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THE 1939-1945 STAR

E.R.7416 proved to be H.M.S.Watchman (Ph4,12), a V & W Class Destroyer built under the Emergency (Great-) War Programme, launched in December 1917, displacement 1100 tons, length 312' overall, beam 29陆', maximum draught 11录'. The Admiralty V Class were very similar, and in 1939-1945 they were all referred to as V & W Destroyers. Watchman was nearing the end of its Extensive Refit in the Langton Branch of Brocklebank Dock, which was most conveniently reached by the Overhead Railway.
The picture in Ph4,12 (above) shews the type, but our Ensign was flown from a jackstaff right aft, as in the photograph in Jane's Fighting Ships 1931 below, which shews her appearance in 1924, though Watchman was I 26. The Extensive Refit obviously included the removal of the forward smoke-stack.

1,100 tons 鈥� Length 300 feet 鈥� Oil 400 tons 鈥� Speed 34 knots 鈥� Mean draught 10鈥�10鈥�
For those who wish for a vivid description of the Battle of the Atlantic, in which Watchman was destined to partake, perhaps the best is The Cruel Sea by Nicholas Montserrat; but in Men Dressed as Seamen+ by S.Gorley Putt, a little book written about a destroyer of 1917 vintage, and from the jolly illustrations therein by Roger Furze, they will obtain a very good description of my life at sea, (although, being published during the War, it had to omit details of armaments), and in my text the letters MDAS will refer them to apt illustrations therein.
I think the first sight I encountered on board was that of a seaman holding a 4" shell between his knees and hitting it with a hammer. I believe this had something to do with fuse-rings.
I was directed to Ten Mess, just forward of the funnel, and entered via a round hatch in the deck. Below was a space about 15' by 30' (the width of the beam), with headroom of 7' except where pipes and ventilation-ducts obtruded, in which 34 men had all their possessions, clothes, lockers, crockery and cutlery, provisions, hammock-store, mess-table and benches. The ventilation-ducts were of about 6" square section, with movable blowing-vents, and their electric fan-motors made a constant humming day and night. Our extra 1/- per day Hard Laying money was well-earned. Ten Mess, housing the Buntings and Sparks, was on the Port Side, and on the Starboard were the Depth-Charge Crew and the Coxswain鈥檚 Crew. Each mess was in charge of a Leading Seaman, whose rank is denoted by an anchor (or killick) on his left arm, and he is called The Killick of the Mess. (MDAS 17 & 57) The Yeoman of course was quartered in the Petty Officers' Mess.
Before my arrival, all the obvious hammock-spaces had been claimed, and later arrivals had resigned themselves to sleeping on the locker-cushions, but I noticed that there was fore-and-aft slinging-room for just one below the ladder to the opposite deck-head, and that became my regular place. There were certain mutterings about obstructing the ladder in case of emergency, and that if one arose I should quickly find my rope cut, but in fact no obstruction could arise from below the ladder, and I was left in peace. (MDAS 21,35, 87, & inside back cover)
Yeoman Hughes was my immediate superior, and under him were a Regular two-badge Signalman T.O. (Trained Operator), a Londoner called Golding. A badge was actually a wide chevron, red, or gold for tiddley, one for three years', two for eight years', and three for twelve years' Good Conduct - commonly translated as Undetected Crime. There were also three Ordinary Signalmen, Harry Copeland, Bill Tucker, and myself. Among the sparkers were Ken Peterkin, Alfie Green, Ginger Downs, Taff Clarke, and Charmer.
All aboard were engaged in a daily routine of work. I climbed the mast and rove eight new signal-halyards through the pulleys, and we spliced clips+ onto the sixteen ends, and spent some time sitting on deck with a sailmaker's palm and needle, sewing clips to the tops of our stock of White Ensigns and splicing clips onto the lower ends of their ropes. The lower clip was a flat oval piece of bronze, 1戮"x 1", with two holes as in a figure 8. The top hole was circular and had the bottom-rope of the flag spliced into it. The lower hole was oval, and in the centre of one side was a narrow gap, the edges of which were knife-edged to a point in section. The upper clip was a plain oval cut out like the letter O, with a similar gap in the centre of one side, provided with a swivelling ring into which the upper rope of the flag was spliced. These clips could thus be quickly joined when required in the manner of a child's 'wire-puzzle', one being turned at right-angles to the other allowing the two gaps to coincide, and the swivel prevented the halyard and flags from becoming twisted.
Bunting flags were classified in breadths, according to marks in the weave about 4"-5" apart, the largest being twelve-breadth. Ours were about 27" by 42", six-breadth, I think. I hope you may see, from the much-worn Ensign which I have kept+, that after threading the rope through the hem of the flag, we sewed a 6" stick into the top end, and the top clip was sewn on about halfway along the stick, so that the Ensign, when hoisted, would shew proud.
Destroyers of this class originally had two funnels, but the forward funnel was removed at this or a previous refit. Two of the four 4" guns, and the six 21" torpedo-tubes in triple-mountings, had also been removed. There were two 4" guns mounted fore and aft, two 艗rlikon Guns at the sides of the bridge, two pompoms amidships, and various 'guns' aft for the launching of depth-charges. We burned crude oil, carrying 400 tons in eight tanks, four on each side. One filling-hatch was in the floor of our messdeck, and since crude oil smells strongly of bad eggs, refuelling was most unpleasant. When first lit, the cold oil made thick black smoke, but since the fuel-pipes were ducted over the burners, it gradually became hot and then the fumes became invisible. On the order 'Make Smoke' (for a smoke-screen) the cold oil was switched direct to the burners. The fires made steam in huge boilers, and the steam drove the turbines, which produced speeds of up to thirty knots.

My first captain was called Williams. There was a First Lieutenant, who is always known as 'Jimmy-the-One', a Public-School Lieutenant known as Harry Horse, an ASDIC Officer (Anti-Submarine Detection) and a Midshipman.
Our Gunnery Officer, Lieutenant Challis R.N.V.R., had been a journalist. His home was in Bray, and sometimes on watch we spoke whimsically of that peaceful place. He was rather a 'character'. He was friendly with a Lieutenant Guthrie aboard another ship in our group, a drinking-companion I imagine, and once when we had just left port Challis told me to signal Guthrie stinks. I then had the awkward duty of reporting to him the reply, Challis smells. This exchange continued with How's your bottom for barnacles? - an ambiguous query with a legitimate meaning, because barnacles on the hull reduce the ship's speed and have periodically to be scraped off; but the riposte, How's your belly for spots? was not so (though a more sedately-phrased version is in fact to be found in the International Code); and there the exchanges had to end, since we were well out to sea, and must prepare for more serious matters. One day in Londonderry, when there were as usual sundry paint-kettles about the deck, he came aboard somewhat tipsy, seized a paint-brush, and began chasing various of his shipmates around the deck and up and down ladders, obsessed with the idea that everyone should be dabbed with paint. I met him in Bray after the war, in a pub of course. My parents' friend Vere Bartram knew him, and told us that he lived with his mother.
We carried two boats, a motor-boat and a whaler, on davits, plus various solid-cork Carley Rafts, and our number in the Fleet Pennant List, used as our communications call-sign, was I 26. When we encountered another ship at sea, those on board would see the large I 26 painted on our bows, discover our name in the List, and almost invariably make the scarcely witty signal, - Watchman, what of the night? This quotation, from Isaiah 21 verse11, became very tedious. Receiving it yet again whilst on watch, I would flash them a long T (Message Received) as soon as they reached the third letter, scornfully keeping my light on as they galloped to the final t. It was not for me to suggest to the Officer of the Watch the only apt, succinct and devastating reply, - Isaiah 21, verse 12, 鈥� (The Watchman said, 鈥淭he morning cometh, and also the night; if ye will enquire, inquire ye鈥�) so I was usually ordered to reply in somewhat more mundane terms, such as, Bloody awful. I often wondered how many of my precursors, over the 26 years since she had been in commission, had suffered that inane signal.
On the 5th we received an Admiralty Fleet Order saying that maximum leave must be granted to all ratings, and I went home for a short week-end leave on the 9th. On the 14th we had a distribution of knitted comforts - from kind ladies who had been knitting for us poor sailors. I got a thick jersey, socks, a scarf, and a Balaclava helmet. The maker's name and address was attached to each garment, and I wrote letters of thanks to mine, - in Sheffield, Stornoway, and New Zealand.

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