I was lucky enough to spend 2 years on HMS Ark Royal, an aircraft carrier, in the late 80s.  While on deployment in the Mediterranean, we had a 17 year old prospective Medical Assistant join us for 3 weeks.  Hed just finished basic training and had several weeks to wait before his MA course started.  This guy was 17 going on 12, very naive – in the nicest possible way.  He believed anything he was told and was ready to follow any order with enthusiasm.  I couldn’t help liking him, but also had a hard time not taking advantage of his willing personality.

I was a member of the seaboat crew and we were out 2-3x daily carrying out man overboard drills using a dummy.  The boat bay was about 45feet above sea level and the RIB (rigid inflatable boat) was swung out and lowered from a hydraulic boom on a cable.  Smudge (our intrepid prospective MA) was watching us one day & expressed an interest in coming out in the boat.  Smudge was promptly invited to play ‘man overboard’.  I told him we sometimes rescued a ships diver who would be dropped from a helicopter, but that he would have to jump from the side of the ship.  This was not really possible & there would be a fair chance of being sucked into the screws and turned into fish bait.  He said yes, but after looking over the side his face took on a worried look.  Once I saw this, I slowed things down.  Smudge was told it might be several days before he'd get the chance to jump.  Every day he’d ask if it was time.

3 days later we dragged him out of bed at 0500am and dressed him in a wetsuit, lifejacket, mask, fins and snorkel.  I strapped a dive knife to his leg and told him it was fend off sharks. “Poke them in the eye with it”.  We made him walk through the ship to the boatbay in full kit, breathing through his snorkel and peering through his steamed up mask.  He had to walk backwards up the stairwells.  People were backing up against the bulkhead to let him pass.  All 900 of the crew knew what was going on.  Only Smudge was less than blissfully ignorant.

When we got to the boatbay,  a ‘safety line’ was tied around Smudges waist.  He was told that when the time came to jump hed be untied.  The bosun sat Smudge on the edge of the ship.  He was so terrified that his trembling buttocks were lifting his body up and down.  The bosun counted him down from 5, and to give him his due, he moved to jump.  At the same time, 4 burly seamen heaved him back into the ship by his safety line.  Right at that moment, the ships photographer took a pic of the scene.  I had the Phot section make me a few copies that day.  For the next few years I stayed in touch with Smudges drafting and made sure a copy of the picture was on a noticeboard before he got where he was going.

Smudge – I wish you well, wherever you are & hope you have got over your POSD (Post Owen Stress Disorder)  I need to add that Smudges honour was upheld with help of CPOMA John Clinton.  JC helped Smudge turn the tables on Steve Moutrey and I.  Watch this space for the follow up dit…

On of the early 'fun' things the RN likes you too get a handle on is 'damage control". This is something, that at the time, you never really think you'll need.

Well, fast forward to 1982 and the Falklands conflict – you are now thanking your lucky stars that you have been trained for shoring up holes that are gushing water into your ship and, you can put out raging fires caused by an Exocet paying you a visit.

However, it's November 1973 – you've been in the Navy for less than a month. Now is the time to do some serious damage control training. Great! This will utilize the freezing cold water from the River Orwell.

So, can't wait. Here is a small group of us, about 4 or 5 – wearing just overalls, standing outside the training unit clutching our mallets, bits of wood, metal boxes to stop water getting in.

Sounds all perfectly straightforward, doesn't it? Well the clue is in the title. One our group is an Irishman, nicknamed Paddy of course, who is around 5ft 3" tall. This will have consequences for poor Paddy.

So, in we go, armed with everything you need to save the day! Overalls and bits of wood! The hatch closes behind us. All hell breaks loose!

Water starts flooding into the compartment at great force – it's hitting us from above, below and through the bulkheads (walls for you landlubbers!).

We are all drenched and frozen with alarming speed – we all desperately start to plug the holes – with our bits of wood. Oh, did I fail to mention that the compartment is dimly lit and is tilting just to help simulate the real thing.

Well, we're doing quite well, scrabbling around in the gloom, shaking with cold, but managing to patch up some of the holes. Unfortunately, there is now a lot of water in the compartment, some of us are up to our chests in it.

Not good news for Paddy – he is now panicking and calling for his mother – I also failed to mention that Paddy is not a particularly strong swimmer. One of our team comes to the rescue – Andy (a passing resemblance to John Cleese) – he manages to get Paddy up to a safe height. Andy is tall.

The exercise ends and we all get out alive. Paddy, however, does not last much longer in the service and eventually returns home. Damage control – not for the faint hearted!

Footnote

Andy went on to serve on HMS Antelope during the Falklands crisis – Antelope was one of the ships that was sunk. Andy survived this, physically. But, I think, he wasn't quite the same guy afterwards.

Extract from  the Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

So here I am, at Royal Naval Hospital Haslar in Gosport, its February 1974. I've learnt how to row a whaler, how to march, shoot, tie knots and a host of other nautical stuff – not forgeting, the importance of spitting on shoes! Now it's time for my part 2 training – the medical stuff!

I will revisit Haslar on a few occasions. My first tale concerns my first visit to a ward and my first 'procedure'.

Around two to three weeks into part 2 it's time to meet a real patient. Theory is great, of course, but it takes on a whole new perspective when applied it to a living, breathing subject.

I now have proudly displayed on my arm, a red cross, signifying I am a member of the medical branch of the Royal Navy. It's OK to wear it at Haslar because it is obvious that I am a lowly trainee. In fact, I revel in the 'rank' of Junior Medical Assistant 2 (JMA2) – can't get any lower than this in the pecking order.

Anyway, back to the task in hand. What fascinating thing will I be doing this morning? This thought runs through my eager mind as I enter one of the general surgery wards. Here, my tutor lets me know that I will be performing a high-colonic lavage (popular in some parts of the community, today) on a poor, unsuspecting patient.

Trust me, this is not the procedure to start your medical career with! I will spare you all the gory details – suffice to say it involved shoving a tube up the patient's rear end, pouring many pints of warm water down the tube and, cleaning the lower intestine as well as possible. This is in preparation for surgery.

So, a smelly, thoroughly unpleasant hour later – I leave the surgical ward having, well and truly, been introduced to the reality of my job. Welcome to my world!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

What is is with spit? Some of us have it and some don't. I, unfortunately am a 'don't'. What am I rambling about? Well, the services, including the RN, are big on spit and polish. This is a charming technique of spitting on your boots and then applying polish.

The objective is to create a shine good enough to see your ugly mug in.

No matter how hard I tried or how long – my feeble spit was just not up to it. At best my boots and shoes would look clean, definitely not sparkling. Oh, I usually got by inspections (these were very regular) OK. But, somehow, when looking around me at some of the top spitters, I felt a little inadequate in this crucial kit area.

However, all was not lost! I did possess a valuable talent. I was a damned good wielder of an iron. So when shiney shoes were critical – I could trade ironing for some super spit.

It did seem that during the first week or so at Ganges, we spent most of our time marching, ironing, cleaning, sewing and polishing and spitting!. So much for the jolly jack tar's lot.

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

It's a lovely view from the sea wall, isn't it? Well no, not really. Particularly when you are running alongside it in mid-winter, at dawn, dressed only in shorts and vest freezing your bits of.

Yes, we are still at Haslar in early February 1974 undergoing part 2 training. We have a particularly sadistic, or so it seemed at the time, Chief Petty Officer as our instructor. He believed a fit trainee is a happy and alert trainee. Alright as far as it goes.

So back to the sea wall. It is 06.00 in the morning – my class is up and dressed in shorts, vest and plimsolls. This is our standard exercise gear. We are in the freezing cold winter air running alongside the sea wall. We do this most mornings in the week. After a couple of miles we reach a grassy clearing. This is were we get to play a fairly unique game for the RN – I'm sure that the other services have something similar.

We now partake in 15 minutes of Murder ball. Murder ball? Yep – Murderball. A simple game with no rules. We are split into two teams. The objective is to score touchdowns – you can kick, throw and run with the ball. The Chief blows the whistle and bedlam ensues. Bodies everywhere!

Oh, I failed to mention the main strategy when playing Murder ball – get rid of the ball as soon as you get it! If you fail to do this you will find yourself underneath a pile of bodies intent on crushing you, seemingly, to death. After 10 minutes or so the 'game' comes to an end. Who knows who won? I just know some of us have a few more bumps and bruises.

Right, back to the school. No, not quite yet. We run back along the sea wall. Now, just to make sure we are wide awake we all plunge into the icy cold Solent. Bloody hell, it's freezing! My testicles panic and try to get as deep into my abdomen as rapidly as possible.

Now soaking and frozen we run, pretty rapidly, back to the school, shit, shower, shave and have breakfast. Then it's into the classroom for the day's lessons.

Funnily enough, nobody ever seemed to doze during these lessons!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

Sometime in 1984

I am still serving on HMS Yarmouth. We are now acting as guard ship in the West Indies.

So what is a guard ship? Basically the ship's duties are to patrol the islands and to respond to any requests for help, particularly in disaster areas. For example if an island was struck by a hurricane or tsunami we would provide search and rescue assistance, medical support and disaster relief.

Of course, during such a deployment there is usually plenty of opportunity for shore time to explore the islands. This is one of the better locations!

Now, let me explain a little about 'Jolly Jack' to you. He is away from home and tends to adopt the attitude that 'what they don't know, won't hurt them!" So, presented with the opportunity for, let's say, some female company, he usually doesn't try too hard to resist.

We are alongside in Antigua. This is one of the larger islands that is at once beautiful but of stark contrasts. On the one hand, there are beautiful beaches and expensive homes, on the other, there are many people living near the poverty line.

I am enticed ashore by a couple of my mess mates and we head out to find a suitable watering hole. This doesn't prove too hard and we settle down for a few beers! I haven't led a sheltered life but it takes me awhile to notice my surroundings fully.

While I sit at the bar I notice that there are quite a few of my ship mates here also. They regularly disappear upstairs and appear a little later. I casually mention this to my mates. They aren't concerned, after all we are sitting at the bar of a fairly large brothel! My ship mates are getting acquainted with the locals!

A few days later, we are back on patrol and my sick bay is pretty busy. I have about 25 cases of STD's (sexually transmitted diseases). This to Jack, is an accepted hazard of his life style! Around 15 of these new cases appear to have got their little problem from the same girl – yep, you guessed it – this group paid a visit to the brothel in Antigua.

So, many smears and painful injections later, all of the new cases are treated. The worrying thing, for me, is that it is during this period that the world is beginning to wake up to the threat of Aids. One of my roles is to lecture the crew on health & hygiene. But Jack, I think, always adopts the attitude to jump first and ask questions later!

Of course, as part of my stores I carry a good supply of contraceptives. I don't think there was a single occasion during my time on the ship that I was ever asked for any of these!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

Sometime in 1975

So here I am, fully trained. I am now an MA (Medical Assistant) ready to take up medical duties wherever I may be drafted. So, will it be a ship, abroad or a shore establishment? Any of these would be exciting for me.

My first draft? The army cadets, of course! I will be going to spent 2 weeks based at Tidworth army barracks looking after around 300 army cadets on their summer camp. Oh well, how hard can it be?

I pack my medical kit, a grand term this. It is, actually, a fairly large canvas bag packed with some medical kit including a few choice drugs. Should suffice; I wouldn't expect more than a few cuts and bruises – nothing too challenging. Only a bunch of kids after all!

First thing to note is army food. Although we camped out in the surrounding area, remote from the base the food deserved a mention. Navy food is pretty good but, the army have got it taped when catering in the field. The food was superb. However, I digress. Back to the cadets.

Expecting no more than a few minor injuries I was presented with a little more than that. These kids had fits, hysteria, broken limbs, lacerations, beri beri, trenchfoot, swamp fever, the list goes on! OK the last three were a slight exaggeration!

Blimey! Fresh out of training and these youngsters were certainly presenting me with enough problems to keep me busy. The 2 weeks passed rapidly. Great fun and a great experience, in fact.

Over the years I was to work with the RAF and the Army again. More of that later..

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

Yep – the RN can come up with some exceedingly fun things to do. In the unlikely event you are still alive after your helicopter hits the water – the RN, bless em, will have trained you in what do in this inconvenient scenario.

The first helicopter crash I had some knowledge about was when I was serving at the Royal Naval Airbase at Portland – HMS Osprey. A bunch of journalists were up in a Sea King, I think, when it plummeted into the sea off Portland. No survivors, tragically. The wreckage basically consisted of a crushed fuselage. It must be said that if you survive the impact – it is highly likely you will drown. Not much too look forward to then!

I recall that before I joined HMS Leeds Castle, in 1982 to go to the Falklands, I received no training – at 24 hours notice there was no time. I would have to wing it then. I would witness a helicopter ditching in the South Atlantic during the conflict. Oh by the way, this was my first time at sea. Not bad, eh – 9 years to get drafted to a ship. And then it was to go to war. Anyway, more of that at another time.

In 1983 I was drafted to serve on the frigate, HMS Yarmouth – a veteran of the Falklands conflict, known as the 'Crazy Y'. This time, there was time to do some appropriate training.

So, it was off to HMS Sultan – the RN's Safety Equipment & Survival School for some underwater escape training. Yep, I did say underwater!

I was with a small group who were to be trained in how to escape from a sinking helicopter. HMS Sultan, near Portsmouth, has a swimming pool with a helicopter fuselage complete with seats and harnesses. A bit like a high tech modern day witches dunking stool.

The objective would be to escape from different seating positions whilst the fuselage is lowered into to pool and then flipped upside down. Sounds huge fun doesn't. Oh, by the way, holding my breathe is not one of my strong suits.

We are kitted out in overalls, life jacket and flying helmets. We will be 'dunked' 3 times each. Once in a front seat facing forward, once in a back seat facing backwards and once with the helmets visor blacked out, simulating total darkness.

There will be a couple of divers in the pool, just in case anyone panics – as if! I am strapped into the front seat, the fuselage is slowly lowered, turning upside down as it does so. We strain away from the water to allow us to take a final breath at the latest possible moment before we are fully submerged.

I keep my hand near to door opening to keep my orientation. We have to wait until the fuselage settles on the bottom of the pool. As soon as it does – I release my harness and pull myself out easily and get to the surface with no problem. The guys in the back seat have a slightly more challenging task – they have to wait until the front seat passengers escape. Not a time for anyone to panic. They all exit OK.

Right, I'm now in the back seat – facing backwards. Hopefully my breathe will hold out this time. Still with an arm stretched backwards to locate the exit – we are 'dunked' again. This time it is not so straightforward. One of the front seat guys struggles a little to get out – he's helped by a diver. I unbuckle and get out over the seat OK – if feeling slightly panicky that my breathe would give out. I didn't want to look a wimp in the present company.

Last run, I'm now strapped in, facing backwards with my visor blacked out. This isn't much fun – you are disoriented – in darkness, upside down and under water. Again, I, obviously, manage to get out. Surviving a watery end – this time.

It crosses my mind, however, just how terrifying the real experience could be. Say, in a force 6 wind, heavy swell, at night in the freezing waters of the South Atlantic. Not something to look forward to. Fortunately, I never had to do it for real!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

Seen here with one of my best mates – Andy (Beanie – for obvious reasons!). This was taken sometime in 1979/80 while serving at HMS Osprey in Portland. Both, now fully qualified LMAs (Leading Medical Assistants).

Now we could be relied upon to be responsible at all times – yeah – right! I wouldn't say that we went out that often – but, when we did we tended not to hold back. Here is a very short tale of a particularly silly evening! Andy and I were serving at Royal Navy Hospital, Plymouth in 1977 and had had a couple of beers in the hospital club early one Saturday evening.

We now thought it was time to go 'ashore' for some fun. First port of call – the nurses quarters, seemed a good start to us. No takers here, unfortunately. Perhaps reputation went before us? No matter! We would go ashore anyway.

Andy insisted on driving the short distance into the town. We could easily have walked it. No matter. So of we went in Andy's pride and joy – a hotrod to be proud of. His car – a bright orange reliant robin! This was way before Derek Trotter! We parked up in a side street just of the main street in Plymouth – not a good idea in my humble opinion! This being a little bit rough to say the least.

We found ourselves in a favourite nightclub – I think it might have been the Spiders Web or something like that. We thought it would be a good idea to have ago at working our way through the optics. I think we made a pretty good job of it! Some hours later we made our way back to our transport – obviously somewhat worse for wear. Not a sensible move at all.

We were outraged to find that the 'Robin' had been broken into, evidenced by the broken window and the wires hanging from the dash were the radio used to be. Outrage! We would report this to the Police immediately.

Some time later we entered the Police station, a little unsteadily and presented ourselves to the desk sergeant and regaled him of the unsavoury and, frankly, outrageous incident. 'Right' he said, having taken down our particulars, he then asked us how had we got to the station. We replied 'we drove here in the Reliant Robin, of course!'

The sergeant, politely suggested that we get in a taxi to go back to the hospital and to turn in for the night. Why weren't we locked up. Fortunately, the hospital and the Police had an excellent relationship. This, however is probably the most stupid thing I have ever done!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

Now, at HMS Osprey, Portland – a naval airbase. I am now an LMA (Leading Medical Assistant) – so, am experienced and responsible.

It was here that I was to have, a somewhat ludicrous, run in with a particularly jumped up young Surgeon Lieutenant (a doctor). I was on duty, one morning, in reception. Booking in patients and getting them seen by the doctors. I recall that it was pretty busy and I had a waiting room full of ratings and officers.

The Surgeon Lieutenant called me into his consulting room. "Tea and toast!" he barked at me. Oh dear, not a good move on his part. I had got to be an LMA through study and hard work. The medical red cross on a medics arm is one of the few badges that has to be earnt before being allowed to wear it. With this comes pride in your chosen career – not too be trifled with.

I stood before the Lieutenant – looking at him. "Pardon Sir" I respectfully replied. "Tea and toast" again. No, no, no – this wouldn't do at all! I pointed to the hook on my left arm and asked "what is this Sir?". Then I pointed to red cross on my right arm" and asked "and this Sir?". He being a Lieutenant, and quite bright, answered correctly on both counts. This instantly brought the response from me – "Yep, your right, that means I am LMA and not a bloody steward (no disrespect intended)! Get your own tea and toast!" I smartly about turned and returned to reception, leaving the Lieutenant doing a smoking goldfish impression.

Having resumed my seat, I get a call from the Lieutenant informing me that he would not see any more patients until he got his tea and toast. Oh dear! I let the waiting patients know of the the Lieutenant's decision. Of course, this didn't go down too well with the Commander waiting to see him – in he went and issued a bollocking to the Lieutenant. Service resumed as normal.

Later, I was called into the Fleet Chief's office (he was the most senior non commissioned officer and my boss – to be feared, much more than the jumped up Lieutenant) to explain myself. He issued me with a suitable verbal reprimand but, could not help smiling as I left his office. I think I know what he was thinking.

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic