Saturday
“Same Address”
My Dear Stella,
Your letter reached me on the Wednesday and I’m darned glad to hear that you’re improving fast from the pneumonia bout. According to what you tell, you would still be at Limedale when I rang up last Saturday. I tried to make it all clear then, but it was difficult and I further explained the position in my last letter to Mother. You see, by the time the news of your illness reached me, you were way past the crisis period. Otherwise I might have managed a few days leave. I had previously promised that I would make every attempt to get a few hours in Liverpool when next this ship touched Holyhead. Providing I can get away at midday in time for the 1.45 to Liverpool and providing the ship is not due to sail, it should be possible to make the excursion. Although we were in Holyhead for four days, the trip was not practicable owing to the fact that nobody knew when the ship was sailing, and also to the fact that I could not stay ashore all night without being missed (that on top of my recent all night drift would have been too bad for me).
So I did things the right way for once – requesting to see the Captain for a mere 20 hours leave out of my 24 hours off duty. The pig of a First Lieutenanat rejected my request – it’s like getting blood out of a stone. Later, after another seaman had bluffed his way into four days leave with an excuse that was simply ridiculous, I again accosted the little fellow who wears the braid – reminding him of my rights and too of the fact that my sister was sick. The cunning swine takes me up on the latter plea and goes and asks the Old Man if Gregson can have compassionate leave. Hence the wire to the police for verification and thus the reply that my presence was unnecessary.
Enough of request forms and red tape – next time the slightest chance arises I take it – asking no man’s permission. Amazing how that old town draws one. That Liverpool. There is no thrill comparable to the thrill of stepping off the train at Lime Street Station – the sight of the old familiar streets, tram cars, the sound in your ear of the “scouse” accent, the first sight of home and family and how small and compact the kitchen appears to be, the fire in the grate, the radio in the corner. Stirrings of the memory. Drab, dirty Liverpool? Peter Cavanagh’s, the Rialto, the Hanover and the pseudo-affluence of the Adelphi lounge. The thousands of peoples.
My next official leave should be early in December. This year I shall probably miss Xmas at home.
About Arthur. It seems this course of his is exceptionally long and what is he when the training is complete? A signalman? Or is it some special branch of the signalling dept? Radio location or something. Anyway, I hope he is lucky enough to get a good draft and avoid the foreign service bogey. Whatever his fortune, he will probably be happier aboard a ship than in barracks. I’ve never yet met anyone who prefers the barracks. Although for my part I’m sick to death of life at sea. True we never do as much as a week out of harbour but, oh, the monotony and boredom of the same old routine. The novelty wore off long, long ago, and – another thing – I’m a little scared of the sea since I was mined. When the sea is calm that’s alright, but when the weather is bad – and it gets really bad around this part of the coast – well, I don’t like it one little bit. There is really nothing one can do, with the vessel rolling, pitching and tossing – you can’t write or even read and to sleep down aft in my mess is quite an achievement under such conditions. A persistent loud rattle from the steering mechanism above the deck-head and a thundering roar that shakes the mess every time the screw comes out of the water. The seas beating against the ship’s sides send streams of water through the closed ports and the mess deck develops into a pond in which tables and forms play the craziest games…
Albeit I’m lucky in a way. There is no action around here, which is good and yet bad for me in a way. Down in the Channel the bombs used to fall, there was danger all around yet it seemed that I was satisfied to a certain extent and in some strange unfathomable way I was glad to be alive – my mind was keener and more receptive. But now there is nothing new that can happen, although I recognise the fact that I do little to fight against boredom and I know there is much that I could do. I feel that I want to throw myself body and soul into some vast enterprise, but the only thing that has ever, or will ever, hold me completely now eludes me.
From leave I brought back with me my greasepaints, the works of Bill Shakespeare and one or two books of plays, thinking maybe to stir this crew into some sort of histrionic activity, yet somehow the hopelessness of it all has held me back. However, last week something started moving. My “Wren” friends ashore are a pretty good bunch of girls and one or two are surprisingly talented. There’s June, writing her own words and music, sings her way into the first prize at a recent talent contest. Well, the other day I wandered into the canteen and the girls started telling me about this WONDERFUL play that Lorna has written – already they had started rehearsals, tickets were being printed and the date set for December 1st. The whole thing attracts me greatly. I’ve promised to come along to the next possible rehearsal and further to give a hand with the make-up on the night. Maybe THIS is the acorn I’ve been waiting for. I’d be willing to sacrifice my present series of dates with my current heart-throb to recapture the irresistible thrill of the world of make-believe.
This letter has overreached itself. The trouble with me is that I make a start on one letter then find that I have no time left to write other letters. Last time in harbour I received no less than six letters – including one from Eileen King, recuperating now from some strange illness in an RAF hospital. Her husband is a commando officer out in the Middle East.
Please pardon this leap into pencilling – and I hope this letter does not seem too disjointed. I’m making every effort to get it ashore tonight – it should have been completed in harbour but we steamed out before I expected. Now it is Sunday, at the moment I am on watch but I get relieved at 5 p.m. in time to get ashore – although God only knows what I shall do in Wales on a Sunday. Here in Holyhead there is none of the social life of Milford Haven, yet the people on the whole are decidedly better natured and altogether more civilised than the South Wales folks.
Monday 6.15 p.m. At sea.
Again I’m stymied. Everything was fixed for an entertaining evening ashore. I was on watch all night then this morning, instead of turning in when I came off watch, I washed some “smalls” (collars, hankies etc) and I had a bath and shave, intending to complete this and also snatch a few hours sleep in the afternoon before running ashore. Then suddenly they pack us off to sea and here am I up on the bridge, due to take a trick on the wheel in 15 minutes time and feeling mighty tired.
Now I really must finish this. By the way, I’m sending again a little something or other which might be useful – I know you can’t get it in Liverpool anyway. Hope it’s OK.
I couldn’t write any more even had I the time – inspiration vanished with the sight of land an hour or so back.
So long for now then Stella, don’t mope too long or too often. I suppose, in a unique sort of way, the boat we all share affects us similarly – you minus Arthur, Mother minus her “pink-eyes” and her pink-eyes minus – well, everything worthwhile…
My love to Wendy and Michael and you. With deepest affection
Hal
Nov 071942