Drunken Capers in CorfuPedro |
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COMSUBBBS Posts: 2974 Location: Liverpool, England | Subject: Drunken Capers in Corfu The exercise we had just completed had been fairly mundane and, with a sense of anticipation, her Majesties submarine, Odin, and its crew headed deep into the Mediterranean for the next run ashore, Corfu. The Greek islands were about to play host to the pride of the Royal Navy. The pure white houses, the azure blue sea and the glaring sunshine; all I’d heard about the island appeared to be true. I was standing on my hotel balcony overlooking Corfu town. It was a hard life in the Navy, but someone had to do it. I had a pocketful of Drachmas and a constitution devoid of beer for months. What was I to do? Oh, well let’s go and see what the island had to offer. There was a loud bang on the door. “Pedro, are you coming out for a drink?” I opened the door and there stood my best mate ‘Rattler’ Morgan. “Come on, the bars are open.” He said, waving a wad of Greek banknotes under my nose. “Yeah, let me get my gear on and I’ll be right with you.” I followed him out of the hotel to where several of the crew were sitting outside the bar next door. There were tables on the pavement and they were occupied, in the most part, by submariners desperate for drink. There were already quite a pile of empty glasses on the tables, the majority of them spirit glasses. I joined them and before I could even settle into one of the chairs, a glass of evil smelling alcohol was pushed in front of me. It was ouzo, the local aniseed spirit. I threw it back in one. Good God Almighty! Some sod must have spiked it with paraffin. “Nice, isn’t it?” said one of the lads. I couldn’t speak, my throat was on fire and someone had stolen the oxygen from the atmosphere. My eyes were streaming and my voice had gone. “Here, have another one before we go.” Rattler put another glass of the local firewater on the table in front of me and looked at me with a grin. My speaking capabilities were slowly returning. “Yeah, I’ll drink it in a minute Rattler.” I said. “Come on then, we’re all going down the noddy shop.” I looked at him in total ignorance. “What kind of shop did you say?” “The noddy shop, you’ve got to have a noddy to get around here.” I threw the drink back and, again suffered a massive stroke. My legs and lungs refused to work. I struggled to my feet. “Lead on McDuff.” I said trying to look and sound nonchalant. He began to walk off and I followed. I tripped over the leg of a chair and went sprawling into a table full of young British female holiday makers. Hurtling forward, my face buried itself into the ample cleavage of a well endowed blonde. She screamed out loudly. “Jesus, Pedro, can’t you wait?” said Rattler, hauling me and my face off her chest. “Sorry love,” he said to the girl, “He’s been at sea for sixty days and he can’t help himself. Actually, he was an amateur sex maniac before he joined the navy.” The girl now glared at me like I was something nasty on the sole of her shoe. “Just keep the dirty bugger away from me or I’ll kick him in the balls.” She said in a broad Birmingham accent. Her mean pudding face didn’t quite match her heavenly curves but I did try to placate her by attempting to explain it had been an accident. But by the venomous look in her slitted eyes, she wasn’t prepared to believe me anyway. Rattler hauled me away and I managed to steady myself. I could finally see again and I staggered off after him to the noddy shop, whatever that might be. A brief explanation is required at this point. Noddy is a fictitious elfin character from children’s books and TV shows who drives around on a small red scooter. The connection between Noddy and motor scooters will now become obvious and should also tell you quite a lot about the intellectual development of sailors or their complete lack of mental maturity, dependent upon your point of view. About five minutes walk away we turned into one of the back streets. There on the pavement was a whole array of gleaming scooters and mopeds – the famous noddies. “Here we are then Pedro.” Said Rattler. “Pick your steed and let’s go for a ride.” Still in a dazed state I looked at these machines before me. I hadn’t driven anything other than a car before. I hadn’t got a clue how to drive one of these contraptions. “I can’t Rattler, I haven’t got a licence.” “You don’t need a licence to drive one of these. They hire them to anyone.” He replied and ran into the middle of the display, touching and tweaking everything, looking for his favourite. All around him were sailors, some of them barely able to stand, running around like children in a sweet shop. “Oh look, this ones got mirrors.” “No, I want this one; its got a go-faster stripe.” “I want one with a klaxon.” “Here, look at this, its got a pillion.” I reluctantly walked into the centre of the bikes and looked around. How hard could it be to ride one of these things anyway? They are only scooters with a small engine. Under duress, I finally chose a green scooter and signed a form which was written in Greek. I could have been confessing to murder for all I knew. I couldn’t understand a word of it, even the letters of the Greek alphabet made no sense to me, let alone the words. A set of keys were thrust into my hand and I pushed the scooter into the road. I switched it on and kicked the starter pedal. It purred into life. All around me were drunken submariners astride their machines. As they started them the air around us became a blue haze of exhaust fumes. Bikes were being revved all up on all sides. Slowly, the group began to move off, about twenty scooters in convoy. I managed to get mine moving; this wasn’t too hard at all. I don’t know which side of the road we were supposed to be driving on but, just to make sure someone got it right we were taking up the whole width of the tarmac. There were scooters weaving all over the place. I saw a junction up ahead and I gently applied the brakes. Nothing happened. I pulled harder on the brake levers and still nothing happened. I was hurtling towards the busy junction at about 30 miles an hour and I couldn’t bloody stop. I flew past Rattler who obviously had brakes that worked. “Go for it Pedro, show them how it’s done.” He shouted over my shoulder. The junction loomed ahead and my bike wasn’t slowing down. I stuck my feet down, forgetting that I was only wearing flip-flops. My toes scraped along the road painfully removing the top layers of skin. I entered the junction still doing 30 miles an hour. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a large truck heading straight for me. There was a loud blast from its air horn as it swerved around me at the last minute. I shut my eyes and sailed across the junction with cars swerving all around me. I ran off the road into a ploughed field and the scooter slowly came to a gradual halt in the soft earth furrows. As I got off I was shaking and sweating heavily. I looked back and there was total chaos behind me at the junction. About ten scooters were lying on the road, there were drunken sailors falling about all over the place and irate Greek drivers were offering violence towards them. They were now beginning to square up to each other and then, over the sound of the melee we heard the noise of the engine of a single scooter. It was screaming at full revs and working hard. I looked through the crowd and could see a small red scooter coming towards the junction. Steering it was the Sonar Supervisor, a chief petty officer who weighed in at around 250 pounds. On the pillion was the Chief Stoker who was slightly heavier at 280 pounds. With all this excess weight the small bike was belching blue smoke and moving at only 15 miles per hour. The Sonar Supervisor was wearing a pair of welding goggles, which he had taken from the boat and a white silk scarf. He looked like a WWI fighter ace. As he approached the junction he went into Highway Code mode. He looked over his right shoulder and, with his right hand, began to give the slowing down hand signal. The scooter came to a gradual stop, halted and then fell over with a crash. He had forgotten to put his two feet on the ground. Both he and the Chief Stoker were totally blitzed out of their minds. They lay on the dusty road giggling and trying to extricate themselves from the bent wreckage of the scooter. The crowd in the middle of the junction were now laughing so loud that they had forgotten to fight with each other. Slowly the crowd dispersed, leaving the two senior rates, helpless with laughter, trying to right their clapped out scooter and restart it. I decided there and then that enough was enough and I pushed my machine back to the noddy shop. I handed it back and walked away a handful of drachma lighter but a fair bit wiser. Unfortunately, this did not apply to many of my shipmates that day. Later that night I was sitting at the tables at the pavement bar, next to the hotel. Directly across the road from us was a tall bank of earth almost like a ramp, a vertical drop of about twenty feet from its summit down to the road surface. The other side of the ramp sloped gently away to open land. As I was sitting, drinking a cold beer and enjoying a chat with some of the lads, the only thing marring the perfect evening were the hateful glances I was getting from the blonde bird from Birmingham. She obviously didn’t like me very much at all. No accounting for taste I thought to myself. I gradually became aware of a humming noise in the background as we talked. It was getting louder. Slowly, the conversation dwindled as the hum became a moan and the moan became a scream. It was a scooter and it was getting closer. Because of the buildings it was difficult to determine from which direction it was coming. It became even louder and louder and then, as we looked around, a scooter came hurtling up the slope of earth on the other side of the road. It hit the top and took off. Crouched over the handlebars was Rattler Morgan. He was going flat out at about 45 miles per hour when he hit the top and the bike flew across the road at just above head height. It didn’t take the people at the tables long to work out the trajectory and, in a mad scramble, bodies flew in all directions. Rattler’s gentle parabola cleared the road and gravity began to take over. The scooter began to plummet earthward, heading straight for the tables where, until a few milliseconds before, we had been sitting. I dived for cover and luckily I landed on something soft. Looking around I saw Rattler, complete with scooter, hit the tables with a resounding crash. Plastic chairs and bits of table flew in every direction like shrapnel. There was a deadly silence, followed only by the sound of debris hitting the ground. From the middle of the debris arose Rattler, rising majestically from the dust cloud. His face had been cut and there was a gash on his chest. He was covered in blood from several other wounds some of which would require stitches. “I don’t suppose they have valet parking here, do they?” he managed to say before collapsing in a heap on the ground. I then became aware of a woman screaming and shouting behind me. “Help! Help! Rape! Rape!” I looked behind me. The soft thing I had landed on that had broken my fall was the blonde bird from Birmingham. She was kicking and screaming and scratching, convinced I was after her body. Her more reasonable female friends eventually managed to calm down her hysterics. Thinking about it all later, the kindest thing I can say about her was that I was sure she was only upset because she thought I was after her body without paying for it. I’d had enough for one day and after they took Rattler off to hospital to get patched up, and I had later phoned to check he was OK, I decided to go to bed. I couldn’t, in all honesty, quite see this courtesy visit being a diplomatic coup for the Royal Navy somehow. Pedro | ||
| Ralph Luther |
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| COMSUBBBS Posts: 6180 Location: Summerville, SC | Subject: RE: Drunken Capers in Corfu Ya brought back some memories of Bermuda and about every island in the Caribbean. Thanks Mate  | ||
| Coyote |
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Master and Commander Posts: 1467 Location: NE Florida | Subject: RE: Drunken Capers in Corfu Yes, one must keep watch on those Sonar types. After a long, beer-enhanced, afternoon ball game in Key West, Sonarman Chief Grumpy Wharton needed a ride home. Sonar Chief Big Bill Herndon offered him one. They both pounced on this poor little Vespa and away. They traversed a couple of chains before they banged into a chain-link fence. As is usually the case, they were only scuffed up. The next day, Grumpy accused Bill of trying to strain him through a sieve. Later, Seadragon's particular island downfall was St Croix. Bandages on half the crew. At least no one rode one of the silly things off the end of the pier, which had happened there in the past. Regards, Coyote | ||
| Gil |
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| Master and Commander Posts: 1722 Location: SoCal | Subject: RE: Drunken Capers in Corfu Thanks! | ||
| Pedro |
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COMSUBBBS Posts: 2974 Location: Liverpool, England | Subject: RE: Drunken Capers in Corfu Coyote, Those islands in the Caribbean took some beating for great runs-ashore that's for sure. One of my first ships HMS Crossbow visited San Juan, Puerto Rico, back in the late fifties. Five of us being all well and truly p***** , having run out of money and it being late, we decided to call it a night. But how to get back to the docks which were miles away? Just then a SP jeep screeched to a halt in the main drag and the four snowdrops in it jumped out and ran into a nearby bar to break up a huge fight going on inside. At first, four of us were fascinated watching the Army-Navy brawl going on inside, which the US Navy seemed to be winning. We then heard a horn honking and turned around to find the fifth member of our group, "Shiner" Wright, sitting behind the wheel of the SPs jeep, which he had hot-wired while we had been watching all the fun. Saying no more, we all piled in and off we went. We managed to make it to the docks OK but what to do with the jeep which would have been a dead giveaway as to who had stolen it? Our problem was answered by the appearance of some equally smashed British merchant seamen off the Harrison Line cargo-ship berthed astern of us. We explained the problem and in no time all they had organised a derrick and a hoist and the jeep was promptly lifted and lowered into the tween-decks of one of the forward hatches of their own vessel. Sterling seamanship even under the influence. We sailed the next day at noon without getting to know the final outcome. I wonder what the local docker's reaction must have been that morning when they commenced work to find a military vehicle stowed away. I often wondered too how the SP explained away their loss of their jeep (everyone say Arghh! for those poor snowdrops.) Yeah! right. LOL Regards Pedro Edited by Pedro 2010-03-09 9:21 AM | ||
| Gil |
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| Master and Commander Posts: 1722 Location: SoCal | Subject: RE: Drunken Capers in Corfu Pedro, Back in '68 I got a tour of an Aussie boat in Pearl. If I remember correctly they had a keg between the tubes in the FTR that held run. I can't remember if they had ale. Didn't your boats allow daily consumption of ale or spirits? We were told by the fellow giving our tour the Aussies would save up their weekly rum rations and auction or raffle it off to one person. The winner besides being able to have a big time binge also had his watches stood for him. Seems like a weeks supply of the crew's rations would be enough, but the way the Aussies could drink always amazed us. Also I saw a memorable scene at the HK China Fleet Club I will never forget. An English (I think) destroyer pulled in next to us in '68. That evening I watched an English sailor (maybe 21) drink until he passed out and fell off his chair. His shipmates got him up off the floor and sat him down again in his chair. After they slapped him awake that kid continued drinking like nothing had happened. When I left several hours later the kid was still going strong - never saw anything like that before or since. Edited by Gil 2010-03-10 5:29 AM | ||
| Ralph Luther |
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| COMSUBBBS Posts: 6180 Location: Summerville, SC | Subject: RE: Drunken Capers in Corfu Gil, you have and do lead a sheltered life.   | ||
| Pedro |
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COMSUBBBS Posts: 2974 Location: Liverpool, England | Subject: RE: Answer for Gil Gil, Call me an old-arse, but I can still remember on boats when a tot of rum was liquid gold dust itself. Rum was issued at the skipper's discretion, as on all Royal Navy ships at that time. This was genuine Pusser's with a very high octane rating. The spirit was not cut with water as on surface ships and was not usually issued immediately before surfacing; as the combined effects of fresh air and alcohol made standing upright rather difficult. Rum issue brought with it a whole new way of life and a wonderful barter system. Repayment of minor debts was with “sippers” from your tot and larger ones with “gulpers”. Negotiations with the right rum-rat in the crew could result in getting your duty watch, or even your dhobying (washing) done in return for an agreed number of tots. Surface ships were issued "grog" which meant the rum ration was cut with water for all except PO rate and above. This prevented the storage of tots by crew members. As boats were issued neaters, we were able to store tots in what were called "blitz" bottles for consumption at a later date to get "blitzed" with. Sadly this all came to an end on Black Monday, 31st July 1970, when the issue of the tot was terminated by the Admiralty. Their reasoning was that in a technological age there was no room for any error that could be attributed to rum. This same bunch of party-poopers also decreed later that year that WRNS (Womens Royal Navy Service) personnel would be issued with panty hose from then on, instead of the sexier black stockings and suspenders (US - garter belts). They really went out of their way to lower the morale of Jolly Jack that year LOL. Today, I think the issue of beer is three cans a day but, to be honest, submariner's do not bother with the stuff whilst at sea, but rather prefer to make up for lost time when they get into port. I do know on the RN "bombers" (US - boomers) that the wardrooms are dry and that senior and junior rates drink very little if any at all. They seem to fill their time with movies, MP3 music and electronic games like Nintendo, X-Box, etc, which must be pretty boring in the grand scheme of things. Can't recall a raffle system like the one the Aussie's operated but I can see how it would have enormous appeal. But leave it to the 'dinks' to find a good system when it came to boozing as they were the recognised past masters of the game - bless 'em all. You had to be 21 to claim your daily tot so your 21st birthday was a big event in a sailors life. It meant you got "sippers" from the tot of everyone in your mess plus your own first issue of Nelson's Blood. Unofficially, a blind eye was turned to the fact that you probably wouldn't resurface for a couple of days after this intitiation ceremony LOL. Naval traditions that are now all sadly consigned to the dust-bin of history. Yours Aye Pedro | ||
| Roy Ator |
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Great Sage of the Sea Posts: 892 Location: Palo Pinto County, Texas | Subject: RE: Pedro? Who are you calling old? I recall very well the 'wet' wardrooms as well as multiple 'visits' to the senior rates mess aboard the RESOLUTION, REPULSE and RENOWN whilst on temporary assignment thereto in 1968 era! Faslane was an enjoyable area to visit as well... And an excess of the undiluted Tot could very well do a number on you! Great memories ~ | ||
| Palm Bay Ken |
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Great Sage of the Sea Posts: 539 Location: Palm Bay, Florida | Subject: RE: Pedro? I seem to remember a visit to HMS Dolphin at Gossport in 1957 or 58 when several of us were invited to join some Brits for the "issue." As I recall, the gent dipping out the tots had his index finger in the measure, causing each tot to be a little light (by one finger displacement). We were told that what was left was called the Queen's, and it was the guest's (our) duty to drink all of it. I don't remember much after that. | ||
