Reminiscences - Ceremonial divisions in the rain

Back in 1969, during training in the Royal Navy. Jargon was everywhere. Certain groups of individuals belonged to Divisions; and to compound matters, Divisions also referred to the mustering in those groups on the parade ground. The entire collection of divisions or groups on the parade ground were referred to as Parade. I hope that’s clear…

Rain - Smithsonian/Wikipedia commons

Normally, if there is likely to be inclement weather, the parade is mustered in a drill shed for ‘wet weather routine’. However, on this particular day of insistent rain, due to the fact that it was Tuesday – Ceremonial Divisions day – the omnipotent officers decided to proceed as usual, with the Parade dressed in gabardines. Beneath our rain-proofs we wore our best uniforms. 

Parade got wet.

As we stood there, at ease, then ho!, at close order, the open order, at wet ease again, dribbles of rain drooled annoyingly off our cap brims onto our collars. Meanwhile, our Divisional Officer stood in his Number One uniform, including sword, without benefit of a gabardine. Presently, a rating crossed the parade ground at the rush and handed an oilskin to a neighbouring D.O.

An order was given: ‘Parade – up collars!’ Of course, by now, our collars were soaking; if our necks had been even slightly dry and warm, now they were wet and cold, and most uncomfortable.

During the intervals between orders, I listened to the sibilant patter of rain. It ricocheted off the parade ground like enemy fire; we appeared like toy soldiers, or rather wet toy sailors (or perhaps more aptly, penguins).

When the order ‘Paray-d will march past, into threes, right turn!’ was given, a husky growl of ‘Oh, for f***’s sake’ issued from the rear of our class, sounding very much like our Petty Officer Bishop. He was a tough taskmaster, but he clearly felt for his lads.

As ordered, we marched past the Commanding Officer, Commander et al, and our trousers were spattered with mud and drenched through and through.

As we marched in that rain, I felt oddly stimulated by it. Perhaps the act of marching got the blood flowing, warming the body? Anyway, there were no lasting effects, save that the uniform required laundering, and it was quite an experience, never repeated. Minor natural adversity, perhaps, but it was strangely exhilarating. Wet but exhilarating.

[These reminiscences were written at the time, 1969. Now, I doubt if ‘exhilarating’ would be appropriate!]

Next – The Polka-dot Parade

 

 

Father's Day

It seems quite appropriate that Spain celebrates Father’s Day on March 19. This was the date I became a father, when our daughter Hannah was born. I won’t mention the year, as one doesn’t do that with regard to a lady, though I’d add that she doesn’t look her age! Anyway, it was one of the greatest moments of my life (and our life, I might add!)

I was on leave and destined to join HMS Mermaid, my new ship, docked in Rosyth. We seemed to be cutting it fine; Hannah was ‘late’ – as if there is a definitive schedule that babies have to follow… We’d driven the car over nearby cobbled roads in an abortive attempt to help nature along. Monday approached, when I would have to leave.

Then, on the Friday a policeman arrived at our front door. Because I was between ships, the new ship didn’t have our house phone number, so they had resorted to contacting the local police to deliver a message: I was not to join my ship as planned, but to stay at home, since HMS Mermaid was called out for the Cod War. [There are some stories to tell about that time, when I eventually joined the ship and we faced the Icelandic ships; tense days when on more than one occasion lives were almost lost]. So by this strange quirk of fate I was fortunate enough to attend Hannah’s birth in Bolton hospital.

 

March 19 is Saint Joseph’s Day. Apparently, in 1948, a schoolteacher in a town north of Madrid decided to mark the day at her school to keep the fathers of her students happy, as some had wondered why there was only a Mother’s Day. She chose the date as it coincided with the day dedicated to St Joseph, since he was an ideal role model for Christian fathers. The event she staged involved mass, gifts for the fathers hand-made by the girls, and a party with poetry, dancing and a play. The idea caught on and spread to other local areas. In 1951, thanks to publicity on the radio, it went national. Two years later, two big stores, Galerias Preciados and El Corte Ingles promoted the event.

Valencia falla - as high as a building... Wikipedia commons

In Valencia it is considered by many to be the most important day of the fallas celebrations. Each neighbourhood has a group of people, the Casal faller, that works all year holding fundraising events in order to produce the fallas. These fallas are made of papier-maché and each of the figures is known as a ninot or doll; traditionally, many figures are satirical digs at famous people. Each group takes their ninot out for the parade so they can be seen and appreciated before they’re burned to the accompaniment of noisy bangers and colourful fireworks.

***

There’s an allusion to fireworks in my short story ‘Pigeon Hearted’, one of 22 cases from Leon Cazador, half-English, half-Spanish private eye, ‘in his own words’ – Spanish Eye.

Pigeon-Hearted

“I’d just witnessed the first cracks in a breaking heart.”

Fireworks in daytime are not particularly spectacular, but that doesn’t deter my Spanish compatriots from setting them off. The clear blue sky was momentarily sprayed with silver and red stars as the single rocket exploded above the town square. Minutes afterwards, a profusion of colours darted above our heads, but this display wasn’t the transient starburst of more pyrotechnics. The palette that soared in the sky came from garishly painted pigeons released from patios, balconies, rooftops, and gardens. In the next few minutes, the number of male birds increased to perhaps seventy.

 

Please buy the Amazon com e-book here

Please buy the Amazon uk e-book here

Please buy the paperback post-free world-wide from here