Down to the Sea in Ships

I GO (NOT) DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS Recollections of a Canadian Wr en By Dorothy (Robbie) Robertson For more information contact: Dorothy Robertson PO Box 28 Gooderham, ON K0M 1R0 Printed in Canada 2005 I GO (NOT) DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS Recollections of a Canadian Wren Dorothy Robertson (Robbie) I have been seastruck since, at the age of eleven, I read Southey’s “Life of Nelson.” I have great respect for that 11-year-old self: twice since I have tried unsuccessfully to repeat that feat, and have come to the conclusion that Southey as a writer of prose is unreadable. I read it then, of course, only because, having fallen in love with the Little Admiral during a history lesson, and having read all the other biographies in the library, Southey alone remained. From then on I longed to join the Navy and go to sea, albeit I soon arrived at the dismal practical knowledge that the latter half of that ambition was unlikely to be fulfilled. Women at sea? Perish the thought! Incidentally, this orgy of Nelson-worship probably led to the first glimmering of literary criticism through the varying treatment accorded the blind-eye episode: you know, when Nelson as second-in-command at the Battle of Copenhagen took advantage of his partial lack of sight to ignore the recall signal hoisted by his pusillanimous superior: he clapped the telescope to his blind eye and stated truthfully that he could not see the signal–let the battle commence. In one biography, written for the eyes of innocent little children (presumably including 11-year-olds), Nelson’s words were recorded as “— me, I really do not see the signal.” In the second, aimed at whatever teen-agers of those days were called, the quotation read, “D–n me, I really do not see the signal.” Southey, of course, pulled no punches, being unsuspicious that his monumental work would never come under the scrutiny of a small girl: “Damn me,” said Nelson, “I really do not see the signal.” I chuckled to myself for days over this comparison, but prudently kept my observations to myself in case Mother thought it necessary to censor my reading! With such a background no one can be surprised that I kept my patriotic fervour in check during the Second World War while the Army and Air Force were organizing their women’s branches, until the first whisper of the Navy’s at last following suit appeared in the newspapers in the spring of 1942. On the instant I sent in my application to join–one of some 800 other applications received within the first four days, I have since learned. Had I known this at the time I should have been astonished as well as delighted to receive a call not long after for an interview with the British Wren Officer, Joan Carpenter who, with two others, was lent to Canada to supervise organization of the Canadian service. Thereafter things moved much too slowly. I saw by the newspapers that the first group had been mustered and the Women’s Royal Canadian Naval Service officially founded in August, but it was November before the first real event of my naval career occurred: His Majesty the King bade me report to HMCS York for a medical examination. This nautical language concealed the fact of His Majesty’s Canadian Ship York being in reality the Automotive Building of the Canadian National Exhibition. The “Ex,” as it is familiarly known, claims (used to claim) to be the World’s Largest Annual Exhibition, and occupies a large site on the shores of Lake Ontario in Toronto (which was once called York, hence the ship’s name). The Ex is held during the latter part of August and the beginning of September, and was in full swing when war was declared in 1939. As soon as the doors were closed the armed forces moved in and commandeered most of the permanent buildings. These buildings were numerous, large, sturdy, spacious, and no doubt well designed for their normal purposes, which were not the housing and feeding of large numbers of human beings. The Ex struggled to carry on, and was actually held in 1940, an extraordinary mishmash of sightseers and merrymakers mingling with service personnel trying to carry out their training operations. The Air Force probably suffered the most. It had bagged the agricultural complex for its share, and was forced to endure a fortnight’s hilarity, hysterical laughter, and bad jokes from the civilian visitors as they read huge signs: SWINE above “Officers” and CATTLE AND SHEEP above “Other Ranks.” The Ex originated as an agricultural fair and was still trying to preserve its identity! 2 What I set out to say was that the Automotive Building, being intended for the display of new cars and trucks, was not easily converted into a homelike barracks. It was, moreover, a strictly male preserve at that time; it was a daunting procedure to enter the fast echoing concrete hall warm with beautiful navy blue and try to find the Wrens’ section. This turned out to be a minuscule room on an upper gallery. Minuscule? It was almost invisible, and had been further subdivided into three pieces. The piece entered through the doorway – there was no door – contained one desk, one filing cabinet, and two straight chairs, on one of which was sitting the first genuine Wren-in-uniform I had seen. No other furniture: there couldn’t have been; any more and no human beings could have got in. The other half of the room was concealed by inadequate shower curtains which ended about two feet from the floor and showed a disturbing tendency to part with the slightest puff of wind. Below the curtains two pairs of legs were clearly visible, one male clad in trousers of navy blue, one female clad in nothing; and through the frequent gaps in the curtains were equally clearly visible one male rear end clad in the trousers and assorted portions of female clad in nothing. The Wren, whom I later learned to call a Writer, asked a lot of questions, filled in a lot of forms, and directed me into the third and smallest piece of the room, ordering me to take off my clothes and put on the hospital gown that was hanging on the wall. “All my clothes?” I enquired sadly, my eye on those curtains which indeed seemed scarcely to meet at all. “ALL,” she repeatedly firmly. The floor space in the disrobing room was about three feet square. It contained one chair and two wall hooks, on one of which hung the clothes of the girl now being examined, on the other the aforementioned hospital gown. It took a long time and considerable agility to wriggle out of my clothes and don the gown – which likewise didn’t quite meet in the middle – without flinging wide the curtains and revealing to the sailors passing the door what they probably passed the door to see. I believe there were only some 500 men aboard at that time, but if someone had told me 500,000 I would have believed him, and they all had business that took them past that door. Perhaps a whole lot of businesses – hope springs eternal, especially in the breasts of men living a semi-monastic existence. 3 Meanwhile I sat disconsolately on the chair in the smallest section, and sat, and sat, and SAT, getting colder and colder (it was November, and that huge concrete barn was virtually impossible to heat) and more and more alarmed at what was going on next door. I could hear everything; in fact, with only the abbreviated curtain between us, I should have been medically unfit for service if I had not been able to hear, and it was obvious that the Medical Officer had found something seriously wrong with the girl. Although it was also obvious early on that she would be turned down for service, the doctor persisted with a thorough examination, and at the end advised her to consult a specialist immediately. All this had taken so long that there were now two more recruits waiting, one seated on the visitor’s chair, the other standing nervously in the doorway. I was thankful for the partial screening of her body during the perilous passage from one inadequately curtained recess to the other. The M.O. was young, good looking, serious – and thorough. Perhaps he was influenced by his discovery in my predecessor, but it is certain that never before or since have I had such a thorough medical examination, conducted gently but firmly, and without the smallest trace of a smile. At last he seemed satisfied. He shoved a paper into my hands. “Read this,” he said. “Have you ever had any of these?” It was a long list of mostly serious complaints like rheumatic fever and epilepsy. I recognized all but one, and could thankfully swear that I had never shown traces of any, and would have liked to sign with a flourishing blanket, “No,” but native Scots caution made me point hesitantly to the unknown word and say, “I don’t think so, but what is this?” For the first time a tiny smile twitched at the M.O.’s lips. He stared at me for a few seconds before replying. “Bed-wetting,” he said succinctly. “I haven’t done that since I was two!” I exclaimed, signing hastily. Probably this exchange had also been overheard by the audience, now enlarged to the Wren writer, one recruit behind the curtain, one on the chair, and two in the doorway, but they kindly gave no sign.

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