Evenings Under the Shed
People often imagine that military training is remembered for its dramatic moments.
The shouting.
The marching.
The punishments.
They certainly happened, but memory has a curious habit of preserving something else as well.
Sometimes it remembers peace.
For me, one of the calmest moments in HMS Ganges came at the end of almost every working day.
The Annexe was built around an open parade ground, with a long covered walkway running in front of the messdeck entrances. During daylight hours it was simply part of the establishment. Drill took place there, instructors prowled there and recruits hurried across it whenever ordered.
In the evening, however, it became something quite different.
Once the day's work was over, evening rounds completed and no further demands were expected, we were allowed to sit beneath that covered walkway. It was hardly freedom, but after the relentless routine of the day it felt remarkably close.
There was always something that needed doing.
Kit had to be folded.
Clothes washed.
Caps cleaned.
Naval knowledge revised.
Most of us soon discovered that if we stayed ahead of our work, we could spend that precious hour concentrating on our parade boots.
It sounds ridiculous now.
Imagine a group of fifteen-year-old boys sitting quietly together, each intent on making a pair of black boots shine just a little brighter than they had the night before.
Yet that was exactly what happened.
The conversations drifted wherever young lads' conversations always drift.
Home.
Football.
Families.
Rumours.
Occasionally somebody would produce another miraculous polishing method that guaranteed a mirror finish.
Every few evenings a new theory arrived.
One recruit swore by spit.
Another claimed warm water.
Someone else insisted a teaspoon of tea was the secret ingredient because an old Petty Officer had told him so.
Nobody questioned such wisdom for very long.
We simply tried it.
The one subject that united everyone was polish.
Kiwi was regarded almost as magic.
Cherry Blossom worked well enough, but somehow never quite produced the same depth of shine. Nobody could really explain why. We simply accepted that Kiwi was better, and that settled the argument.
Not every experiment ended successfully.
A few inventive souls discovered industrial sealants and various miracle substances that produced astonishing results for two or three days before cracking into a disaster that took weeks to repair.
Others became convinced that rubbing the leather with the back of a spoon would flatten every imperfection. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it merely left permanent ridges that no amount of polish would ever disguise.
Experience slowly became the greatest teacher.
The older hands offered occasional advice.
Small circles.
Patience.
Very little polish.
Never rush.
Whether those techniques were scientifically correct hardly mattered.
What mattered was that every evening dozens of recruits sat together, quietly perfecting a skill that would become second nature throughout their naval careers.
Looking back now, I realise those evenings achieved something else entirely.
They gave us time to breathe.
No instructors were shouting.
No one was timing us.
No parade was about to begin.
For perhaps an hour each evening the pressure eased just enough for ordinary conversation to return.
The boots certainly benefited.
So did we.
Half a century later I cannot remember every face that sat beneath that covered walkway.
I cannot remember every conversation either.
What I do remember is the quiet satisfaction of seeing a pair of parade boots reflecting the evening light, knowing they would pass inspection in the morning.
For a recruit at HMS Ganges, that counted as ending the day on a success.
Annexe 130 - Primary source: RN-023
Comments