Volunteers by Order: A Sudden Journey to HMS Seahawk
Life in the Royal Navy rarely allowed much time to become comfortable with routine. A sailor might complete a watch, expect a quiet hour with a mug of tea before returning to work, and instead find himself travelling the length of the country before lunchtime. Such abrupt changes were accepted as part of naval life. Orders were issued, bags were packed, and explanations, if they came at all, usually arrived much later.
In 1973, while the guided missile destroyer HMS Glamorgan lay alongside in Portsmouth preparing for her forthcoming Mediterranean deployment, four young Seaman Branch ratings experienced exactly that familiar disruption. One of them had just completed the Bosun's Mate morning watch on the gangway between four and eight o'clock. After handing over, he returned below expecting nothing more demanding than a hot mug of tea and an hour's rest before beginning the normal working day at nine.
The tea had barely been brewed before the ship's broadcast system announced that four men were to report immediately to the Ship's Office. Such summonses seldom inspired confidence. They generally suggested either trouble or an unpopular duty that nobody else seemed keen to undertake. As none of the four could think of any recent misdemeanour, they suspected the latter.
Their suspicions proved correct.
The Fleet Chief Petty Officer informed them, in his own unmistakably direct manner, that they had effectively "volunteered" for a four-day helicopter crash-fire course at HMS Seahawk, the Royal Naval Air Station at Culdrose in Cornwall. They were to collect whatever specialist clothing they required, change into civilian clothes, pack for four days, collect their train warrants and be ready to leave within an hour.
There was little point in discussing the matter. The ship was preparing for deployment, additional qualifications were required, and the decision had already been made. Such was the nature of naval service. The expression "volunteered" had long been recognised throughout the Royal Navy as a piece of affectionate irony. It usually meant precisely the opposite.
The instruction to travel in civilian clothing reflected the security precautions of the period. During the early 1970s, terrorist activity associated with the conflict in Northern Ireland had led to guidance discouraging servicemen from travelling openly in uniform whenever practicable.
In reality, however, complete anonymity remained elusive. Standard naval holdalls were immediately recognisable, while the traditional flat cap—or "titfer" in naval slang—was commonly suspended from the side of the bag to prevent it being crushed. The result was that, although technically dressed as civilians, experienced observers needed very little imagination to identify travelling sailors.
For the four men leaving Portsmouth that morning, the journey itself provided a welcome opportunity to recover from an early watch. Sleep came easily between stations, interrupted only by whatever refreshments happened to be available along the route. The train gradually left the familiar surroundings of the south coast behind before eventually reaching Redruth, from where a taxi completed the final miles to Culdrose.
For sailors whose experience had been centred upon destroyers, frigates and other surface ships, the Royal Naval Air Station presented an unfamiliar world. Aircraft dominated the landscape instead of masts and radar aerials. Naval Airmen appeared to outnumber seamen. The pace and atmosphere felt noticeably different from that aboard a warship.
Like many General Service sailors of the period, the newcomers viewed the Fleet Air Arm with good-natured scepticism. Aircrew and aircraft handlers had long carried the affectionate nickname "Waffoos", while Fleet Air Arm personnel were equally capable of returning the compliment with jokes of their own. Such rivalries formed part of everyday naval life and were rarely malicious. Nevertheless, to four destroyer sailors arriving for an unexpected four-day course, HMS Seahawk initially appeared a rather quiet place in comparison with the constant activity aboard a ship preparing for sea.
Arrival did not immediately reduce the sense of uncertainty. After identifying themselves at the gate, the four ratings were directed to the Master-at-Arms before being handed over to a Leading Airman for induction. Somewhat surprisingly, they discovered that the course consisted only of themselves and two instructors. It was hardly the large intake they had expected.
The purpose of that small class became apparent within minutes.
Waiting nearby stood the blackened remains of a Westland Wessex helicopter, retained solely for firefighting instruction. Without lengthy introductions, one instructor poured aviation fuel into the shallow pit the wreck sat in while the other ignited it. A towering sheet of flame erupted almost immediately, reaching high above the airframe and forcing the four visitors to retreat instinctively from the intense heat.
The demonstration lasted only moments before the blaze disappeared beneath a cloud of dry powder, but the lesson had already been delivered. This would not resemble the conventional shipboard firefighting instruction every sailor had previously completed during basic training. Aircraft fuel behaved differently. Flight decks offered little room for hesitation. Specialist techniques would be required, and they would be practised under conditions that were intended to feel as realistic as safety allowed.
The remainder of the first day introduced the course itself, the instructors and the seriousness of the subject. Initial impressions of the Fleet Air Arm also began to change. Whatever stereotypes existed between sailors and "Waffoos", the two instructors displayed a level of professionalism that quickly earned the respect of their students. They understood both their equipment and the realities of aircraft fires in a way that left little room for complacency.
By the end of the afternoon, the unexpected journey from Portsmouth no longer seemed an inconvenient interruption to preparations aboard Glamorgan. It had become evident that the Royal Navy was investing in specialist skills that might one day make the difference between life and death on the confined deck of a destroyer operating hundreds of miles from land.
The real work, however, was only about to begin.
Seahawk Part 2 - Fighting Fires the Navy Hadn't Taught Us
Primary source: RN-004
RN-E-119
Comments