monthly. Every penny was strictly accounted for, and his books
audited every six months, and woe betide him if there were a few dollars
misspent or incorrectly recorded! For all his faults, Nabob was an honest,
conscientious Keeper of the Queen's Purse (as he put it) and he was not
having it!
	Nabob complained officially, but that got him nowhere. He had to
lump it, if he did not like it. He lapsed into an irate sulk, and plotted
his revenge. What he did not know was that Bugnuts was capable of revenge
as well and in the end the Paybob was the cause of an eruption of rage the
like of which I never saw before or since.
	Bugnuts was famous for never losing his temper. A wise and knowing
officer or man knew that he had approached the boundaries of discretion
when Bugnuts began to twirl the signet ring he wore on the little finger of
his right hand.
	While he was a man of many follies, Bugnuts was incapable of
meanness. He was fully aware of who the butt lickers were, who the poodle
fakers were, and which of his fellow officers scampered in to the Chief of
Staff's office as fast as their hands and knees could carry them, rumour
and innuendo following in their wake, the knives they hoped to plunge into
the back of a fellow officer clattering loudly against the cobbles of the
roadbed.
	Part of Nabob's pique was that Mustering by the Open Book could be
perceived as a blot on his copy book. This he could not have because it
would mean that his chances of being promoted were lessened. Another
problem was that Nabob had no "friends" or a "rabbi" to look after his
interests. At the time there was still a residual class system in existence
in the Navy, three mutinies and the Mainguy Report not withstanding. If one
belonged to the right "class" and the right clique, one had few worries.
	Bugnuts was definitely of the highest class, although he had not
graduated RMC, and did not "Wear the Ring". But he was RN trained, and an
aristocrat, and his upper class accent was learned from childhood, and not
affected. He was the product of his culture, which sadly was still aped in
the RCN, with officers pretending to have English roots and accents, and
obeying the old traditions, including stuffing a clean handkerchief in the
left sleeve their uniform jackets. In many ships officers dressed for
dinner in mess kit and miniature medals, and the Officer of the Day trod
the quarterdeck with a fancy ropework decorated telescope under his arm. An
officer was considered a gentleman by dint of the Queen's Commission and
regarded as such. He played along to get along, never rocked the boat, and
knew that he could rely on his friends if trouble came shambling up the
gangway.
	There were other cliques, notably those formed from the several
Officers Training Schemes that had existed or existed. The UNTD's were high
on the list, with the VENTURE officers just a little lower. The UNTD
officers were older, and had had more time to nest, with the university
program graduates not quite at the bottom. This place was reserved for
those "Commissioned from the Ranks", always a man who managed to attain the
rate of Petty Officer (after 1st January 1946 Petty Officer First Class).
	Looking back at the silliness that existed I sometimes wondered how
we ever managed to get anywhere at all.
	Of course, everything was politics. A lone wolf, a man who stood
out, was looked upon as "not one of us". It was simply not done, and if a
man did not conform to the accepted norms, he was got rid of. The ranks
closed and sooner or later the axe would fall. One had to remember that in
a military force that fought no wars, and had more generals than the
Mexican Army, advancement was slow and based more on whom you knew than
what you knew. A man on the rise had to watch his back and be very careful,
for one misstep could lead to disaster, blown all out of proportion.
	An officer on the rise would be watched carefully and if he did not
kiss some serious booty, and remember his station, look out. An independent
minded officer, who went against the accepted flow, was an endangered
species. As an example, not so very long ago, a submarine commander ran
afoul of his superiors. He was generally accepted to be the best of the
best, and well regarded by all who knew him as a competent, excellent
trainer of men. He had no use for fools, kissed no booty and never allowed
the political creatures that inhabited the labyrinth of Colonel By Drive to
interfere in his business. He paid the price for his intransigence and
refusal to kowtow to the powers that be. He was accused on trumped up
charges of molesting a fellow officer. SIU, the detective branch of the
Military Police, had a field day and a court martial was ordered. The
officer had friends, however, and it came out that the whole investigation
was based on unsubstantiated charges, and forged reports and
statements. The hue and cry in the media was horrendous and while the
officer was found not guilty, in fact innocent of all charges, his career
was ruined and he resigned.
	Another example was Magoo. When he left St. Laurent he was posted
to the Small Boats Unit as a ship driver. As the Senior Captain he quite
often commanded the three boat squadron that the Reserves played with in
the summer. He was well liked but he somehow managed to run afoul of his
commanding officer, a four-ring Captain who made no bones about his
determination to get rid of Magoo any way he could. What Magoo had done to
deserve the enmity and bile I never did learn. I only know that the Captain
hated Magoo with a quiet passion.
	The Captain, well-schooled in the art of destroying a career, and
unable to bring Magoo down (Magoo had friends in Ottawa) sat back and, with
the patience of a spider waiting for a fly, waited, and when Magoo made his
mistake, pounced. What did Magoo in was an accusation of misuse of
Non-Public Funds, specifically the Ship's Fund Account.
	Every ship has one. Each year DND allocated a small amount of money
per man and deposited it in the Ship's Fund Account. The money was to be
used to provide recreational items such as sports equipment, books for the
ship's library, beer at a beach party, and so on. The sum involved was
miniscule in the scheme of things, but very closely monitored and audited
every six months. Magoo's misstep? He had grown tired of the industrial
VCRs and the tapes of CBC programs provided for entertainment. He knew that
his men wanted something a little more stimulating, such as "Debbie Does
Dallas" rather than a documentary on the life of the Canadian Eskimo. He
went ashore one day and returned with four commercial VCRs and a bag full
of movies. A machine was installed in each of the messes and one in his
cabin. The taped movies were given into the care of the Chief's Mess, as
was traditional, and everyone was happy with their new entertainment
system. Until the audit . . .
	The bean counters saw the entry in the books and frowned. So far as
they were concerned buying VCRs and taped movies was not on the cards. DND
in its munificence provided the equipment and movies from stores and
therefore purchasing the same equipment outside of channels was
malfeasance. Magoo, in his concern for his men, and anxious to make their
lives a little less miserable, had forgotten Hopwood's dictum:

Dost deem that thy vessel needs gilding
And the dockyard forbears to supply?
Put thy hand in thy pocket and gild her -
There are those who have risen thereby.

	Magoo was never formally charged, for he had friends, but he was
relieved of his command and cast into the outer darkness.

******

	Nabob the Paybob, as a bean counter, and smarting with indignation,
plotted. He reviewed the ship's accounts and found nothing, simply because
there was nothing there. Bugnuts the traditionalist had paid for the
improvements he felt necessary out of his own pocket.
	As an ex-RN, Bugnuts had grown up, so to speak, to the sound of the
bugle. In the RN bugle calls were used extensively - there were, I think,
59 different calls, for every occasion, from "Action Stations" to
"Defaulters". These calls were sounded by a Royal Marine Bugler, which in
the RCN did not exist, as we had no Marines, Royal or otherwise. Bugnuts
found out that one of the signalmen was not only an ex-Sea Cadet, but an
ex-member of his Corps band. He had played the trumpet, and since the bugle
calls were all blown using the lips, and the not the trumpet valves, it was
an easy transition to blowing a bugle. The signalman, now Ship's Bugler,
was given an honorarium of one 40-ounce bottle of Pussers per month, and
made a "Day Man", meaning he stood no watches and only worked from
Divisions in the morning until Pipe Down at night.
	Bugnuts also believed in showing the flag at every opportunity. He
knew his ship's company was the best, and was proud of it, and wanted to
show off. So it was that at every port the ship called two things happened:
a reception for the local luminaries, and a parade, with drums beating,
flag flying, and bayonets fixed. Bugnuts of course knew that he had none of
what he needed, so he went out and got it, and before we had time to think
about grumbling, we had a Guard, outfitted with chrome enhanced .303's and
bayonets, and sparkling white gaiters and caps. Next, after a discreet whip
round of the mess decks, we had a BAND, outfitted with drums and horns and
woodwinds paid for by Bugnuts. None of the bandsmen were professional
musicians, being stockers and sparkers and bunting tossers, but they
sounded great and most had played in a Sea Cadet or High School marching
band.
	At first Jolly Jack grumbled, but it felt good, really, parading
through the streets of a small city or town, with the onlookers applauding,
dressed to the nines and looking like SOMETHING. It helped that at the end
of the parade there was always a meet and greet, which Bugnuts always
managed to arrange with the local civil authorities, where there was plenty
of food, plenty of beer, and always plenty of dollies. Jolly Jack never
passed up an opportunity to get screwed, brewed and tattooed, and we
enjoyed ourselves immensely.
	Nabob the Paybob, frustrated in his search for malfeasance, decided
to strike a low blow. If he could not get at the Captain one way, he found
he could in another.
	At the time homosexuality was condemned in every corner of the
Dominion. A "queer" was not to be countenanced, or in any way associated
with. SIU spent 90 per cent of its time investigating alleged homosexual
conduct, and being gay was a certain one way ticket to George's Island
Lockup, at the very least. Usually if a gay was found to be on board he was
first punished for his being a faggot, in the form of a beating by the
Neanderthals and bigots. QR&Os had article after article detailing
punishments for being found out. The Armed Forces did not, under any
circumstances, knowingly enlist gay men. They were deemed "not
advantageously employable" and refused enrolment. It was a dark and
dangerous time for a gay man in the Forces.
	Nabob the Paybob was a notorious homophobe. He knew that in QR&Os
there was a regulation that an officer or man who suspected a member of his
ship's company or unit to be gay, he was required to report it to his
Divisional Officer, or to higher authority for "investigation". Nabob knew
that Bugnuts was not gay. He was, in addition to be married, and the father
of two girls and a boy, a notorious swordsman, who never seemed to lack
feminine companionship when out of sight of his lady wife. Nabob did not
despair. He knew of a way to have his revenge and picked up his pen,
ignoring another Hopwood dictum:

Dost think in a moment of anger
'Tis well with thy seniors to fight?
They prosper, who burn in the morning,
The letters they wrote overnight.


	As Supply Officer, Nabob was the Supply Divisional Officer, having
in his charge the cooks, the stewards and the storekeepers. He met the men
under his charge every day, and thought he knew them, and one of them, the
Captain's Tiger, or steward, was the object of his bile. Tiger was a fey,
effeminate young man, given to sly innuendo, but an excellent steward. He
was also very discreet, and never to anyone's knowledge tried to put the
moves on any of his shipmates. He never lingered in the showers, checking
out his mates (although I am sure none of them would have minded) and when
he went ashore he never revealed where he went or what he did when he was
there. Tiger knew the dangers and kept his personal life ashore, far away
from the Navy and its prejudices.
	We all knew that Tiger was as gay as a duck. We also knew that we
were out of luck if we went to him looking for a little action in the
Silent Hours. Like Don, the gay man I had gone through recruit training
with, Tiger chucked shit, and had shit chucked at him, but he never (unlike
Don) acted on the offers made to him. He would bat his eyes, simper a bit,
and refer the man making the offer to the old, faithful, never fails, last
resort: Mrs. Fist and her lovely daughters.
	Bugnuts wasn't stupid, and knew that his Tiger was gay. He also
knew that Tiger was an accepted, if eccentric, member of his ship's
company. As a member of his ship's company, Bugnuts felt honour bound to
treat him without fear or favour. Besides, where would he find such an
excellent steward if he shopped Tiger? Bugnuts also knew that Tiger was not
going around molesting the hands as they slept in their beds. He reasoned
that it was one thing to think that Tiger was gay, it was quite another to
prove it, so he always turned aside any muted accusation, usually echoing
Lord Louis Mountbatten who, when it was pointed out to him that one of his
stewards was obviously homosexual, laughed and said, "Of course he is! They
make the best kind!"
	In the event, Nabob wrote a letter, filled with falsehoods, naming
Tiger as being gay and Bugnuts as protecting him and ignoring regulations
by not reporting his steward.
	The lower deck knew little of the in-fighting going on in the
"Weirdroom". We knew that Nabob had the knives out for Bugnuts, but as
Nabob was universally disliked and considered less than the dog crap that
sometimes stuck to the soles our spit shined boots, we ignored him. The
first we knew of Nabob's charges was when we were alongside in Halifax. Up
the gangway came an officious little man in a cheap suit who flashed a
badge at the Duty Quartermaster and snarled, "SIU".
	Cheap Suit strutted impatiently on the Quarterdeck while the
Officer of the Day was summoned. Once he leaned against the rail, his suit
jacket open, deliberately showing that he was wearing a shoulder
holster. He thought he was some punkin!
	In the event, the OOD showed up and listened as Cheap Suit demanded
to see the Commanding Officer. The OOD, who was young, had heard of the
terror tactics of the investigators, paled, and called down. He listened
and then led Cheap Suit down below to Bugnuts' day cabin.
	As I was not present at the meeting, which was held behind closed
doors, I can only rely on the veracity and accuracy of the Ship's Clerk,
who was listening at the door. It seemed that Cheap Suit, without preamble,
announced that Bugnuts was being investigated for harbouring a "known
deviant", said deviant being Bugnuts' steward. Magoo rightfully interjected
that there was no proof that Tiger was anything but a steward, and no proof
that that was a deviant, known or unknown. Cheap Suit, taking a page out of
the book of his US counterparts, threatened to investigate Magoo! When
Bugnuts protested, Cheap Suit informed him that he had no authority in the
investigation.
	This was another tactic borrowed from NCIS who seemed to think that
the investigators, no matter what their official status, outranked anybody
and anything when it came to an investigation. It might work in the USN and
it might have worked ashore, but . . .
	I can still see, in my mind's eye, Bugnuts remaining outwardly
calm, the only sign of his growing anger the fingers of his left hand
twirling and twirling his signet ring. Unfortunately for Cheap Suit,
Bugnuts' patience and temper had their limits. Denigrating Bugnuts' rank,
and position, and threatening him aboard his own ship, with no respect or
even a semblance of politeness, pushed him over the edge. According to
Scratch, Bugnuts let out an almighty roar - which was heard in Dartmouth,
I'm sure, and lunged.
	The Quarterdeck staff, shaken out of their usual lethargy by the
unearthly roar from below, drew back. As the shouting and drumming of feet
on the deck tiles of Burma Road grew louder, they drew further back and
formed semi-circle around the stern jack, from which flew the White
Ensign. They could not go any further thanks to the stern rail.
	The gathering storm, preceded by Cheap Suit's shrieks of outrage,
burst onto the Quarterdeck to reveal Bugnuts, his face effused with rage,
dragging a kicking and screaming Cheap Suit by the scruff of his neck
across the deck, the rubber soles of his Florsheims leaving black skid
marks on the polished teak. While Cheap Suit struggled to break the
vise-like grip, Bugnuts dragged him to the portside guardrail. Then, in a
feat of theretofore unknown strength, Bugnuts grabbed Cheap Suit by the
seat of his pants, lifted him high into the morning sun and flung him
overboard.
	In the two or three minutes it took for the Quarterdeck staff to
recover from what they had just seen, Bugnuts dusted his hands and then,
with a gleam of horrible retribution in his eyes, went hunting for Nabob
the Paybob.
	The Duty Quartermaster was the first to recover. He ran to his
shack and with one hand reached for the intercom mike. With the other he
punched the "Man Overboard" alarm. There ensued the usual hullabaloo
associated with recovering a man overboard, with the boat's crew rushing to
launch their rescue boat (actually the Captain's gig) and sundry hands
reaching for life rings and peering over the port side of the ship into the
dark harbour waters looking for the victim.
	Fortunately, the ship was tied up starboard side to. Had Bugnuts
thrown him over the starboard side he would have landed on the jetty. As it
happened, Cheap Suit ended up in the harbour and was rescued by one of the
duty boats that plodded back and forth between the dockyard and the old
ammunition jetty in Dartmouth. He was hauled from the water, spitting tacks
and water, and the duty boat continued on its run to Dartmouth where he was
unceremoniously dumped ashore. There he apparently made quite a scene and
ended up hailing a cab to take him back to the SIU Shack in the dockyard as
transportation had suddenly become unavailable. Nobody liked an SIU rodent,
it seemed.
	Back on board we waited for the hand of God to descend on
Bugnuts. He had not managed to catch Nabob who, choosing discretion over
valour, was last seen slithering down the Stores gangway and scampering at
a rate of knots in the general direction of the Flag Building.
	The inevitable telephone call came and Bugnuts appeared on deck,
fully booted and spurred, complete with sword and medals. He looked quite
calm and resigned, in contrast to Magoo, who was ashen-faced. Bugnuts
waited only a few minutes when a staff car flying the flag of the Flag
Officer, Atlantic, pulled up to the foot of the gangway. He was off to
explain his actions to the Chief of Staff and he descended the gangway with
dignity and resignation. As he entered the back of the car, Magoo wrung his
hands and shook his head sadly. The Master-At-Arms, an unwilling witness to
the most inappropriate chaos, shook his head and opined, "He's for it, and
no danger." The gathered ratings shook their heads and agreed that Bugnuts
was indeed "for it".

******

	The next two hours were nerve wracking. We all knew that Bugnuts
was in deep shit. He had assaulted a Naval investigator, and such was our
fear of the power those cretins seemed to have that we had visions of our
Captain being flogged 'round the fleet for daring to strike one of
them. Magoo alternately haunted the Quarterdeck, peering toward the Flag
Building and retiring to his cabin and telephoning the Quarterdeck
constantly. I admit that I too, was a pain in the collective asses of the
Quarterdeck Staff. Bugnuts was a gunner, and gunners always looked out for
each other. As luck would have it, I was there when Bugnuts returned,
although not in the same vehicle he had gone off in.
	Around supper time a grey, battered old rust-pitted Ford came
sputtering and gasping along the jetty. It pulled to a stop at the bottom
of the gangway and from one side out stepped Bugnuts. From the driver's
side emerged a very large man dressed in cook's whites. Who he was I had no
idea, but he seemed jovial and grinned widely as he shook Bugnuts'
hand. Then, while Bugnuts strolled up the gangway, greeting the Corporal of
the Gangway with a smile and a smart slap on his shoulder, the Midshipman
of the watch scrambled below to fetch Magoo.
	They both arrived on the Quarterdeck more or less
simultaneously. Magoo, expecting to see his Commanding Officer in irons and
flanked by armed guards, looked stunned. The rest of us looked
curious. Could it be, we asked ourselves, that Bugnuts had beaten the rap?
	He had indeed. What had transpired in the Flag Building I never
knew, and Bugnuts was always vague about the details whenever the subject
was raised. All I know is that when Magoo asked him what had happened
Bugnuts replied, "Ah, my dear fellow, there are powers at work in this
country about which we have no knowledge." He paused and then added,
"Sometimes they work for the righteous."
	This was the first time that I had heard the phrase, and while I
wondered what it meant, I paid it no attention, just as I put no
significance into the slight nod the fat chef gave me as he got into his
car.

******

	Nabob never returned to the ship and we heard that he had been
posted to Dawson City in Command. As the only military presence in the
small city was a small stores depot filled with antiquated weapons and
equipment used by the Canadian Rangers, the posting was really no command
at all. It came as no surprise to anyone that Nabob's name did not appear
on the Promotions List that came out the next January, or the following one
in June. Having suffered the ignominy of celebrating "The Feast of the
Passed Over", Nabob read the writing on the wall, sent in his papers and
drifted into the anonymity he so richly deserved.

******

	My life returned more or less to normal as I settled into the
sedentary life of a peacetime sailor. Life aboard ship was a series of
routines, up at 0530 on weekdays, Divisions at 0800, and then work. There
is always plenty to do in a ship, from chipping paint to the care and
feeding of the weapons. We varied our routines with day steaming and, when
the money was available, "Show the Flag" cruises as part of the Standing
Naval Force Atlantic where we exercised with our NATO allies. One of these
cruises took us across the Equator and we had a "Crossing the Line"
ceremony where pollywogs became shellbacks.
	The ceremony was great fun, and began with piping aboard Neptune
(actually the Chief Engineer, naked except for a loin cloth) and his court
as they crawled from the hawse pipe. The pollywogs were gathered, tipped
into a makeshift saltwater pool and pummelled by the bears (grotesquely
made up boatswains - one of whom groped me). It was a fancy dress party the
likes of which only sailors could put on. Our ordeal ended when we kissed
the Chief's oiled paunch and were pronounced shellbacks. Then the beer, and
carefully saved rum came out.
	It was after this ceremony that I discovered the secret underground
of sexuality that existed on board.
	I was never a drinker, and as I was due to go on watch I decided to
turn in early. I headed below, leaving the raucous laughter and the
discordant noise that passed for music as the makeshift band tooted away in
the hangar. As expected, the mess deck was empty. I stripped off my bathing
suit, examined my body for bruises (getting smacked with an inflated pig's
bladder hurts!) and gathered my towel, soap, and shaving gear and headed
for the washplace to shower.
	As the hot water washed away the aches of being inducted into the
exclusive ranks of the shellback, I enjoyed the warmth, closing my eyes and
soaping my torso languidly. The water, the low sound of machinery, the
swish of the hull as it moved through the water disguised the sound of
another sailor entering. I was so engrossed in what I was doing that the
first time I knew of his presence was when I felt his hands on my back and
heard his whispered, "Here, let me help you."
	I was so stunned at this blatant overture I couldn't move. My eyes
flew open as I felt his hands move slowly down my back, gently stroking my
ass cheeks. I admit that I was horny, but . . .
	The incident with Tiger had driven me even deeper into my closet of
denial. I knew that some of my mates had formed "liaisons" and met in quiet
corners of the ship whenever they felt the need. What they did I could only
imagine. I also knew that "quiet corners" were not the only places that
sexual activity took place. We slept in three-tier bunks, each separated
from the one beside it by a long, mesh box bolted to the frames. We called
it the "buggery box" for obvious reasons. In place, it separated the
sleeping bodies and made difficult any activity of any kind. Needless to
say, what was bolted, could be unbolted, and quietly moved
aside. Sometimes, in the darkened mess, I would hear the sounds of heavy
breathing and low moans. One I heard a whispered, "Fuck man! Watch the
teeth!"
	I knew what was going on but I said nothing and did nothing. No
one, except for the boatswain who had groped me in the pool, had ever shown
interest in me. Now, it seemed, someone had and I was terrified.
	He was tall, very blond, slim, and boyishly handsome. He was also
well-endowed and I could feel his manhood pressing against me as he slowly
turned me around. Wordlessly he reached down to grasp me in his hand, and I
moaned. Part of me wanted this to happen, but a stronger part of me
resisted. If I continued this to its inevitable conclusion, and gave myself
to the handsome young man, and was caught while doing it, what would
happen? There were rumours and tales told of sailors caught together in the
showers, and the retribution of unforgiving naval morality descending on
them, shattering their careers and lives. I did not want a cheap suit
suddenly appearing and demanding to see me. I did not want whispered
laughter to follow me as I went about my duties. I could feel his hand
slowly jacking me and sheer terror clicked in.
	Fool that I was, I pushed him gently away, shook my head "no" and
left the washplace. I crawled into my bunk shaking with fear. Would he
tell? What would he say if we met on deck? Had anyone seen us together?
Question after question filled my brain and I tossed and turned, unable to
sleep. Visions of Edmonton flashed through my head and I saw a look of
disappointment flash across Bugnuts' face as he sadly ordered me ashore for
being homosexual. I couldn't sleep, I wanted to cry in frustration, but
could not.
	I languished in self-pity until the Roundsman appeared to shake me
for my watch. Much to my surprise it was the same young man. I did not know
what to expect from him. Much to my surprise, and relief, after giving my
shoulder a shake he smiled at me and said, "Too bad you're straight. We
could have had some fun!"

******

	I never told anyone, not even Don, who knew about my ill-fated
relationship with Winger. I saw the handsome young man who had tried to
seduce me from time to time, which was impossible not to do. He never
mentioned what had happened in the showers, and he never made any attempt
to rekindle his desire for me. I never made any attempt to explore the
underground I knew existed. I was a victim of my own fears, and just as I
had left Cornwallis and Stadacona frustrated, horny, and a virgin, I left
St. Laurent frustrated, horny, and still a virgin when I was paid off two
years later.
	I left Canada for England, bound for Portsmouth and HMS Excellent,
Whale Island, the Holy of Holies for Naval gunners, a virgin. There I found
that there were more than Naval guns to be fired off.
	When I came home in 1966, after an 18 month gunnery course my Navy
was systematically being dismantled by Unification. But I was no longer a
virgin.