HMS Worcester

[Peter]

HMS Worcester the last of the batch three stretched Type 42s was lying peacefully at Fountain Lake Jetty in Portsmouth Royal Dockyard. The ship was secured with head, stern ropes, breasts and springs. She was low in the water, and had a full wartime load of Seadart missiles and 4.5" bricks for the fully automatic gun, which were capable of shooting down an aircraft, or a passing seagull, Worcester's fuel and water tanks had been filled completely, and there was food and stores for at least eight weeks.
Captain Horatio Branston-Pickle, Royal Navy was the only one on board who knew the ship's destination and mission. He would clear lower deck after the ship had passed nab tower and give the crew an inkling of what was happening. If all went well he would make Rear Admiral after this mission. It was his last night at home, he rolled over and put his arm around the voluptuous, and full bodied Cynthia, and thought, it had been a good idea to marry an admiral's daughter. He smelt her expensive perfume and dropped off to asleep again, he was once more on the poop deck of a 'ship of the line'. Deep down he loved flogging it was something he missed from his public school days, and all those young boys.

[Langstone]

Well, don't stop there, Peter. This is obviously a little-known event that deserves a wider audience. And when you say 'wartime', what war exactly?

[Peter]

Langstone, not actually at war, one of those incidents that take place on a 'destroyer somewhere in the Indian Ocean'.

I was hoping that if everyone did a paragraph a best seller could be written!

On duty last night in was the Buffer, his full title was Chief Petty Officer Pat Merone, he was the Chief Bosun's Mate, the senior seaman on board directly responsible to Number One, the First Lieutenant; Pat was six foot, he had a well honed body, his hair was black, and shocks of grey were starting to appear on his temples. He had piercing blue eyes. He was still getting used to having women at sea; he had noticed that Jack had started washing more often. Even he had started using after shave, particularly Brut, and checking his appearance more often. Perhaps it was because of the new Petty Officer Wren that had joined his department. Her name was Kate Williams, she was a also a part time author Oxford educated; no one was actually sure whether it was the university or the motel. He had noticed that when she was in civvies her stunning red hair reached the centre of her back. He thought of her delicate manicured nails, they would soon break, when she started splicing rope.

He inhaled deeply from his cigarette, he must get on with his rounds, he had reached the quarter deck, it was open to the elements so it was safe to have one there. He remembered the days of duty free fags and blue liners. He was just about to get up from the bollard he had been sat on when, from behind he heard a female voice say "Hello Pat", he felt a tingle go through his body, he turned around!

[alexlitandem]

Indeed, it was she.

"As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburettors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampers begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual."

[Source: Dan McKay, North Dakota, 2005 Winner of the Bulwer-Lytton Prize for 'The Opening Sentence for the Worst of All Possible Novels'.

(I kid you not, see here: http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/lyttony.htm )]

[PMarione]

Pat saw quickly all his hopes evaporate like dew in the early morning on the potatoes fields of his native Aghacarnaghan, when Kate added: "I love him, I adore him, my mind and soul is now transported with the thought of that blessed ecstatic moment when I shall see him, embrace him... I must sin on and love him more than ever. It is a crime worth going to hell for."
Born into grinding poverty in Abhainn a' Choire Bhuig, the infant Kate had no real chance of a happy life. Becoming a servant at an early age, she spent her days employed in dirty, back-breaking work, from which it seemed there was no escape.
Yet Kate was not like other girls who merely bore this as their lot. When she was in her teens, she moved to Oxford to chase her dream to become a bishop of the Church of England.
She was quickly disappointed when Vice-Chancellor William Teulon Swan Stallybrass told her that no woman could ever become a priest of the C of E and a fortiori - he was well versed in latin - a bishop, and that she had a far better chance of a career in the Royal Navy.
Kate had one thing in her favour: her stunning good looks: carburettors, red hair and all, made her desirable to editors.
As her biographer would later say: "She was snapped up by this guy called Dr Bertelsmann, who ran a sex show called the Random Temple. It was hilarious. He put on these shows every night where glamour girls in flimsy dresses pretended to be goddesses."
Kate got a job as a dancer in one of Oxford's most exotic brothels and one of her clients took her on for long-term hire in his house in Troedrhiwfuwch. This client was none other than Captain Horatio Branston-Pickle, RN.


Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental.

[Peter]

There eyes met, nothing was said - the urgency was there, Pat took a 'samson bar' and undid the clips to the diving store hatch which was situated on the starboard side of the quarter deck. As he opened it the light went out, but once they were inside the light automatically came back on. The diving sets charged with compressed air were stowed and secured ready for sea. The rubber and neoprene suits were hung in size order, all were lightly dusted with 'French chalk'. The smell from the rubber and neoprene reminded Kate of her time at university with her boyfriend Alex, he had been reading psychology and she ancient history.

Alex had loved cars and they had both enjoyed the feel of grease and the grease nipples, the smell of rubber on the car parts. Alex had always insisted in naming the parts of her body after car parts. Her bosom he had always misnamed calling them Strombergs, when it would have been correct to have called them Zenith Strombergs.

It was whilst she was at uni that she was recruited by 'the service', she had done her training at Gillkicker at Gosport, and had worked with the SAS where she had gained her parachute wings. Kate had been trained how to kill, and knew how to 'blow' things up. Learning how to swim and dive like a Dolphin with the SBS.

Yes, she had worked at a brothel in Oxford but she had been sent there to report on some conservative MPs who enjoyed the feel of a whip!
She had also seen Captain Horatio Branston-Pickle, RN but he would not recognise her he had always been too drunk. She had seen his file, nothing that extraordinary, links with the Belgian underworld, and the Mossad had an interest in him.

Only two men knew her reason for being on Worcester, one was the Director of Naval Security and the other was Z, her boss.

The two senior rates moved closer, their breathing became faster and faster....

It was now 0530 Kate suddenly woke to the shrill pipe and the bosuns's mate, 'Call the hands, call the hands', prepare ship for sea, assume NBCD State 3 condition yankee. She remembered in the days of old when the occupants of hammocks could lie in if they showed a leg and it was smooth, and hairless.

The ships's communication officer Lt/Cdr Hercules Poirot of the Belgian navy (on exchange) was at the Main Communcations Office collecting the signals, he was doing this task today because of the classification of the signals, not all had his clearances nor his experience - his ancestors had been at Traflagar, fighting pour Le Empereur!

[PMarione]

The life of Poirot had all the ingredients of a Greek tragedy. He was the only posthumous son of the great Artic explorer Gérard Manfroid whose last picture show standing at the stern of the Titanic, proudly singing the "Brabançonne", minutes before drowning in the icy waters of North Atlantic. He was the ggggrandson of Captain Tell Manfroid who was in command of the Sauve-qui-peut, a Belgian requisitioned fishing boat, at Trafalgar, and will forever be remembered as the crazy sailor who had thrown the poor naked Jeannette overboard for burning his toasts.
Hercules mother, née Sylvia Poirot, could never go over the ill-fated death of her fiancé and sank deeper and deeper in religion and cheap genievre. She had desperatly wanted a daughter and so Hercules had to dress in girl's attires till he was fourteen when he received his first trousers. He had also been often molested by the pervert priests that his drunk mother brought back home.
At the early age of sixteen, he left the home where he never had known any maternal love, and quickly followed the fate of the poor youths left on their own in the dirty streets of Steenokerzeel: he was recruited by the "Sûreté de l'Etat". After an intensive training of two years, he received his first mission: seduce a Russian diplomat. That mission was a complete fiasco. He was more successful on his second mission which involved the British minister of "silly walk". Encouraged by this success and due to the permanent shortage of agents of the Sureté, his boss, Y, decided to give him this new vital assignment.
That's the reason why we find him escorted by his faithful companion, Snowy, on this cold English morning, in the disguise of a Belgian naval officer on board HMS Worcester, and busy opening the envelope containing the secret orders of Captain Horatio Branston-Pickle, RN, at the steam of his faithful electric kettle that he normally used to brew his personal brand of Anhui green tea.
After a moment, he grumbled: "Here we are, Snowy". Snowy gave a cheerful yap while his master carefully raised the unglued flap of the thick envelope. Hercules slowly extracted a bundle of folded papers and spread them on the narrow table of the Main Communication Office while twisting the tip of his red fake mustache. He exclaimed: "Merde, j'ai été eu!". All the papers were perfectly blank.
It was just 0531 and the morning pipe had just sounded. He quickly put the papers back in the envelope that Snowy sealed with a damp lick, and threw it back in the bag full of secret signal books.

In the meantime, Kate was fully awake in her cabin that she had to share with two spare Mk-48 torpedoes. While she was brushing her teeth and whistling one of those dirty little tunes she had learned during her stay at Dr Bertelsmann's Random Temple, she was admiring in the small mirror, the big tattoo of the Victory at full sails that proudly cracked the waves of her curvacious lower back. If she could well remember, she had won it after a tight arm wrestling competition with drunken Dutch sailors in Macao.
After storing various weapons in hidden places of her attractive anatomy, she dressed herself in the freshly starked uniform left by the steward on her bunk, while she was trying to disengage her shapely leg from the tight embrace of Snowy which had subrepticiously entered the cabin.

[Peter]

It is 0500 and Lt Cdr Tobias Hervey stirs, his body alarm clock wakes him up, he doesn’t need alarm clocks or telephone shakes. Years at sea have honed his sensors. He then does five minutes fitness training to get the blood flowing and keep the pressure down. It is now 0505 and he shaves and showers – he likes to look smart and naval. A dash of after shave on his face and under his armpits. Only 0510 he is back in his cabin, the second biggest on board, he dresses, separate collar shirt, and No. 5s just back from the Chinese laundry, he then lightly polishes his shoes that he bulled the night before with Parade Ground Gloss. A silk white handkerchief in his top pocket. He then puts his cap on slightly at an angle, like Jellicoe and Beatty. He then looks at himself in a full length mirror and adjusts his tie. He remembers his basic training as a midi, “a smart turn out and good kit” nothing has altered.

On his bed side locker is his latest history book, which he has just finished, Jack Tar, by the husband and wife team, Roy and Lesley Adkins. An excellent book well researched, written, and presented. Jack Tar he thinks what a title, doesn’t that just sum the navy up, the ‘Andrew’. There was so much information in the book; he would impress the wardroom at dinner tonight with his knowledge. He particularly liked the bit about the sailor with the sow, and she grunted, I bet she did he thought, typical lower deck!

The time is only 0515 Toby as he likes to be known is now ready, he is the First Lieutenant to the Captain of the Fleet the Captain’s representative, and second in command.
He walks around the upper deck and checks the outward appearance, he feels a tingle throughout his body he thinks of Trafalgar as he looks up to the ‘Fighting Tops’. Well they are not really fighting tops, the ship’s RADAR and Electronic Warfare equipment, but he likes to think of them as such, was Pollard really Nelson’s avenger? He likes his naval history coming from a long line of naval philanderers.

He has an early breakfast, four weetabix, no sugar, he now has the energy inside his body, a cup of Earl Grey - he turns on Radio Four to keep updated with the world news.

He then waits to greet the Captain, his mind turns to the subject of Lt. Cdr Hercules Poirot and his dog, a funny looking thing with no hair or fur on it. He can’t stand dogs making a mess on his ship. The only reason Hercules is allowed a dog on board is because he has connections with the Belgium Royal Family. Dogs, yes there was a dog he would have liked to have met ‘Bounce’, the love of Cuthbert Collingwood. He had read somewhere that Cuthbert used to plant acorns when he walked Bounce ashore, and sang to him during the long patrol in the Med. after Trafalgar.
Sadly, Bounce had fallen over board, or had he be thrown? Had the marines who guarded Collingwood got fed up with the mess he made which they had to clear up. Now there is a thought!

Toby had a black Labrador of his own, who had been gun-dog trained at the kennels at Hambledon. He had called him ‘Chief’. It was his little joke, when he was shore based he took Chief to work with him. He used to let him off the lead, he would then call “Chief, chief, come here”, any Chief Petty Officer in the vicinity would then go to him. He could then say no, not you I was talking to my dog! Mind you the chiefs had their own nickname for him, ‘Golf’, he thought it was a nice nickname because he played golf, when in fact it stood for Grotty Little Horrible *****r.

His mind then drifts back to the captain, who he hopes by now he has forgotten about the incident the other day when the BBC were filming and the white ensign was hoisted upside down at morning Colours.