A Life on the Ocean Wave
(The memories of a former RNSoM)
by RMBX1272 Musn DG Lewis
In January 1942, at the age of seventeen and a half years, and with the 39/45 was at its peak, I became the youngest and first musician of the Royal Marine Band Service to leave the Isle of Man. I had spent three years studying clarinet and viola for this purpose and now the time had arrived.
The Band Service was responsible for supplying RM Bands for HM Shore Bases and HM Ships. These bands had to be proficient in providing music of all forms – ie wind-band, Dance Band and especially orchestral and of course, the marching band. My expectations were that within a few days my name, rank and number would be posted on an official notice board (ie Dennis G Lewis, Musician RMBX1272) along with 14 other names; these would include a Bandmaster and a Band Corporal and we would form a band in a practice room for audition purposes.
Imagine my surprise when I alone was drafted to a HM Warship to take the place of another RM Musician whose health had broken down. This was to take place within 7 days. I had to collect tropical service gear, have injections and check my instruments (musical).
On the day of departure the snow was thick on the ground, with the temperature around zero. To think I was carrying a sun helmet – what a Wally!
All destinations were very, very hush-hush in those far off days, so all I had to travel with was code F19. Report to FTO (Forces Transport Officer) at a railway station and say ‘F19’. Then he would give me a rail ticket to my next station. Again report to FTO and say F19 and so on and so on, until eventually arriving on the jetty in Greenock (Scotland). Yes you’re right! I had to give my F19 again and then was transported out to a very large troopship filled with military personnel. The ship was a three-funnel job and I must have been the youngest fella aboard it as well.
During the night on day two, it was obvious that we were underway and as the dawn appeared, saw that our ship was one of about twenty of all shapes and sizes, forming a convoy and escorted by RN ships. The course taken by the convoy was very mystifying. We sort of ‘square danced’ around the Atlantic Ocean. South-West-East and all points of the compass. We found out later that having captured a German U-boat intact, complete with their de-coding machine, the Admiralty was able to trace where all the U-boats were waiting to attack us - we ‘danced’ around them.
After about seven days my troopship changed course and broke away from the main convoy, which continued on a Southerly course, whilst we made haste to Gibraltar, to allow me to join the Battleship HMS Malaya of 35,000 tons and a member of H-force, to see service in the Atlantic and Med. Whilst strolling around the upper deck during the second night aboard, the air raid warning told us that the Italians were on a high level bombing raid, obviously after the big ships. My friend and I lay down on the deck and rolled under one of the ship's 15 inch gun turrets. We thought it would be safer there than inside the steel box (ship), with all its water tight doors and hatches closed. Just in case.
HMS Malaya 1940s
A few weeks before, two Italian frogmen managed to get into the harbour at Gibraltar. They waited until it was dark and then swam under what they thought was ‘Malaya’ and stuck their limpet mines on the hull below the water line. They then swam to the jetty and gave themselves up, hoping I guess, that soon the ‘Malaya’ would be put out of action by the ‘big bang. Little did they realise that in the darkness they had placed their mines on the hull of the merchant ship moored ahead of us. It rested on the seabed looking very sorry for itself afterwards, with a large hole in ‘you know where’.
During the next three months the main diet aboard the ‘Malaya’ was rice balls and peas in all forms – boiled, baked and fried – quite boring really. It was the British sense of humour that carried us through. Crew members started bowing to each other and exchanging expletives in what they imagined was Chinese. All in great fun. The ship’s company assumed that the merchant ship sunk by the Italian frogmen was our ship’s food supply, so now we suffered.
The Italians were very adept with their High Level Bombing. During the last big convoy to Malta the Italians dropped a stick of bombs onto the aircraft carrier ‘Illustrious’ and hit her on the starboard side guns. Yes it was the Italian High Level bombers again! The sight of the ‘Illustrious’ entering the harbour at Gibraltar was horrendous and a sight I shall never forget. The bombs had killed all Marines manning those guns.
My first trip into the Mediterranean Sea (The Middle Sea) taught me a great lesson – waves 40-60 feet high, ‘Malaya’ leaking like a sieve, groaning as she was tossed about like a cork, and the crew at action stations too. I reckon it could be likened to Col. Jakways’ ‘Great and Glorious’ (I called it Long and Tedious) until entering harbour and the closing prayer – peace at last.
As some of you will know the Mediterranean can be like a pond – smooth and glamorous, but at other times very cruel.
One day a buzz (rumour) was going around the ship that we were returning to the UK (remember all destinations were hush-hush). Nothing official was said, but there came a day when the ‘Malaya’ got up steam and made for the opened boom across the harbour entrance, with us (the Band on the Quarter Deck) playing ‘Take me back to dear old blighty’ to the boos, hissing and cheers of the remaining fleet.
On arrival in the UK and after a brief shore leave we set sail on another secret mission from Plymouth. Our course was NNE. No one had a clue where we were or what to expect. We sailed or cruised through the narrowest of rocky inlets and discovered we were anchored close inshore in a Scottish Loch. We were acting as the German Battleship Tirpitz and allowing our new four man submarines to attack us. We had booms and nets around us as ‘Malaya’s’ crew kept a look out for signs of an attack. Quite often the subs would release a buoy from below to let us know they had struck. Obviously the Band would often go over to the parent ship and play to those very, very brave men of the X-craft (as the midget subs were known). Us bandsmen always thought our action station was frightening to say the least, but the X crews were the bravest of the brave. I still remember them with pride.
On the move again and sailing south we called into Greenock- on- the- Clyde. Shore leave was granted and within a few minutes I found the YMCA and went in for a cup of tea and a bun. The young lady serving us told us that it was her half-day off work and always worked at the YMCA; it made a break from her work as a librarian. Her library was situated in the main street and if we passed anytime ‘just pop in’. So the next time ashore I did. Ena, the young lady mentioned wasn’t there, but her younger sister was, and the younger sister was Bett, whom I married in 1946. (That was after two and half years serving in the Indian and Pacific Oceans theatres of war).
After sailing from Scotland the ship's course was set for Plymouth and the RN Dockyard at Devonport. The shock awaiting us there was that the whole ship’s company was to transfer from ‘Malaya’ to HMS Valiant and set sail to join the Far Eastern Fleet in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), to make ready for the invasion of Japan. (I had told Bett, as we sailed from Greenock, that I thought I’d be away for 6 months. It turned out to be years instead of months.
HMS Valiant 1940s
The Valiant was the same model as ‘Malaya’, but had upper deck cosmetic surgery; ie instead of one large funnel we now had one slim one and the super structure was modernised. But below decks it was identical – old, out of date and overcrowded. We had all heard of the expression, ‘no room to swing a cat'? Well on both ships there wasn’t room for me to ‘sling my hammock’ which meant that for 3½ years at sea, my hammock was unrolled on the steel deck every night and rolled up again in the morning (with me in it at night of course).
By the way the HEADS (toilets) in both ships were up at the pointed end (fo’c’sle) so if nature was calling and you had to respond, think of the journey in rough weather. The ship would be pitching about 20-30 feet and rolling at the same time. All I could say was ‘the best of luck’.
Our sea trip to Ceylon was used as the ‘working-up’ period for the Officers and crew. Battle stations known as the ‘closing up’ time. All I could say was ‘the best of luck’.
In the quiet times, which were many, members of the crew took the chance to study various educational subjects. As for me I had been seriously thinking of accepting the challenge of taking the Bandmasters’ course. My study consisted of having a good working knowledge of all the instruments in the wind band and orchestra – including percussion. (It certainly proved useful when I became a Christian and joined the SA).
At Church services (we had a vicar aboard ship) the Band had to supply the necessary music - orchestral for inside the chapel or wind band on the Upper Deck, and because I was Band Librarian I had to arrange the music for each section after the vicar had made known the hymns he had chosen (always a panic job) - ie. treble clef for violins, alto clef for viola, bass clef for cello, string bass.
The Marines' or I ought to say the Royal Marines' living accommodation (called Mess) is always located between Officers and seamen in case of mutiny. The Marines have to protect the Officers commanding the ship in such circumstances. The reason? I believe it’s because ‘Marines’ take the King's shilling when signing on (or the Queen’s shilling). The Seamen don’t have to (I wonder if this tradition continues to this day)? The Band Mess on board both Malaya and Valiant was separated from the Marines by a Bulkhead (partition) and a watertight door.
One morning, whilst in harbour, there was great commotion next door in the Marines Mess. They had caught a very large rat in a ‘catch em alive’ trap and were now planning an execution of the rodent in a locker space (room). Bets were being placed on who would win the prize. The idea was that the cage would be placed in a circle of tough fighting Marines. A string had been attached to the trap door of the cage and at a given signal the door would be opened and the person who ‘got the rat’ would win a few Rupees. There was great excitement as the time came for the execution. Then a hush as the countdown started – 1,2,3, the door was lifted. Not a movement anywhere, neither marine nor rat. Suddenly the rat simply flew out of the cage and all the brave Marines ran for their lives. The rat just walked away.
The main harbour for the Eastern Fleet was Trincomalee (NNE Ceylon). It is a beautiful, natural deep harbour and apart from the depressive heat (about 9 degrees above the Equator) a lovely place to be. In harbour, the Band would arrange ‘old time music halls’ for the crew, whilst the Band would be invited to various venues to perform ashore. There was an aircraft carrier in our fleet and often we would challenge their band to a deck hockey match to enjoy fellowship with them afterwards. The game played with spirit on the flight deck.
Once out of the harbour and at battle stations it was a far far different story. We were no longer a band but operators of the transmitting station – affectionately known as the TS. It was akin to a tomb ie a steel box, water tight and situated below the water line, with 1000’s of tons of oil port and starboard of it and with the magazines fore and aft. The only way out of it for us was up and through a sealed hatch. The TS would be today what the electronics systems are all about, ie. the nerve centre of the ship. My job on ‘Valiant’ was to operate the radar system. On ‘Malaya’ I controlled the 6 inch guns as far as range and deflection were concerned and whether the guns were ready for action or not. I don’t recommend wearing headphones when the guns are firing. It’s soul destroying. The ship shudders and shakes, dirt and dust fly everywhere, and the noise is horrendous.
During the Battle for Crete in 1941, German bombers sank the two Cruisers Gloucester and Fiji. Only one of Gloucester’s Bandsmen got out of the TS before it went down, and that was because a sailor had pulled him out of the TS by his hair and saved his life, only to spend four years in a POW camp. Half of Fiji’s band didn’t make it either. The Bandmaster was lost with them. My elder brother was a survivor after literally being blown up and landing in the sea.
The Tsunami disaster is always with us these days – we remember with great sorrow the number of people who just disappeared and the loved ones who keep searching. It was in the Tsunami region that we ‘The Eastern Fleet’ kept watch during our years out there. We would leave harbour and search out the Japs to keep them guessing just where we would strike next. Our main objective would be their bases in Sumatra and Java as we tried to destroy them and let them know that their style of warfare was surely coming to an end. It was in May 1944 as we were returning from such a raid that I became ill and collapsed on the deck. I was carried to the Sick bay aboard ship. The diagnosis was Dengue Fever, but when I lost the use of my arms and legs I was ferried over to the Hospital Ship and from there taken ashore to the British Hospital in Colombo. After about eight weeks of special treatment I began to make progress – being able to feed myself and write my own letters and stagger about, so the medical specialist suggested I make a solo journey into Colombo to boost my morale. This I did, and whilst walking along the main road, saw a news flash on a poster board. It read ‘Allied Troops are rumoured to have landed in France’, which meant it was June 6th, the beginning of the end.
Ceylon is known for its precious stones so it was there that I bought Bett’s engagement ring, even though I hadn’t seen her for a couple of years. It was a sapphire stone with a diamond set on either side (that’s faith in action isn’t it?) Bett only mentioned to me a couple of years before she died that her parents thought it was too risky to marry such a sick man (that was on my return to the UK).
About two weeks after my visit into Colombo, I was called into the specialist surgery and told that because the invasion of Japan was imminent I couldn’t be sent back to UK but could either stay ashore in Colombo or go back to my ship in Trinco. Naturally I chose my ship and my friends. Within a couple of days I was being driven by ambulance across the island (about 100+ miles) to the harbour at Trincomalee. I was sitting in the front seat with the driver chatting away when all of a sudden a rogue elephant charged out of the jungle right at us. It must have missed us by the ‘thickness of a coat of paint’. Scary indeed!
At the RM Band Service Headquarters UK, when a musician was lost at sea his details would appear on the notice board – R.M.B.X… Joe Bloggs – Musician. DD (Discharged dead). Imagine this – RMBX 1272 Dennis G Lewis – Musician. DD killed by an elephant (wouldn’t sound right would it?).
Anyway the driver of the ambulance with me in tow arrived safely at the jetty in Trinco. We said our goodbyes and he set off back to Colombo. Before I left the hospital I had purchased various tins of fruit for my band comrades on ‘Valiant’; they were packed in a cardboard box. Unfortunately whilst waiting for a boat back to my ship, we had a tropical rainstorm. The cardboard box fell apart and I was forced to strip off my shirt and vest, tie a knot in the string vest to make a bag for the transportation of the luxury tins of fruit back to my friends. They hadn’t tasted such luxury for months.
My arrival back on board ship was a very happy event for me, but for the RM Musician sent from Colombo to take my place a very sad one. For two months he had really enjoyed his time on ‘Valiant’ but now it was ‘Farewell Orders’ and he had to leave. To be sure – to be sure. He was Irish you see. He came from the beautiful Mountains of Morne. A fine musician with a wicked sense of humour.
The preparations for the invasion of Japan were in full swing. To this end, a very large ‘floating dock’ had been towed all the way from Port Elizabeth (South Africa) to accommodate a few ships of the Fleet which required servicing – ie hull scraped and cleaned of barnacles. Gun Boats, Submarines, Destroyers and eventually HMS Valiant were due for the same treatment. Early one morning we got up steam and slowly but surely entered the Deck (similar to a Dock Gate on a canal). By 10pm that night the ship was secured in position – high and lifted up clear of water and ready for the workmen to commence the following morning. The crew would be helping to scrape and clean, while we the Band would play suitable music to keep them happy. Try to imagine the banter coming up from the well of the Dock, to us the Band playing aloft? A supply ship had tied up the Dock on the port side and was busy sending supplies over to Valiant by crane. By 10.30pm both ships’ companies were ready for sleeping. Three of us Musicians had found a place on the upper deck fore’d to place our bedding out in the open air instead of the oven temperatures down below in the Band Mess. It was a balmy night and after lots of chitchat and thoughts of family and friends at home in UK, we dozed off.
At around 2am in the morning when our metabolism is at its lowest, our peace was shattered by a very very loud explosion. The bow of our ship was ‘going up’ whilst the stern was going downward. Because we had been asleep at the time, we now felt our beds were on the move toward the stern too. Suddenly our 35,000-ton ship was actually bouncing down the sloping Dry Dock. It may have only been three or four bounces, but for us it felt like an eternity. We were listing to port too. The ships loud hailing system was working over time ie ‘don’t panic – keep calm. Damage control parties muster Fore and Aft’. Now the searchlights of the Fleet were illuminating us and we were told a day or so later that the ship looked like a ‘toy in a dinky box’. Really lovely. The Captain of the ‘Supply Ship’ tied up on our port side was making all haste to make steam to move away from our ship before it capsized on his. Us three musicians realised too that nothing could stop us from turning over. We couldn’t jump off because we would have landed 50 feet below between the dock and our ship and possibly kill ourselves. Then the quest for survival clicked in – make our way to the main mast (we called it the stick) and climb up to the spotting top, then as HMS Valiant went over, we would be high enough to be thrown over the dock and the Supply Ship into the open sea. As we made our way up the stick the Captain of ‘Valiant, ordered all the crew to line the starboard side rail while the volunteers went over to the half submerged dock to open its ‘sea cocks’ and flood it. This action saved the ship and us crewmembers. What a relief that was. What caused the explosion in the first place? Was it a wandering mine? Metal fatigue of the dock? The rumour going around was that a British Sub coming back into harbour and cleaning its torpedo tubes didn’t realise it had ‘one to go’ and ‘we got it’. We never found out the truth.
With the pumps working overtime to keep unwanted water entering the ship down to an acceptable level and with all the activity taking place, the idea of sleep was impossible. The banging, the shouting, the running about was insensate – it was a matter of urgency as HMS ‘Valiant’ parted company from the wreck of the ‘floating dock’. The tugs did all the pulling and shoving until we (the ship) were being towed toward an anchorage quite close to the Harbour entrance. It was there during the next couple of weeks that divers, with the help of previously unknown ‘frogmen’, found that the damage to our ship was very severe. No longer would we be a Battleship – ‘our teeth had been well and truly pulled’ ie two of our four propellers (screws) had been damaged beyond repair – the ship's steering system was out of kilter and the most serious – we had lost a section of our Bow underwater, the result of bouncing down the dock. Of course that meant we had water everywhere, but not a lot to drink!
About two weeks after the near disaster, an awful smell pervaded the ship; even the remaining ships of the fleet complained about it. Permission was given to allow smoking below decks to help counteract the stench. It was caused by the ton of meat rotting in the meat locker which was inaccessible until the Divers could break in and dispose of it – ‘what price fresh air’ eh!
Nothing could be done at this time to the damaged ‘screws and steering’ but the hole in the Bow was shored up with wood and sail canvas and with two tugs fore and aft began being towed across the Arabian Sea toward the Red Sea and the Suez Canal – escorted by RN Destroyers.
The arrival of a Battleship being towed into harbour caused quite a stir among the other vessels there. Two Ocean going Tugs for’d to tow it forward and two Tugs aft to guide/direct. To be allowed through the Suez Canal requires permission from the Canal Authorities and our Captain had received the ok from them on the grounds that our steering had been damaged beyond repair but that the tugs could manage to control every movement successfully.
The ship, with the tugs in full control, began its journey through that narrow stretch of water, when suddenly HMS 'Valiant' turned violently to starboard and crashed into the side embankment and was stuck fast, blocking all the traffic into or out of the waterway. On the bridge of the ‘Valiant’ were the Captain and Lesser Officers watching the Canal Pilot doing his job. The Captain, knowing that the Bow of ‘Valiant’ was badly damaged under water, immediately called for an inspection of it by the ‘damage control parties’. The Pilot – who was now in control, wanted to know the reason for such an order and revealing all to him meant that permission to go through the Canal was withdrawn. Too risky!
The four Tugs all now working to pull ‘Valiant’ off the side of the embankment found it impossible. Guess what was done? Our Captain ordered all of the crew (officers included) to strip off their shirts and muster on the Quarter Deck in two teams, ie Port and Starboard and while the Tugs pulled and with the Band on the Poop Deck playing suitable music, the crew jumped up and down like school children and bounced the ship free and out into deep water. We really did jump ship, 35,000 tons of it! The Band reckoned the exercise helped the crew to lose a lot of weight, although it was tiring – very tiring for us the ‘blowers’!
Once the ship was anchored, we were told that we would be in that location for a few weeks to let specialists have a look at the ship to make it more sea worthy. In earlier days both “Malaya’ and ‘Valiant’ carried a Walrus Seaplane for ‘spotting’ purposes. They had long gone, but the hangars remained amidships and were used as a ‘cinema’ – ‘concert hall’ – ‘theatre’ for the ship’s crew. Films were repeated many times and of course the Band worked overtime arranging all kinds of entertainment. Tombola was played almost every night (Bingo to you) and fishing was a popular pastime too. When it was dark it was possible to shine a torch into the sea around us and almost immediately hundreds of small fish would be attracted to the illuminations. We’d just cover a bucket and have more than enough bait to catch the Rock Cod like fish of 20-35 lbs in weight and delicious to eat.
During all these relaxations the two damaged screws (mopellors) were blown off by explosives, the damaged rudder was modified and the damaged bow was filled with concrete. So, these repairs meant that we would soon be on the move.
We, the Band, made our excursion into the desert to play at a Yugoslav refugee camp – a journey of two hours each way. It was worth the effort after seeing these poor souls stuck in this god-forsaken camp. They cheered and clapped as though we had been superstars. On arriving back on board ‘Valiant’ we were told that we had just missed being caught by ‘desert raiders’ who often raided such camps for food and fodder.
Some of us would remember the song ‘The Slowboat to China’; well ‘Valiant’ was the original Slowboat to UK! Yes! We moved and under our own steam, we journeyed round the Coast of Africa, a 5-10 knot journey calling at a number of Ports on the way. We spent a few days in Cape Town Harbour too, The Band playing in City Hall for local dignitaries followed by a dance.
The laborious journey back to UK meant our other meeting with King Neptune (he must have been fed up with our ugly faces). The incessant heat, especially below decks, was almost unbearable, especially when called to ‘action stations', but we thought of the meeting with our loved ones at home in the near future – Roll on UK! For me, it was the best thing to have happened, for by the time we arrived in Plymouth, my health was much improved.
The ‘paying off’ of the ship's crew didn’t take long (that is when the ship’s crew return to their respective depots). The Band’s Headquarters was now in Burford (Oxfordshire) and after Foreign Service Leave of three weeks I returned to Headquarters to find my name, rank and number on the Notice Board telling me that I was to proceed to HMS Daedalus (a Naval Air Station) at Lee-on-Solent on a compassionate posting to join the Royal Marine Band there. (You might remember that this now defunct Air base was being considered as a refugee camp in 2003; after numerous protests from the locals the idea was scrapped.)
The Air Base was about four miles from my home town of Gosport (Hampshire) and about six miles to the main RN Hospital at Haslar, a very famous Naval Hospital, which recently became the main NHS Hospital for the area, but unfortunately is now to close.
With my home being so close by, I was allowed to live at home and travel ‘to work’ every day. It also meant that I was under the care of the Naval Hospital. With one or two other Musicians I was called into the main Administration Office one day. All of us were nonplussed; why this should be? We were to be presented with our War Medals. Mine turned out to be:
1. 1939-1945 Star
2. Atlantic Star
3. North African Star
4. Burma Star
5. Pacific Rosette
6. Defence Medal
7. Victory Medal
I didn’t have the strength to wear them (only joking).
During all this time since I first collapsed aboard ship in 1944, I felt I had made good progress in my quest for good health. But there came a time when I was hospitalised once again and found myself sitting in front of a Naval Medical Board and was told that I was to be invalided out of the RM Band Service as ‘physically unfit for RM Service’ AMEN!
Added to site 15 April 2010 from Winter 2009 Blue Band Magazine
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