Xmas a time of good cheer and copious quantities of alcohol! Well that's how 'Jolly Jack' does it.

It's New years eve 1984 – on board HMS Yarmouth on patrol in the South Atlantic. It's rough weather and the ship is rocking and rolling. No matter! It's Xmas – down to the mess for a few tinnies.

Now, I usually did not drink whilst on board – any medical problems and it was down to me. But, it was New Year's eve so I relented a little (for once we had a medical Officer on board – so he could take the weight a little).

A good few tinnies later (quite a few, actually) – I staggered back to the sick bay to get some shut eye. I only staggered, you understand, because of the rough weather!

I get woken on New Year's morning at around 0200 – there's been a bit of a rumble in the aft seaman's mess. Apparently, a Glaswegian and a Scouser, both the worse for alcohol, have had a bit of a falling out. I would point out that the Scouser is significantly bigger than the Glaswegian. Net result? Glaswegian is floored – he falls back and strikes his head on a hatch combing (this is the raised edge of a hatchway).

I, being a little under the weather myself, send for the Medical Officer. No chance, he's had a very good night in the wardroom – he can't even be woken from his slumbers! So, down to me then.

I get the patient onto my treatment table. Blood everywhere – quite a nasty gash – almost ear to ear. Obviously stitches required. This is easier said than done.

Picture it – very heavy seas, the ship is rolling all over the place, a very drunk Glaswegian on the table and, a not to sober, medic preparing to stitch his scalp back together. Not to inspiring is it?

I have one of his mess mates help me out with keeping the patient still and relatively quiet. First of all, local anaesthetic? No. He's so drunk, he won't feel a thing!

I get to work – a simple matter of closing the wound with sutures and then dressing it. Well, no. It proves very difficult, indeed. A number of factors conspire against me. First, a very drunk patient, a quite drunk medic and a treatment room that is moving around like a bucking bronco!

The job takes a good couple of hours – mainly because each time I thread the needle in to the wound the bloody ship lurches and I pull it straight back out again! Nevertheless, I finally get finished – a bloody good job under the circumstances.

Of course, that's not the end of it for me. The Glaswegian has sustained a serious blow to the head so, I spend the rest of the night, kept awake by copious coffee, keeping watch over the patient with regular head injuries observations. Happy, bloody, New Year!

It's now New Years morning, the ship's company has turned to. The Medical Officer pops his head around the door – "Quiet night?". Answer – "of course – no problems, Sir!"

I get the last laugh – the Glaswegian gets to clean my sick bay from top to bottom. Sailors, eh!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

29th June 1982

We escorted HMS Plymouth and HMS Glasgow to Ascension island today. The Plymouth looks a right state – not surprising given the hammering they have been through.

My counterpart on the Plymouth is George Peddie – a real salty old sea dog if ever there was one! George invites me on board to take a look around. What a mess!

Plymouth had been attacked on June 8th whilst in San Carlos harbour and had been hit by four bombs. It is hard to imagine what that must have been like. As an aside, I was disgusted to find out that our 'allies' the Americans had refused to help us with AWACS – these could have saved many lives by helping us spot the Argentinian planes before they got to close. That was Reagan at the time but I don't think thing have changed to much since then. So much for our 'friends!'

Sorry, I digress. Back to the Plymouth. Remember Bob on the Ardent? Well, George had a pretty hairy story to tell. We were sitting in George's sick bay having a brew and a chat. I noticed a couple of holes – one on the inner wall of the sick bay and one on the ships' side; they were, pretty much, opposite each other. I, idly, commented on them.

George told me the story of the holes. He had been sitting at his desk when a missile punched through the wall just behind him. It couldn't have been more than a foot, or so, behind his head. The missile then punched it's way through the ships' side before exiting the ship.

Bloody hell! I figure George is a very lucky man. I wonder what odds you could have got against that bomb not exploding!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

By dogs, of course, I mean salty sea dogs. Surely, they can't get seasick – well, they can!

Certainly, when I joined the Leeds Castle for my 'jolly' to the Falklands it took me a little time to get my sea legs. It's a physiological thing – your body has to adapt to the new motion it finds itself subjected to. After a couple of days, generally feeling queasy, I soon settled down and was fine with my 'new sea legs'.

You soon get used to living with perpetual motion. In fact, for most of the time, when you are not working it can be quite relaxing. It becomes an automatic reflex to lift a mug of coffee or tip the side of your dinner plate to compensate for the pitch of the ship. You only need to lose you food once to get the idea! So there we are! I've now got my sea legs so no further problems. Wrong.

The oceans can be crystal clear with a smooth surface or they can be a raging cauldron. Certain circumstances will effect all but the most 'salty' of sea dogs. when the ship is rolling from side and rising and falling with the waves, even if they are particularly rough, most sailors cope admirably. Me included.

There is a third motion that when added to the pitching and rolling has very unpleasant effects. Occasionally, a ship will be buffeted quite violently. Now I'm not really a sailor, I'm a medic – a different thing entirely. But as far as I understand, this buffeting is caused when the ship is heading sort of sideways into the waves.

So now the ship is pitching, rolling and shuddering violently. Guaranteed to bring sickness a calling. Sea sick tablets don't seem to have to much effect in these conditions – those that are effected, either go to their pits and sweat it out or, if on duty – tough it out!

On a number of occasions I found my self wedged into my bunk – with a couple pillows jammed against my back to prevent me from moving to much. Really, just lying there hoping to die! What a wimp! Mind you, at least, I was not alone in my misery.

So do dogs get seasick — damn right they do!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

23rd July 1982

We came alongside the jetty at Grytviken yesterday and spent the day shifting stores – that's what we do! Of course, Grytviken and Leith is where this conflict kicked off. It was on the 26th April that South Georgia was retaken with the help of the Plymouth and Antrim – the Argentinians didn't like their fire power at all.

The day before the Argentinian submarine – Sante Fe was bombed by the Brilliant's 2 Lynx helicopter – it then limped into Grytviken bay and there it still lies. As you enter the bay you can see the turrets breaking above the water line.

South Georgia is an amazing place. Beautiful and unspoilt. It is a place of striking contrast. One moment you can be in bright sunshine gazing at the snow covered mountains and then the next you can find yourself in a blizzard. A truly spectacular place.

Grytviken, itself, is an old whaling station abandoned many years ago. This is truly an eerie place. As you walk up the old slipway, used for dragging whales out of the sea before processing, you are struck by the quiet of the place – a bit like a ghost town, I'd guess.

As you walk through the station you realise things are 'preserved' by the climate conditions here. It's almost as though the whalers were here just yesterday – old equipment looks like it would still work. There a large containers full of bits and pieces of equipment still in relatively good shape. You come across gloves just left behind, still in good condition. This is a really spooky place, almost like stepping back in time.

I will revisit this place in 1984 with the Yarmouth. Until then, I will leave you with this image. A little ways behind the whaling station is an old football pitch. As I looked across this expanse a small herd of reindeer, yes – reindeer, hove into view. They ran across the pitch in front of me and disappeared into the hills. A quite amazing site – I cursed myself that I was not armed with a camera!

South Georgia is blessed with some amazing wildlife – more of that when we come back to South Georgia with the Yarmouth.

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

Well, here we are, steaming from ascension to the TEZ with more supplies to deliver throughout the fleet.

The Leeds Castle from the superstructure to aft is all flight deck – this probably accounts for half of the length of the ship. Pretty big for a ship of this size.

On this particular foray South, we are stuffed to the gunnels with stores – it seems that every nook and cranny has found a home for something. This means that stores have been stacked and secured on the flight deck.

These supplies take up a significant area of the flight deck and are stacked 12-15 feet high or more. No problem while the seas remain relatively benign.

As we get further South the conditions deteriorate with increasingly stronger winds and heavy swells. During this weather things take a dramatic turn.

It is early in the morning, maybe 5 or 6 am – it's still pretty dark outside. The seas are heavy and the winds strong. I am awoken with a start. 'All hands to the flight deck' is piped over the tannoy. As I struggle to get aft, I can't help but notice that the ship is listing severely to starboard – we are, in fact, at a crazy angle!

As I reach the flight deck it is now obvious what the problem is – the stores have slid across the flight deck and now lie starboard. The only thing keeping them from Davey Jone's locker appear to be the guardrails. The crew is turned to and gets rapidly to work.

We spend the next few hours shifting the stores back to a centre position on the flight deck. We then make sure they are firmly strapped down – panic over.

Mind you – it was a little hairy for a while. Being no seaman, I have no idea how severe a ship can list before it capsizes – I sure as hell didn't want to find out. I'm no Gene Hackman!

Extract from a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

1982 in the TEZ, South Atlantic. Well, I'm back were I started these ramblings – I'm in the crows nest again – taking the middle watch duty (midnight to 0400).

Again I'm up here keeping lookout for signs of enemy aircraft. A pretty boring, but necessary job. I continually scan the horizon looking for tell tale signs of aircraft above. We are particularly concerned about Hercules bombers who have already bombed a tanker; these planes have a range of 1800 miles so are an obvious threat.

I've been up here for a couple of hours and am feeling pretty tired. It's difficult to keep awake and concentrate but I manage it.

The ship is rolling gently as we make our passage. Wait a minute! Is that a light? As the ship rolls a light high in the black sky comes into view and then fades again. As the ship rolls I see this light a couple of more times. Bloody hell! Could that be the light from a high flying plane – does anyone else see it?

I phone the bridge and talk to the officer of the watch to report what I see. A couple of minutes pass before he gets back to me. Well, I feel a bit of a pillock.

The light in the sky that comes into view when the ship rolls is, in fact, the moon! Amazing what tricks fatigue can play on the senses.

Mind you, the officer of the watch thought that it was better to be safe than sorry!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

11th July 1982

We are again in the TEZ and spend the day transferring stores to RFA Fort Grange. This was to prove quite an eventful day.

The weather was very cold and the seas a little choppy, but not too bad. The flight deck is covered with a thick sheet of ice, making moving stores extremely difficult – however, we press on.

The stores are being transferred via the ship's sea riders and with the aid of a Sea King helicopter from the Fort Grange. Quite an impressive site seeing this large aircraft landing and taking of from our flight deck!

The crew works hard getting the stores shifted and all proceeds well until mid afternoon when the Sea King has a mishap. It had just taken off from our flight deck and had moved away some 30 yards, or so. It obviously had developed some sort of engine problem because it just dropped from the sky! Fortunately, not from a great height – if it had done, the outcome may have been different.

The aircraft's flotation bags deployed as it hit the water and then it just sat there for a while bobbing in the water. Our sea rider responded rapidly and recovered the crew with minimum fuss. A good job – well done. The aircraft's crew were all fine with no injuries. They had not been immersed, so no problems with hypothermia or water ingestion. In fact, they were drier than the sea rider crew that picked them up!

There was a further bit of drama when the Fort Grange's sea rider capsized while trying to attach a line to tow the ditched aircraft back to their ship. This crew were then rescued by our sea rider crew. Again, no injuries.

I can't quite remember the fate of the Sea King – I suspect it sunk.

So, another eventful day demonstrating the skills of the well trained men of the Royal Navy!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

My last draft before leaving the branch was to Portsmouth. The NBCD (Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Defence) School at HMS Phoenix.

It was here that we instructed all branches in these cheery subjects. The clue is in the name! I was a Petty Officer by this time and my role was that of an instructor. My subjects were light rescue, first aid and the fun one – the medical effects of NBCD agents.

These agents ranged from mustard gas (first used in Ypres, France to devastating effect in the trenches of WW1), through blood agents like cyanide to nerves agents like tabun and sarin.

Some of these charming forms of warfare are thought to have been used by Saddam in Iraq against the Kurds. When I wasn't putting poor souls through the CS gas chamber I was lecturing them on what to expect if they came into contact with the various agents already mentioned. This, of course, I delivered with a smile resulting in the nickname of 'Dr Death'. Charming, eh?

We also taught decontamination procedures in the event of nuclear or biological attack. This involved the use of fullers earth to absorb any external fluid contamination and then the careful removal of protective clothing. I'm sure you have seen the military dressed in their green hooded NBCD suits. I came away from this particular role with the feeling that the procedures we taught were somewhat dated. In fact, in the heat of war I doubt how effective they would actually be.

To this day I still think if the bombs were dropping, I would prefer to be directly heading one back – poof!!!!!!!

Mind you, my wife maintains if there was any form of disaster she would prefer to be with me, at least we'd have the skills to deal with it – possibly……..

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

HMS Osprey, Portland, 1980.

Now an LMA (Leading Medical Assistant), serving at the Royal Navy airbase that is Portland (another since closed, sadly).

I have always been a keen sportsman and have played many sports over the years – some more enthusiastically than others.  I used to be a winger in the school rugby team, being a bit nippy back then.  It was never really a game that excited me too much, seemingly a little pointless.  I, of course, also lacked any desire for communal bathing a bawdy songs with boozed up giants!

So it was, that I found myself drafted into the HMS Osprey rugby team.  Don't ask!  I have no idea how this came to pass.  Nevertheless, I found myself cast in the role of nippy winger again. Hopefully I could manage to keep broken bones to a minimum.

Sitting on top of Portland was the borstal, full of various hard cases, I think.  Now the powers that be thought it was a great idea to play rugby against the borstal guests.  So, sometime during a cold December, the Osprey rugby team of men set off to conquer a few kids residing at Her Majesty's pleasure.  Should be easy the team thought.  Yes – right!

The team of 'kids' looked like they be more comfortable in the scrubs.  No matter, us men would prevail.

I found myself, hurtling down the wing, ball in hand, heading towards the byline.  Ah, glory!  A certain try for the team and me.   20 yards to go, I'd make it – no problem.  Why, oh why, did I choose this moment to glance to my left.  A particularly bad move.  Hurtling towards me was what I can only describe as a human shaped block of granite with, murderous intent in his eyes. Always a quick thinker, I assessed the situation rapidly and took immediate action.  To my undying shame, I threw the rather ridiculous shaped ball to the granite block, thus avoiding, surely, serious injury!

Surprisingly, that was my final rugby game of a short lived career. And, yes, I can live with it!

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic

So here I am – at HMS Raleigh leadership school, some time during 1975, I think.

Leadership school, does what it says in the title. Creates leaders of men – right then – here we go!

14 days of manly fun, marching, running, climbing, classroom leadership lectures, assault courses – fun, fun, fun!

Oh, I forgot to mention – the outward bound bit. You've probably all seen this on the TV by now. Take a bunch of service type people, drop em in the middle of nowhere.  Their mission, if they choose to accept it (no choice here, of course!), is to yomp (in our case – meander) around Dartmoor looking for a few way points, and then to our final destination – hot meal, pat on the back, etc!

Pretty straight forward it would seem.  Well, on this particular leadership course, we were blessed with a particularly mouthy and cocksure stoker (marine engineering mechanic of MEM in navy terms). This guy new it all and wasn't given to taking much advise from his team mates.

As these things often go – this fool was designated leader for my little group.  Oh joy!  This was going to be fun.  Being the leader, he wasn't one for delegation, he would covet the compass – he was an expert in all things remember.  Pity map reading and orienteering weren't really part of his extensive skill set.

To cut a long story short, we spent many cold, wet hours going around in circles, totally lost because of the outstanding leadership of this fool.  Following a minor mutiny (swabs!) we managed to get back to camp tired, wet, hungry and very pissed off!  another glowing example of leadership in action.  This fool probably went on to be a senior officer! 

Extract from  a Navy Lark – memoirs of a RN Medic