It's Nice To Be Remembered

 
I recently returned to Dean's Place Hotel in Alfriston, as it had not been available over the summer - market forces and all that.  On the first night I arrived late, wearing 'civvies' and spectacles, and left to go offshore to the Rampion WInd Farm at 0530, so never really saw anyone other than the receptionist that first night. 

When I returned about 1830, I was wearing my yellow hi-vis, work clothes and contact lenses. The receptionist was the same lady but didn't recognise me. She asked me if I was checking in, but her colleague said,"This s Mr Chilcott, back from the wind farm", and gave me a lovely smile. So that made me feel good. Later on, when I was having my dinner, that same lady went past to go home but as she did so, she said, "Goodnight, Peter, enjoy your dinner." Reinforced warm feeling.

Next morning, I walked into breakfast, and the first person I saw and who I recognised, (James) said, "Good morning, Mr Chilcott." I was surprised but quite chuffed. And just as he had taken my breakfast order, another of the staff, hurried over saying it was lovely seeing me again and called me by name.  This was Lydia and we started chatting. I found out that she was once a professional clarinetist and as we chatted, the love for her instrument and its music became quite apparent.

This is all a bit of a ramble (are most of my infrequent blogs) but what I'm trying to say is that I'm not used to being so warmly greeted by folks after such an interval, and I reallly did have that warm feeling inside, and it didn't come from Ready Brek.

Thank you, Michelle, James, Lydia and Alex. See you in a couple of weeks

My Memory of Auschwitz

Like others, I've visited Auschwitz. I took pictures and felt guilty for doing so, for intruding, for being a gawper. They aren't touristy or selfies, just reflective of another time and life. I did so that I could look back in time to reinforce a fading memory. In time, when the last survivors have gone the resurgent deniers, the antisemites, the racists and haters, I will have proof to myself that it happened, that it existed, and that it was done by human beings.

Submariner Funerals

Submariner funerals are interesting. Standards will be paraded. Old men will line up awaiting the coffin. Alarmingly, when given the command, "Submariners - submariners HO!", these old men will come to attention so smartly, it was as if they'd been practising on Whale Island for the past two weeks. The chapel at the crematorium is always packed.

After the move to the Royal Naval Association for the wake, or more correctly 'drinks at the RNA', there is always an assault on the bar. Then there will be food. Salads usually get a good stiff ignoring, but otherwise, the Scotch eggs disappear almost immediately, and the sandwiches and chicken wings follow soon after.

And then there will be rum. There is always rum. And it is always Pussers. There is a toast, the glasses are upended and that warm sensation in the depths of one's innards slowly radiates.

These are occasions for everyone to catch up and to discuss matters submarine, but usually, those from previous decades for these are men from those decades. It's interesting times as stories from one generation are shared with another - it's a two-way flow; one group did 'mystery tours', the later did 'sneaky patrols'. Both did the same but the name changed somewhere through the years.

Badges are everywhere. Dolphins. Of course. And not just British ones for some of these old gentlemen will wear Australian or Canadian dolphins for they served in the submarine squadrons in those countries. There are medals galore. Some wear nothing but a lapel pin. There are one or two who have parachutist wings on the shoulders of their civilian jacket. There is any number of non-service badges or pins. Some wear theirs just on their lapels so they resemble an aged 3rd Former from my grammar school days. Others have one or two, whilst there are those who wear many and some of these are so big it looks as if the wearer was attacked by a vicious paintball assassination squad outside on the car park.

They are always cheerful events but when looking at the comrades assembled, one has to wonder when the next one's life will be celebrated and a tot drunk.

You....

You read something
You think something
You say something
You regret something

You wait
You think
You worry
You care

You.

Lost Reflections

It used to be that we could mark Remembrance Day at the Submarine Museum in the simplest of ways; we would fall in, the 'Still' would be piped, there would be the 2-minute silence, the 'Carry On', fall out and then a tot. It was simple, pure, and our thoughts were our own. And all the time the main parade was taking place elsewhere in the town.

And then someone decided it would be a good idea to invite a padre with all the associated palaver - hymns, prayers, his bad jokes, and a reference to his limited time on boats, The purity, and the time for reflection had gone, replaced by the discipline and routine of religion.

What it would be to have the chance to be able to observe those few minutes of reflection in a personal way without having to read an A5 pamphlet to remind one of what follows after the Submariner's Prayer. I doubt that opportunity will ever arise again.

Added later:

And then in 2019, the last time we got together, the 1100 bugle sounded, whilst the padre was talking. He stopped but only long enough to allow the tubes to die away. He was determined to finish his sermon.

Guilt Trip

We were up in London a couple of days ago, having a fun day and splashing a little money around (a rare treat). We'd had a nice lunch in a patisserie, bought some Chanel perfume, had a good mooch round and then went to Wardour Street for a pleasant dinner.

And then we headed for home.

As we walked through Picadilly Circus Underground, there was a guy with a blanket, reading the Metro, and a cardboard sign that said 'Ex British Army, Homeless'. I was all set to walk past him until I saw his sign, so I stopped to talk. He'd done 7 years and was late of the Royal Green Jackets. He'd been to Northern Ireland and Kosovo, and that wasn't what he joined up for, he said; I'm sure those who have done those tours will empathise. He got out but things just 'didn't go right'. I didn't press him. In September he will get a place to stay through the charity Homes 4 Heroes, and he wears one of their hoodies.

I asked him if he had anywhere to stay and he replied that he was hoping to get the £18 he needed for the night shelter. When asked if a tenner would help him, he looked at the change in his pocket and replied that would probably just about get him there.In the end, we made sure he had a bed for the night and left him.

What has gnawed at me ever since is the fact that we had blown some money on nothing really, and that we didn't think twice about making sure he had a bed. And yet, this guy was having to spend his day begging for that small sum which, I suppose, doesn't come easily.  It's the inequity that upsets me.

http://www.ukh4h.org.uk/

Armistice Thoughts

I find that I have come to find some peace in the quiet introspection that comes with marking the Armistice at the 11th hour. There is no build up (other than keeping an eye on the clock or radio in preparation). There is no religion nor any need for it. No pomp. It is a pure act of remembrance, a solitary commemoration. And for 2 minutes it's possible to think of anything - ice cream, cars, blisters - but thoughts go back to the hundreds of thousands who died a century ago, the years in between, and those who die today even though their physical war ended 20, 30 years ago.

In my mind I see the rows of white stone, the rows of crosses, the rows of dark squares I've recently come to learn about, I see a face of a gone too soon friend. And I wonder how I would feel in

the noise, (there's always noise whether it's in the air, on the land, or in and under the sea) in the depths of any war. and how the fear would feel. All the time, aware of a stillness even though I may hear traffic and everyday noises.

Then when the cannon sounds, I 'surface', perhaps a little selfconsciously, and go back to my normal life.