Issuing a Sailor
The haircut was the first visible sign that civilian life was disappearing. The clothing issue was the next stage.
After leaving the barbers, each recruit was directed towards a Petty Officer standing outside a distant hut alongside the Administration Block. The instruction was simple: move quickly, go where directed and do what was required.
Inside the hut was a system that appeared, at first glance, to be complete confusion. In reality, it was the opposite. The confusion belonged entirely to the recruit.
On one side was a counter running the length of the hut. On the other was a bench. Along the counter stood several sailors and, as I remember it, a Wren, issuing items of clothing to each new entry as they passed through.
A master clothing list was displayed on the wall. Each recruit was given a duplicate copy, and then the process began.
"Name!"
"Number!"
"Stand still!"
"Stand up!"
"Breathe in!"
"Breathe out!"
"Arms up!"
"Arms down!"
"Chest size!"
"Waist size!"
"Inside leg size!"
"Shoe size!"
There were no conversations and no explanations. There was simply a rapid sequence of instructions while measurements were taken and items appeared on the counter.
One person measured. Another placed the next item on the growing pile. The recruit moved along with it. By the time one boy had reached the end, another pile was already being assembled for the next recruit.
To someone experiencing it for the first time, it seemed almost impossible that so much could happen so quickly.
Measurements were taken that I did not even know I possessed. Even my hat size existed as a separate fact waiting to be discovered: six and seven-eighths.
The measurements, I learned later, were for the No.1 uniform, which would be tailor-made and issued in due course. For the moment, the important thing was receiving No.2 uniform and the rest of the basic kit required to begin naval life.
The instructions continued.
"Try these."
"Try those."
"Those will do."
There was no time for uncertainty. The system was designed to keep moving.
Eventually, each recruit emerged carrying a pile of naval equipment larger than expected. The collection was arranged on top of a folded kit bag, with an A4 sheet confirming what had been issued. The weight of two flat caps, two cap tallies, two lanyards and two silks helped prevent the paperwork from blowing away.
The final instruction was simple. My messdeck and bunk location were written on the list.
Leander.
At that moment, the name meant very little. It was simply where I was being sent. Only later would it become familiar as the place where I lived and trained as part of the New Entry Division.
The efficiency of the process was impressive. The Navy had received a group of boys wearing civilian clothes and, within a short time, had measured them, equipped them and assigned them a place within the establishment.
Yet the responsibility that came with the kit was only beginning.
We soon discovered that losing anything issued by the Navy was not a minor inconvenience. Replacement items had to be obtained from "the Slops", and every item of kit remained the recruit's responsibility. At any time, the complete contents could be demanded for inspection in a kit muster.
Clean kit was therefore not simply a matter of appearance. It became a practical necessity.
The clothing issue had begun as a bewildering rush of measurements and shouted instructions. By the end of it, each recruit possessed the equipment of a sailor and, with it, a new responsibility.
The Navy had not merely given us clothes.
It had given us something to account for.
Signing For Pusser Part 5 - The Value of a Sailor's Kit
Annexe 107 - Primary source: RN-009
RN-E-144-04
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