70s Reflections

A few days ago I was in the lobby of a city hotel, no, not drinking, just waiting for my lift to drive me home. I guess my mind was wandering as it took me a second to realise that there was a fine specimen of a redheaded lady just entering the bar – suddenly I was back 34 years to 1975 and seeing Red for the first time as she entered the lobby bar of the old Wentworth Hotel in Sydney. I can tell you that, although it only took a second to see that the face, although similar, was not that of my old companion/wife/whatever, it rather shook me up. If I was one of those dramatic type people that love to exaggerate things I would say that the experience tore me in half, but, as I am from an old English family, where emotions were scorned and never allowed to show or even be recognised as such, I will simply say that I found the experience, ‘somewhat disturbing’.

However, it also got me to thinking, something I usually try and avoid. Do you realise that in about 14 weeks it will be 40 years since the 70s swung into being, struth! 40 years, that just can’t be right … can it?

I remember when females started wearing those one piece mini dresses that had a zipper right down the front and at the top of the zipper was a huge ring similar the ring on a parachute rip cord. Now that just wasn’t fair, all these nice female forms and this big ring that seemed to draw your hand towards it – all you had to do was pull the ripcord and ‘presto’ something was bound to happen – usually a lot of screaming and pretended offence. I ask you, if they didn’t want the blasted things pulled, why have them????? Actually Red had one of dresses before we became a couple – I remember we were sitting in a bar after returning from somewhere and I was giving ‘The Ring’ a lot of thought, it was so very tempting. She must have read my mind because she said ‘Touch the zipper and you will be singing soprano’, instantly I lost the urge, by then I knew she had it in her to do it.

It’s now 22 years since Red went out of my life, 22 very empty years even though I was, for the most part kept busy with heaps of people around me. I guess it gets back to that thing called ‘The Core’ of a life, every life has one, a time that is unique to you and the one that is most remembered and cherished. Other times can be good, but a life is only allowed one ‘special time’.

For me the 70s was where things really started to happen. The 60s were good but for most of that time I was charging around the world in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy so I missed out on the clothes and music. Actually I’m a bit angry at that, you only have one shot at youth and to have 9 years taken up in learning to be responsible for property and lives is a huge chunk out of the ‘good’ years.

Then came the 70s and things changed …. Little did I know what awaited just over the horizon, the miles to be steamed, the friends to gather around me and then lose, the ships, the seas and oceans, the places and people, it was indeed a very full and succulent life; I’m not sure if you can use the word ‘succulent’ in this context but it just seems to be right. Plus there was Red, the centre piece of that whole wonderful time. She died only a short time and half a world away after we parted and that just seems so wrong. I used to rage about this but now realise that you can never second guess life or your actions within that life, to do so would be an empty gesture without any meaning except to make you feel you are doing something about a situation that can never have anything ‘done about it’.

I recently received an email from a young lady who had read the book, naturally she loved 'Red' (most women do); also, again naturally, she was a Frida fan. In one part she asked why I never mentioned the song 'I Wonder' as she thought it just about described the core 'issue' of the book (I didn't know it had a 'issue'). The reason I hadn't mentioned this song is because I didn't know the blasted thing existed. Anyway this is the link she sent I hope you enjoy it as much as I did http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ti04nG1LZ2w

Anyway, I guess it’s time toast the 70s, just another decade – but ‘hey’ it was fun wasn’t it, especially those dresses with the big ring pull zippers …

When the postman doesn't call anymore

I guess there has to come a time when you must face up to being ‘irrelevant’, no matter what the past has included, one morning you wake up and realise that nobody would notice, or give a dam, if you hadn’t bothered.
Plus, once the irrelevance sets in, you increasingly experience the waves of grief, despair and frustration that come with the flooding arrival of old memories, not the good ones, rather all the bad stuff which had been safely locked away for a thousand years. When I wrote the short story “Captain (D)” I was starting to understand what the old chap was, at times, going through; now I am living the same thing myself. You get an inkling that it’s coming, there is a feeling as if you can actually feel the approach of heavy grey/black clouds, ready to block out everything bright. Then it hits like some vast wave engulfing a ship, you hang on, pinned to the deck until the wave passes and the again vessel breaks free into the sunshine. As time passes the waves become more frequent, more dark, more heavy and the temptation arises to just let go of the deck and let the wave take you over the side, it’s very peaceful in the water surrounding you ship … no more waves.

Yesterday I again got released from hospital it was only a shortish visit but it was the 11th in 4 years and didn’t really achieve much. After a bit of patching to help for the immediate moment I was advised that there were two options. The first included some self administration (no details here) that would involve a level of pain for about 10 minutes every day. The second was more major surgery that, with my heart, I had only a 50/50 chance of surviving … actually I think there is a third option – do nothing and I confess that is the way I am presently leaning, sometimes it’s simply time to say “enough is enough”.

My friends have all departed and on returning home I found that I hadn’t had one email for three weeks, struth, I used to get 60 a day, when I saw how empty the inbox was the word ‘Irrelevance” sprang freely to mind and there it has found a home. I think you have to weigh up the value of life, evaluate purpose or reason for continuance. I can no longer: -
· No good food
· No good booze
· No bad women
· Walk for more than ten minutes
· Breath without oxygen close by – just in case
· Dance – I was never good at it but it’s coupled to bad women
· Sit with friends over a good meal that lasts for hours – The friends are DEAD and the food and wine has slipped into the past.
I do lament the loss of women, there have been so many over the years (that is not an ego thing it’s just the way we were). I guess a hundred would be a conservative estimate and that includes the 12 years when Red was around and I stayed faithful to her alone. The thing is I can’t really remember names and faces; they are just a confusion of bodies, at the time that was sufficient, it was all short term and just for the hell of it. I do remember one lady quite well; it was during my time in the Royal Navy. Strangely it all started in the port of Stockholm, how odd that that city keep rearing its head in my past. With other officers from my ship I attended a dinner at the British Embassy (or Consul) I can’t remember which it was but we are going back about 40 years. It was there I met ‘Katya’ (not Katia) and she was also a lieutenant - but in the Russian Navy. The port had kept a distance between our ships but over dinner things got very close. By 0200 we were in bed together with the uniforms that should have kept us apart also entangled on the floor. Katya was blonde, about 5’8” and very stunning. She was also the strongest woman I have ever known and could even pick me up without strain – which was very disconcerting. We actually stayed in touch for a while and even had an unforgettable two weeks in a place called (I think) Vaxholm. We thought it would be far enough away from ‘Official’ eyes, we should have known better. Anyway, at least I can say that I had a romance that it took two governments to break up.
But on to other things – the trouble is that there are no new things, it’s all the past rehashed and rehashed, memory is great but there is nothing fresh about it, no surprises and life needs surprises. Music becomes pastel, the intended emotion diluted from overuse; there is nothing unexpected in any verse. How shocking to become one of those old bores that drives people away by telling stories of the past over and over again.

At one time I sailed endless oceans, had a tribe of good friends around me, we ate drank, fought, lived, died and generally squeezed every bit of life out of each and every day. The bill was always paid with a grin and it was then on to the next escapade with no regrets.

Now it’s just an empty inbox. There is no reason for anybody to contact me, I have nothing new to say and am only getting crankier with age and physical condition. Except, perhaps, as a visitor, I shall never again man the bridge of a ship, never utter the words ‘Let go all’, no, this little vessel isn’t steaming anywhere again but ‘oh brother’! you should have seen where we have been … so much strangeness, so much unfamiliarity, so many new places just waiting like new dishes to be tasted, Oh well, I just hope there are still others enjoying the meal but I doubt it, there are no real characters left, people have been regimented into extreme blandness.

I had started on book 2 of The Mucky Ducks but that inbox has shown that the stories made no lasting impact – there again book one was only penned as a memorial to the old crew so, perhaps, there is no need for a book 2. I hope book 1 stays around; I would like to think that, from time to time, somebody will still pick it up and take a wander through those great years and spare a thought for the guys. It never sold big but there again it was never at any time given any advertising; still I am told it has a cult following so some must have understood the underlying message.

So, what now … for the first time ever I confess to having no idea about the future. For some reason I had always thought the story wasn’t over, that we were just in an extended intermission – guess I was wrong, I think the curtains have been sown closed.
I think life is rather like one of those old English country houses like the one my family had. To be home and have value to the owners a house requires young things to be living within it and when they grow old, their young things keep the house alive with the zest for life and a deal of laughter and tears. However, again like a house there comes a time when there are no new young things, young thoughts, young ideals and dreams and when that happens the house starts to decay.
As in the book, perhaps it’s time to ring down ‘Finnish with engines’ and for the last time slip quietly ashore.
Again, pinched from the book, where it was pinched from Longfellow: -

"Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;

Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,

Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and a silence."

I think that just about sums up the whole thing … don’t you?

Time for a good malt whisky … or ten

I NEVER GOT TO LITTLE DUDDLESWELL

Over the past year or so I have caught up (via a UK schools website) with a few people from my school days. These are all people I haven’t seen for about 48 years and the ranks of the remaining are a bit thin compared to ‘what was’. It seems many of my early friends were not destined to make old bones.

Anyway this particular lady (now living in Wales for some unfathomable reason – I didn’t know people actually went to live in Wales) was talking about the changes she had noticed on her last visit to the old place and she said “It’s sad that Little Duddleswell is gone, it was such a grand place”. Reading on I found that a new bypass had ripped right through where Little Duddleswell (circa 100 ad) had been. Now, you are wondering why I should even bother to mention a vanished village that nobody would of heard of anyway … well, it’s because I never got there.

11 (ish) year old Harry

The village of Duddleswell itself lay between the Sussex Coast and our house outside the village of Oxted – not exactly in a straight line but pretty close to it. There were no important roads on this area no A1s or A2s definitely no M1s, as Motorways still lay in the future. I think the most important road that you briefly crossed before falling back into country lanes was the A25 or something. There was an old railway spur line about 5 miles away but it only ran about three trains a day between ‘nowhere’ and ‘nowhere else’, I seem to remember it was called ‘The Bluebell Line’ because of the wild flowers that lined the side of the rails during the summer.

As to Duddleswell? Well it was really one small country lane that briefly widened to show off a few (about 12) buildings, six or so on each side of the road. This was not a sleepy place, it was a sleeping place, had been since used as the hub of a staging post for regiments forming to fight the Napoleonic Wars back in 1730 something. The village had been there since about ad200 but briefly awoke to play this vital role, then it was back to sleep again. There was a stream that ran beside the village that also widened into a sort of big pond and on this pond could be found ducks and geese – no swans as they were far to regal to visit this unimportant place. The pond, indeed the village itself was not a place of oak trees, here soft weeping willows, silver birch and elms ruled the land.

Actually as you entered the village from the coast end, there was a small sign that said “Beware of Mad Angus” and underneath a drawing of a goose with wings stretched and head thrust forward in the attack position. I had met Angus he was the ‘boss goose’ of the pond and made a great village watchdog. If you offered him bread you could just pass the friendship test, however if you had some Lincoln Biscuits for him you were a friend for life. I do remember with a big chuckle that one of my friends teased Mad Angus by offering him a biscuit and then pulling it way at the last moment. The next second Dickie was running for his life with a 'not amused' goose painfully latched on to the seat of his pants - he had to push his bike almost all the way home. Dickie 0 - Mad Angus 1.

But I am getting way from the core of things. The one thing that really intrigued me about Duddleswell was a tiny road that branched off from the not quite so tiny road that ran through the village and at the branching there was a small sign that read ‘Little Duddleswell 1M”. Now considering that Duddleswell was no more than 12 buildings, including, pub, grocers and bakery come sweet shop, you have to wonder what ‘Little Duddleswell’ would consist of. Naturally the problem was that during those pre teen years there is always so much to see and do. I had a small circle of friends and we all had bikes, heavy iron frames, straight handlebars, no gears and dynamo lights just to make actually moving just that bit harder – still they were our flying carpets. We had hundreds of small country roads to explore (and get lost in) and sixpence in your pocket made sure you got a drink and a bun when hungry. We often cycled through Duddleswell and I always intended to ‘one day’ branch off to see Little Duddleswell, but always something got in the way.

Once, in company of a couple of friends, we set out with the express intention of finally getting to Little Duddleswell, which, I must confess, was starting to become something of a mystery place to our young minds. Needless to say, again, we never got there, a broken chain, punctures, broken pedal, and last but not least a severe summer thunderstorm that swept out of nowhere and had us seeking shelter in the Duddleswell pub that, I think, was called ‘The Forrester’s Arms’. By the time the storm was over it was twilight and time to head home.

Thirty years later I again ignored the urge to change course and try and find something, only this time it was a person and it’s something I have had to live with every day since.

So that summer passed and then the next and the next and Little Duddleswell faded back into wherever it emerged from. The sign was still there but I no longer actually saw it when passing. My old bike turned into a little MG sports car and Little Duddleswell didn’t, to my young arrogant eyes, seem a sports car sort of place. Now Little Duddleswell is gone - as has the way of life that, in its innocence, created it. What is slightly annoying is that I couldn't find even one pic of Little Duddleswell in any search engine, you would have thought that an almost 2000 year existence would entitle the place to something, just to acknowledge it once was there.

You know it’s funny, I can still see that sign and Dickie with an angry goose attached to his pants – but I can’t see yesterday.Anyway, I guess we all have a few ‘Little Duddleswells’ in our lives, those things we always meant to but never quite got around to until it was far too late. In fact life seems to be made up of a series of Little Duddleswells’, it’s the way of things isn’t it? Harry

THERE’S A LIGHTHOUSE ON MY FRONT VERANDAH

OK, so it’s not really a lighthouse and the verandah is more of a semi enclosed storm shelter that you go through before entering the house – but you get my drift.
On the 10th of December I went to the annual get together of my old mariner friends that live in the Brisbane area. I am supposed to use a wheelchair for this sort of thing – but that was never going to happen, I went on my own two feet and didn’t even use a cane as my daughter took me there and brought me home again, so it was just a matter of walking to the bar and then to the tables.

Again this year the ranks had thinned a bit but not by too many this time, but brother, all hair is now either very grey or nonexistent, we resembled either the Alps or bowling balls in a shop window and as for waist lines, well, these have (as with the stories told) become very inflated. Funny, these guys were once the scourge of Asia and the South Pacific, their ships flew under whatever flag suited them at the time and their business and/or cargo were never discussed. We passed on many occasion and often were in flyblown ports together. Needless to say this usually resulted in too much food, booze and female company and often ended only on the arrival of the local constabulary after a magnificent brawl had erupted like a firework display to end the celebrations.

Little Arthur who was master of the ‘Trojan’ reminded me of the time we were racing each other for the only berth at our port of destination. Whoever came second would have to anchor off and tender stuff ashore. Naturally (knowing the other was listening in) we kept lying about our position on the radio to the port. Both of us gave our position as being 40 odd nautical miles further away from where we really were, hoping that the other would think they had the race won and slow down.

Anyway this all ended when we saw each other’s lights, engines went to full ahead with all the additional stops (like safeties) either shut down or pulled out. It was a bit of a foul night with high wind and 4 metre seas. I was actually keeping tabs on Arthur by the white slash as his bows broke through the oncoming waves and I bet he was watching us in the same manner. The small light beacon that marked the port entrance was well in sight and I even think we had the edge on the old Trojan, when suddenly we shuddered and started to slow down. Cursing like a fishwife I called down to Stoker to find out what was broken this time, only to be told that nothing was broken but by the feel of things we had run onto a shoal of either sand or an on and off again mud bank. Looking over I saw Arthur was in the same state, we both had come to a halt well clear of the entrance. There was nothing to worry about, it was lowish tide and as it rose we would float off, unless we broached in the heavy sea – luckily that didn’t happen. Still the indignity wasn’t quite over. As we sat there fuming and cursing each other over the radio, a rusty, decrepit, old banger of a cargo ship slipped round us, entered the port and took the berth. Naturally we screamed at the Harbour Master accusing him of having his beacon (which was one part of a major lead) in the wrong place … it wasn’t but it made us feel better to think that it was.

After the gathering, on getting home I did something I have never done before. I got an old Christmas tree and some lights from storage and dressed up the storm shelter. Nothing much, tree with lights and a few baubles, and a row of green and red lights around the inside walls. You see we are having a remarkable storm season this year and low dark clouds are sweeping in around 4 in the afternoon turning day to night. Then there is the wind and rain cutting across everything and forcing cars to either stop or slow right down, some even mount the pavement the vision is so bad.
Well, now all the locals know exactly where they are – nobody puts up outside christmas lights anymore, so mine are a small beacon letting people know that others are close by and as they sit in their cars, no doubt feeling a bit stressed, they know they are not alone.
Oh well, it’s my little gift to the season and who's to say that a small, tattered Christmas Tree can’t be a big important lighthouse ….

Reflections

It’s been a while since I wrote anything here; the last few months have been ... troublesome. However, something is looming on the horizon and it got the old brain into reflection mode. On the 10 of December I will be attending a bash with about 30 other old time mariners and associates. These were, at the time, not close associates, just people that we tripped over from time to time around the South Pacific and Asia. A description would be difficult, let’s just say that they were ‘fringe’ people, not exactly villains but also not the good guys. Although we didn't know it at the time, I guess you could also say that we were the last of the 'individuals', before the world finally became very bland and formalised. Most of the guys (and a couple of gals) attending will represent around 9 ships that steamed the region at the same time as we did. Most were single ship owner captains with crews that stuck with them over the so very many years, only being replaced when somebody made their exit. The ships were poorly maintained (money was always in short supply) and cargoes carried were a mixture of the legit, that showed on the manifest and the 'other stuff' that officially wasn't there. I can state that none of these ships ever transported drugs, we all had a pact about that. BUT there was liquor, tobacco and at times, arms.
Some of the attendees are older than me and a few a bit younger, this motly lot really covered the years from the 50s to 90s, the Ducks turned up in the 70s and were very much the new kids on the block. We do try and get together once a year but the ranks are thinning, time and past lifestyle are certainly rapidly starting to take their toll.
The point is that at our last gathering it struck me how very peaceful most had become. There was a lot of illness and injuries that now plagued the cast of this little epic but somehow there was almost a aura of serenity about them. Hard cases had suddenly become doting grandfathers and (almost) pillars of society. Certainly the stories still flew around but only those that ended with a good laugh at ourselves, however, more and more stories seemed to revolve around those that are no longer with us, I guess it's the crews way of giving them a form of immortality. Some of the catering staff serving us were a bit 'disrespectful' with that, so often these days encountered, don't care attitude. I had to chuckle, if they only knew ... in the past these oldies they scorned and giggled at behind their backs, would have mashed them to a pulp and left them for the hospitals to put back together - and that would have been the lucky ones, you didn't mess with these guys.
Looking around I saw Limey Pete showing photgraphs of grandkids to any that would look - I remember Pete as the best brawler in Asia, everynight ended in a barfight but the next day he always came back and paid for the damages. His ship 'Lady Faye' was held together with string glue and a lot of luck; what a delight it was to see the old girl loom over the horizon, you just knew something interesting was going to happen.
U Boat Carl, was just that, an ex WW11 U Boat commander, his ship was fitted to carry anything that was liquid and volatile, the strange thing is I have forgotten the name of his ship, it's nickname was 'The Brothel' and it was always a floating knocking shop. Now Carl must be close to 90, during our last meeting he kept wandering back to his Uboat days, alzheimers disease was starting to set in. Perhaps, for Carl, it's better if he goes and lives in the past, there he was somebody.
Then there was 'Lofty Hill', poor old Lofty, he only stood about five feet 3 inches and spent his whole life proving (with his fists) that he was actually six feet tall. His ship 'Dana Carter' ran like clockwork and was well maintained. The old girl did well as a floating casino (and a few other things) and I was saddened to hear of her loss (lost engines in a big blow, broached and capsized). Lofty is still proving how tall he really is, but now it's done with smile.
I could go on for pages about the players that will (I hope) be there, but to outsiders it would all be a bit mundane. As to me, well, I have made a vow that I will attend on my feet (no wheel chair) and that will happen, I haven't yet sat in the blasted thing, maybe in twenty years or so.
As to the 'party' well it will always be a success, people will fade away but all the time those that are left keep the stories flowing they will still steam the oceans of this little planet and that, to us, is important. Plus I think the peace and serenity thing only goes so deep, given a prod the young hellions would soon re-surface ... magic stuff.

Summer Saturday about 51 years ago

I was trying to catch up with the world news, or what the television offers as world news, and an advertisement came on for some toy store. Now, nothing wrong with that per say except that the wording was along the lines of ‘give your kids many interesting things to do – fill in their day with … etc

Has it really got to the stage where kids have to be entertained and guided every minute of the day? That’s plain stupid. OK – wait for it – you are now going to get one of those dreadful “when I was a kid” stories, sorry but it has to be said. So how did we spend a, say Saturday, in summer?

With the long hours of daylight we would be up by 6am – by 7am we would have had breakfast and be ready to face the day and on the way to our favourite meeting place – this changed over the years but all knew the current one so we didn’t need half an hour on a mobile phone, to discuss the location. You never knew just who would turn up or even when, you just knew it would happen. In your rucksack you had a lunch packed by either parents or housekeeper. This would usually be a sandwich or two, a couple of hard boiled eggs and a slice of cake – baked at home and not from a packet. You would also have a stone jar of some sort of drink, usually homemade lemonade or ginger beer, if you were very lucky you might even have a shilling in your pocket to purchase some Tizer to drink and if the ration had reached the shops, a small bar of chocolate.

Once 2 or 3– maybe even 4 or 5 other s had turned up, you would be off. This Saturday was to start with a wander. Crossing the fields to the railway line we would get beside the track and head south. From time to time other lines would join the one you were on and you would divert to see where it came from, passing trains thundered past but being steam trains you heard them coming a mile away and would get to the side of the track in plenty of time. By 10am we would be about 5 miles from home (we didn’t walk fast) there was no reason to and we had to stop and investigate ‘things’ along the way. Still by this time we would be thirsty, so a short break was in order to have a little of the dink we all carried in our rucksacks.

The line walking ended when we saw something of interest. It could be a small gathering of buildings denoting a small village, or a river with ducks swimming or fishermen on the banks, or might be an one of the many un cleared bombed out buildings that still littered the countryside. Today it was a single deserted airstrip that caught our attention. It was quite a small place with something that had once been a crude runway, a small observation tower and a couple of collapsed tin huts. It had probably been one of the many RAF fighter bases for Spitfires or Hurricanes, or, at one time or another perhaps both. These little strips were scattered around so that the German bombers couldn’t get many planes at any one time. The rest of the morning was spent crawling around in the huts and observation tower, small items of found ‘stuff’ would become treasures to be taken home in the ever trusty rucksack. Lunch was dragged out and enjoyed sitting on a grassy back beside the airstrip, I bet, in the past many a fighter pilot had also enjoyed the sun and a sandwich when sitting in the same spot. I guess for them there would have been a constant knot of fear that made any food difficult to swallow. Many were between 18 and 21 years old, only 8 or so years older than we were at the time … that’s pretty scary.

From the little observation platform at the top of the small tower we had spotted a road and at about noon or a little after we headed off across the fields to find it. Time was tricky as none of us had a wristwatch but Denis Waters did carry an old alarm clock in his rucksack, that, from time to time, we dragged out to get a bearing on time.
Reaching the road we soon found a crossroads and that meant a signpost. These were mainly new as all signs had been removed during the war just in case the Germans got there. Some bright spark in the Ministry of Roads or whatever must have been under the illusion that Germans couldn’t read maps and that by removing the road signs whole Panzer Regiments would get lost, give up and go home.
Anyway the sign told us that Oxted was 6 miles away and off we went. Actually we didn’t have to walk all the way as one of the local farm hands came along on a tractor that was pulling a hay wagon, so, we got a lift to just outside of the village – bit smelly as the cart had recently held manure but a ride is a ride.
Seeing as it was ten minutes to 2pm there was time to make the matinee at the cinema. The seats were 9 pence for a matinee and we just had enough money. I have no idea what the film was on the day in question, it would have either been a western or very ‘B’ SciFi. Actually, today (51 years later) I collect these old scifis and have over a hundred of them with more being added weekly. I think the cinema was glad to see us go as the manure smell was becoming evident even to ourselves and as the film ended all the exit doors were thrown wide open.

After the cinema we pooled the money we still had and bought a couple of bottles of tizer and three sticky buns to be dived up between us. It was now just after 4pm but still bright daylight, being summer it wouldn’t get dark until around 9.30/10.00pm but there would be a long twilight. Still, parents got a bit grumpy if you were late for dinner (usually around 7.00pm) so we started to wander back to base camp, which, at this time, was a tunnel dug in the woods not far from my house. As tunnels go this was quite a good one. It had lino on the floor, a small stove with pipe chimney, cushions and a small wooden cupboard with munchies, usually nuts we had found but at times with packets of potato crisps although these were scarce and treated like gold. On vary rare occasions there might even be a packet of biscuits, these had to be seriously rationed.
Safely tucked away in our underground fortress we lit the fire, I don’t know why as it wasn’t cold, it was just that you couldn’t have a good camp without it, and planned the next weekend which was to be a campout in the grounds of my house. These were always fun and it meant that we could sneak away into the woods after midnight without parents getting ratty. During the week we would collect as much food as possible, ready for the cookout. There still wasn’t a lot around but we could get local produce so things like eggs, sausages and bacon were available in small quantities and there would be plenty of potatoes to roast in the fire and then eat with heaps of butter melted on them.
We broke up at about 6.30pm giving us time to get home before dinner (following getting thrown into the bath – it must have been good manure).

So, that was a typical Saturday, nothing to speak of really happened and we didn’t try and set the world on fire. No video games, no music earphones to cut off the outside world, no mobile phones, no bikes or skateboards, just a very big and interesting world that really did need us to explore it.

PIRATES – THE PROBLEM CAN BE CONTROLLED BUT NOT BY THE UN.

So, we are back to media madness about modern pirates, all I can say is that it makes me sick to the stomach – not the pirates, although they do, but rather the media, politicians and a host of others all trying to cash in on this terrible industry. In some areas of the world, from the 60s, pirates have been as active as they are today; it’s just that nobody cared and, except for a bit of short time excitement, nobody really cares today.

Let’s be clear on a couple of issues; over the years pirates have mutated into something different from 4 decades ago. They are still, to a degree, people trying to get money for their own use (usually poverty stricken fishermen) but now they have been joined by the ranks of religious fanatics. These are the people that are expanding the industry. The money they make, and there’s a lot of it, goes to help fund terrorist activities around the world. So, be aware, we are not just fighting simple pirates; we are also fighting large, cash healthy, terrorist organizations.

The question begs to be asked “Why do we fail in endeavors to wipe out pirates”? The answer is quite simple; the western culture legal Industry and general apathy get in the way. It’s the same reason that the Iraq conflict is failing. Western troops are soft (yes even the supposed bad boys) when compared to the enemy. Our troops have thousands of dollars worth of equipment, the best weapons and organised support. On the other side we have guys and gals who may only have an antiquated firearm, a pocket containing something akin to week old bread and some root vegetable and another pocket with some ammunition, but they also have something that our troops don’t and that’s a steely resolve to kill the enemy at any cost, there is a burning hatred that can only be extinguished by death. They do not need, comfort, they do not need food and they harbour no thoughts of home. If ordered, they will sit and wait in a ditch for days/weeks impervious to weather and personal comfort, their only thought is to carry out their assigned task.
Our troops, when compared to the opposition, have a background of home life, food, shelter, movies and general pleasant living. They want to get back to the good life, theirs just don’t care, and they have no dreams of ‘other things’ only killing the enemy.

I have worries about the UN and others getting involved, that will really stuff things up big time because that will bring the baggage of ‘political correctness’ and that’s a very bad idea. If you want to eradicate pirates, you start by showing strength not weakness, and to the eyes or the terrorist any and all forms of negotiation and attempts in ‘understanding’ are recognized as a weakness to be exploited and in that area they are masters. The UN or even simple multi nation action will involve so many ‘rules of engagement’ that it is doomed from the start. As in the past, the actual aim of the operation gets diluted and eventually lost, in the stream of rules and regulations imposed to carry it out. The enemy has no such hindrance and thus, again, wins the day.

Next we have to look with un-blinkered eyes at which governments may be surreptitiously supporting the pirate trade. I have got into trouble in the past by naming certain countries, so this time I will simply say that a careful watch should be kept on governments of countries lining the Malacca Straits and South China Sea. I won’t even dain to mention Somalia, their government couldn’t lie straight in bed and Nigeria needs to put on the suspect list.

Moslem factions in many countries now use pirates as a cash producing industry, their tentacles stretch across the globe and I would assume, although I have no proof, that they will be planning to extend these operations, all that is holding them back is the need to judge just what reaction the western world will make to the present level of operation.

So, how to defeat them and ‘yes’ it can be done – but not by present rules.

To test the water I would have two vessels in the water. The first is, your main attack vessel and the second, a support vessel but also capable of taking care of itself in a standalone operation. These vessels should steam no closer than one complete horizon between them (say 15/20 nautical miles). The purpose it to draw the enemy out to you and then dispose of them, I should say they I have been engaged in such operations and they are very successful but one rule must be recognised before you start ‘No Survivors’, you just can’t afford that luxury.

Standard procedure is for the pirate mother ship to get close and then launch fast inflatable rafts with boarding crews. Once the rafts are committed they are vulnerable but there is a strict order of events that must be observed.

Your crew must be armed with nothing less than modern gatlings, something akin to the M134D would be most acceptable. The rafts are actually the least of your worries; these can be easily disposed of. The main worry is the mother ship getting off any form of radio signal (THIS JUST MUSTN’T HAPPEN).
So, at least three gatling type guns or (if the range is long) one very smart sea to sea short range missile must take out the enemy wheelhouse and any radio masts etc.
At the same time the rafts must be totally destroyed, along with all occupants, that then just leaves one other item of business, but the one that can get tricky.
As the rafts are being destroyed you must already be steaming towards the mother ship - if it is still afloat. This must be boarded and any evidence gathered. Also, and this is where our western weakness gets in the way, any survivors must be eliminated. Then the vessel must either be sunk, or steamed to a hidden spot for disguise before returning her to a neutral and safe harbour.

It must appear to the pirate clan that the ship has just vanished, this starts to create valuable doubt. Once a few vessels and crews fail to return the trade will begin to become less attractive and once that little acorn of uncertainty is sown you can build on it. You will never be able to end the operation as the water will be constantly tested but the oceans will become a safer place.

The greatest problem in running this as a government or governments operation is that they are simply no good at keeping any secrets and the need for such extreme measures will have the legal types screaming their heads off. Plus the operation would need to be kept secret from certain governments with whom, on paper, we enjoy cordial relations, no matter how much we distrust them.

I am now getting on in years and I am sure that superior military techniques have evolved since my days of ‘point and pull the trigger’. However, one thing is still the same – we are losing because our western charter does not allow us to go the last (very messy) yards and unless someone is prepared to stand up and tell things as they are and take the necessary unpalatable action, the seas will get less safe and terrorists richer by the year.

I’m not holding my breath, as this is another area where we have lost the plot. In my day there were actually two groups actively opposing pirates. Indeed both were paid mercenaries but they did get the job done. As to what happened to them? Well, our own governments and culture made them outcasts. They were condemned because they tried to make the sea a safer place when governments couldn’t or wouldn’t – just like now.

Harry Drake