HMS Chichester at Pulau Tioman
1965 was, ‘The Year of Living Dangerously’.
Operating in and out of Singapore and the dockyard at Sembawang throughout 1965 – during ‘Konfrontasi’ with Indonesia – there were, before again falling into an on-going routine of ship’s bottom searches and night-time sea-going patrols – plenty of opportunities for shore leave. On one occasion, two of us had spent the better part of an evening at the Britannia Club before ultimately winding up, late at night, in Bugis Street.
Seated at one of the outside tables nursing post-dinner beers, Johnny and I watched as a hawker carrying a large cardboard box, went from stall to stall. Showing the box’s contents to the stall holders, all of whom just shook their heads and shooed him away, the shabbily dressed old man eventually made his way to our table. Curious as to what was in the box, we stopped him and indicated that we’d like to see what it was that he was carrying. He showed us its contents; two newly born puppies – presumably all that remained of a littler – whose eyes were still closed. Our hearts were immediately softened by the sight and sounds of these small, mewling and frightened little creatures. After checking our resources – and having had months in which to hone our bartering skills – money changed hands and Johnny and I became the new owners of two tiny puppies.
It was on the taxi ride back to the base at Sembawang before reality set in. Well aware of the prohibition regarding the keeping of pets, we decided to smuggle them back on board, hide them overnight in a small cupboard containing the hot water system for the stokers’ bathroom, and on the following day spirit them ashore. After which we’d attempt to find if there was a local pound or dog’s home prepared to give them shelter.
The first obstacle was to get up the gang-way from the dockside and aboard ship without either the Bosun’s Mate, or the Officer of the Watch noticing the contraband puppies. Allowed to wear civilian clothing when going ashore, both of us were dressed in slacks and polo shirts. Being so small, it was easy enough for each of us to stuff a puppy up our shirt and then tuck the bottom of the shirt into our trousers. What we hadn’t allowed for was hunger on the part of the puppies who, now that they were next to a warm body, wriggled around looking for something to suckle on. An exceedingly uncomfortable experience on many levels.
Fortunately, the Bosun’s Mate failed to notice that our shirts seemed to have lives of their own. Once below decks, our first stop was the sick bay. Waking up, ‘Doc’, the on-board SBA (Sick Berth Attendant) who always slept there, we confessed our sins, showed him the puppies, and asked if we needed to give them any medication. He suggested a flea-bath. Producing a bucket and a bottle of something that he claimed would put paid to any unwanted passengers being carried by the puppies, he gave each of them a good dunking before handing them back and, bidding us a good morning, ushered us out of the sick bay.
Drying the puppies off – and finding an about-to-be-dumped wooden fruit crate next to the closed galley that we then filled with rags and cotton waste – put them to bed in the stokers’ bathroom before climbing into our hammocks for what remained of the rest of the night.
Before we were even awake, one of the Morning watch-keepers had already discovered the puppies. It became a whispered secret that quickly spread throughout the ship. By the time breakfast was served, sailors were heaping their food trays with extra bacon, sausages, and even fish fingers, and opening extra cans of condensed milk (the only milk that we saw for nearly a year) that, when watered down, they’d poured into a salvaged tin can.
Over the course of the next few days there was a steady stream of willing helpers, keeping the puppies’ box clean and ensuring a fresh supply of rags and newspapers. However, it was increasingly obvious to everyone that the diet that we were able to offer wasn’t intended for – or suited to – the two puppies.
The following morning the ship’s Executive Officer (The First Lieutenant) made a broadcast over the Tannoy system to remind us all that, sadly, and on the off-chance that a crew member might request to have a pet on board, there was an existing standing order forbidding the keeping of pets. Obviously, it was time to seek out a shore-side home for the two.
That afternoon, Johnny and I placed Inky and Pinky into a hold-all, and took the two ashore, to our favourite bar in Sembawang village where, we felt certain, one of the bar girls was bound to know of a suitable refuge for them.
The late John Carrier (L) and me in Sembawang, in 1965
It was a quiet afternoon. As the only customers at that time of the day, we were joined by Lucy, the duty manager, who sat down with us and listened as we told her all that had happened, before unzipping the hold-all and showing her the two bulging-bellied puppies. Her, “Oohhs” and “Ahhh’s”, attracted the other bar staff, all of whom thought that Inky and Pinky were the cutest and cuddliest things they’d ever seen. The upshot of it all was that Lucy took both puppies, promising to find suitable homes for them if possible, or, at the very least, a suitable shelter where they’d be properly cared for.
Although I never again, knowingly, clapped eyes on Inky and Pinky, I did run into Lucy again on my return to Singapore three years later.
“Ah! Rupert!” She cried (‘Rupert’ was my nickname on board the ‘Chichester’– and almost everybody had a nickname in the Navy.) before adding. “Rupert, my little Puppy dog. You have come back to me.”
I hadn’t; and I didn’t. And to my further shame, I did suggest that she might be confusing me with somebody else.
I did, however, learn that both Inky and Pinky had eventually been located in loving homes.
—ENDS—
Categories: General
