More by Accident Than Design
Waiting alone in the reception area of Blackfriars House was an unexpected experience in itself. The three friends who had arrived together had all quietly disappeared, leaving one applicant wondering whether he had somehow missed an instruction or misunderstood the process.
The answer came when a Chief Petty Officer appeared and invited him into his office.
There was nothing especially intimidating about the man. He was probably around thirty years of age, spoke with what sounded like a local accent and conducted the interview in a calm, businesslike manner. His approach was courteous rather than severe, but there was an unmistakable confidence that came from someone accustomed to making decisions.
By contrast, the schoolboy sitting opposite him possessed almost no confidence at all.
The Chief Petty Officer began by explaining that the entrance tests and medical examination had been passed comfortably. Congratulations followed, although they produced more surprise than satisfaction. Success had scarcely been expected. The entire visit had begun as little more than curiosity, and the possibility of actually being accepted into the Royal Navy had hardly entered anyone's thinking.
The interview then took an unexpected turn.
Looking down at the application papers, the Chief Petty Officer asked why the applicant wished to become a Radar Operator.
It was an entirely reasonable question.
Unfortunately, there was no reasonable answer.
The embarrassing truth was that there had never been any particular desire to become a Radar Operator because there had never been the slightest understanding of what radar operators actually did. Faced with an official form asking which branch of the Service seemed attractive, something had simply been written in the appropriate box in the hope that it sounded convincing enough to satisfy the paperwork.
It had seemed a harmless invention at the time.
Now someone expected an explanation.
What followed was remembered less as an interview than as an exercise in improvised self-preservation. Answers were assembled as best they could, although they rested upon almost complete ignorance of the subject under discussion. Looking back, it is difficult not to smile at the situation. There sat a Royal Navy Chief Petty Officer asking sensible professional questions while opposite him sat a fifteen-year-old trying desperately to sound knowledgeable about equipment he could neither describe nor recognise.
The performance cannot have been especially convincing.
Nevertheless, the Chief Petty Officer appeared more amused than irritated.
The mystery deepened still further.
He explained that there were no vacancies available for Radar Operator trainees in any case. More surprising still, he remarked that the aptitude test results were considered too high for entry into the Seamanship Branch.
The comment made little impression at the time beyond simple bewilderment.
School reports had never suggested exceptional academic promise. The Eleven Plus examination had been failed. Expectations at home were perfectly modest, and there had never been any illusion of being especially clever. Hearing a senior sailor suggest that the Royal Navy considered the examination results too good for one branch of the Service sounded faintly absurd.
The Navy, however, appeared entirely serious.
Without ceremony, another possibility was produced.
There was, the Chief Petty Officer explained, a vacancy for a Boy Sailor to train as a Junior Assistant Stores Accountant, usually known throughout the Service simply as a JASA.
The title meant absolutely nothing.
No explanation of the work itself was offered beyond the implication that a place existed if it was acceptable.
Faced with what appeared to be a straightforward choice between accepting the opportunity or leaving without one, the decision required remarkably little thought.
Agreement was immediate.
Only afterwards did it become apparent that agreement had been given without the faintest idea what a Junior Assistant Stores Accountant actually was.
It scarcely seemed the moment to ask.
The interview drew to a close and relief began to replace uncertainty. The ordeal appeared to be over.
Then came one final piece of information.
The Admiralty, it was explained, would write formally to the applicant's parents confirming the successful outcome of the recruitment process and explaining what would happen next.
For the first time that afternoon, genuine alarm set in.
There had been one rather important omission throughout the day's events.
No one at home knew where he had gone.
The consequences suddenly seemed rather more immediate than any naval career.
Leaving Blackfriars House, there was little sense of triumph. Confusion seemed a far more appropriate description. Somehow, a casual visit undertaken on a dare had ended with an offer to join the Royal Navy in a branch that had never previously been heard of, while an official letter from the Admiralty was now making its way towards parents who knew nothing whatsoever about it.
Whatever happened next, life had become considerably more complicated than it had been that morning.
Part 1 Essay 5
Part 1 Essay 6: The Letter from the Admiralty
Primary source: RN-001
RN-E-105
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