KEN WRIGHT (kip)

WELLESLEY NAUTICAL BLYTH Northumberland

This phase of the "Wellesley" story began after a series of incredibly intense dreams covering a number of months, about my "sweetie" of that period, Greta Long. Greta and myself, despite severe obstacles, sustained for a considerable time a warm and loving relation-ship through the "Wellesley" hedge...which for me at any rate, was an extremely porous membrane. Having failed to locate her by way of school searches, tel. white pages etc.,I punched "Wellesley into the computer to see what that would yield, which in turn brought me to the "Trainingships" website and by turn under "Wellesley History" to the entries of Robert Brant and Fred White who; despite slips of their own memories [mine are bolstered by newspaper headlines on one side and a passport on the other]

I now know both of them to have been at "Wellesley" at least in the latter part of my term...Feb/57-Aug/59 Memories of those years for the most part for myself, have remained long buried...not because of any pain...pain came naturally with the territory...but because what evolved from those early to mid teen years...had I thought of it, I'd have written of it...had I written of them and the memories being so precious to myself and yet so extreme, I think I was afraid that if people who read the words without any comprehension of the life, would have belittled or demeaned them;and having no thought to defend them... they therefore remained capped.

I had no idea that so little of "Wellesley" history appears recorded or so few of the stories have been told.Maybe it's time to amend that situation. In a flurry of exchanged letters with Robert Brant[Hey Fred! Wake up out there,you've yet to be heard from!] and his considerable and much appreciated help I've been able to restore names to faces and vice versa. straighten out quirks of my own memory and in short precipitate a stream of consciousness release from the clutter in the attic of my mind that may ultimately yield a book...or at the very least a fairly thick pamphlet...but for now,not necessarily chronologically, one episode at a time. I might have call this one "Desperately Seeking Greta"...hey with emphasize on the hard E in "Greta"...which is where it actually lay, it works! but since that apparently has already been done to death , how about simply Sunday

I don't care who you were at "Wellesley", Officer or boy, P.O. or lowest skivvy...or what had gone or not gone the week before, Sunday without argument was the day in which it all came together...this was Church Day...the day of our triumphant march as a cohesive invading force into the Town of Blyth. Uniforms were shook out, number one blues...the more "salty" had bellbottoms pressed in either seven horizontal creases, denoting the worlds seas or five,denoting its oceans...and if they'd gone this far you could damn near bet money that their cap tallies...name 'Wellesley" or occassionally a "HMS Wellesley"...was emblazoned with one of a number of traditional fancy knots...butterfly...or rose etc. Collars,tapes and gunshirts were pressed...Lanyards scrubbed white[here, toothbrushes did double duty]...pusser hats `blancoed' to snowy white and a last touch up done to double soled boots that were always kept to an immaculate spit shine that you could have shaved in... provided you had anything to shave!

Once dressed, Ships Company was assembled on the main road outside of `Nelson' and the band, who had independently dressed...immaculate in their webbing, belts, gaiters and brasses and instruments formed up to the right of them.Rolls were called...Divisional Officers singing out account of their charges Hawkins...all present and accounted for! Raleigh...all present and accounted for! Drake...all present and accounted for! Boscowen...all present and accounted for! Rodney...all present and accounted for! Frobisher...all present and accounted for! and finally Band...all present and accounted for and this tally in turn would be given to the Senior Officer on parade. Once satisfaction was met all round that everyone was in account... then the entire Ships Company was drawn to Attention...Turned to the Right...and with the band stepping off by the Right the whole assemblage, guards pattern drums taking the beat, we marched off to the area just within the gates known as the `Quarter Deck',arrayed with the imposing wooden figurehead of Admiral Boscowen, behind which stood the Ships flagpole.

This was where the Senior Officer on base, generally the Captain, Davy Jones[no joke]took the Salute. As the Drum Major drew abreast he'd give the orders for the Band. ..Eyes Right...and the Officers for each successive Division would follow by rote as each of their charges drew abreast. Before the last Division passed the reviewing stand, the Band had already wheeled out on to the Links Road and when the final Division was arrayed in formation, the call to "Wellesley" was given by the Drum Major, whereupon the bugles came to lip to sound off with the rrratt of the drum

Dah.....Dah
Dah....Dah
Dah.....Dah...Rah...Dah..Dah
Dah.....Dah
Rah....Dah....Dah
Dah.....Dah
Rah....Dah....Dah
And as the first bugle notes tapered off the Bass
Drums came to
prominence
Brrrm.....Brrrm
Brrrm....Brrrm...Brrrm
Brrrm.....Brrrm
Brrrm....Brrrm...Brrrm

And we'd have the whole enchilada...sharp pressed blue and whites...atop gleaming black polished boots...flashes of brass...the flash of the Drum Majors Staff as it spun in the air...a hundred and twenty odd Officers and Men...all muscled and lean limbed marching on the Town...be warned! lock up your womenfolk...secure your valuables!...the "Wellesley" boys are upon you As we passed from the rural Links Road to the urban Wensleydale Terrace, bugles dropped from lip to hip and the deep bass drums quieted we continued the march to the steady thrum of the guardspatterns. Passing the heavily curtained houses my eyes would steal a furtive glance to catch any sight of Greta in the windows of her home...generally to the admonition...Eyes to the Front!...hoping at the same time that she and her two inseperables, Christine and Jane, both daughters of "Wellesley" officers...had gone on ahead to church. Approaching the Town Centre and church the Band would again be rousted to life in one of a number of stirring marches and we'd arrive before the house of worship in the full panoply of naval marching tradition.

Once halted, we were fallen out and made our way individually into the church; those of us with girls jostling for position, trying to catch a glimpse of the face of our 'sweeties'...close enough we might be able to exchange notes...planning meetings in the week ahead...yet distance discreet enough that not more than ninety percent of the congregation might suspect what we were about.

The Blyth Church services were a predictable menu of sermon, hymns and local announcements and if there is a God in the heavens you'll just have to forgive me...in those days I truly wasn't paying you much heed...what with the distractions and all!...But aye! I'll only shoulder half the blame...If you hadn't pumped me so damned full of testosterone I might have given you more time; and it could have saved me tons of grief later on...And now? Well the pistons might miss an occassional stroke but I believe the tank to still be running above the quarter mark and I do have slightly more time on my hands. Church done, the Band and the balance of Ships Company were re-assembled to retrace our steps back to base.

Sunday afternoons...barring sport events,outside excursions[I belonged to the Hornpipe Display Team] or in fine weather, marches out along the Links Road to the sand dunes, we were left very much to our own devices [in my case drop the de-] to work on kit or hobbies, to simply walk the playing field perimeter or be entertained by one of those blessed boys that could "tell" a picture...an incredible feat of storytelling that could relate a film down to its smallest nuance with incredible flourish and embroidery...it was and should it still exist be declared an art form unto itself Because I belonged to the galley staff[and for a considerable period,very much ran the kitchens] my time was not held as accountable as for others...and being the opportunist that I am, I'd take full opportunity of the lapse to slide on through the hedge and enjoin with Greta the promise of the morning...To this day I still marvel at how we accomplished the relative smooth logistics of our meetings. Sunday evening chapel though for me was both the climax of the day and of the week...I don't think even Greta could sway me here...although the girls, all three of them, did sometimes thread their way in, to form a minor distraction but I think that tended to be more on the Church holidays than regular Sunday service...and it was here That Commander Janaway held sway.

We'd file into the tiny edifice to the humping and grunting of the old organ as Janny wrestled tunes from it and once we were moderately settled he'd launch into one of those great very British hymns that were once the heart of an Empire And did Those feet......In ancient times Tread upon England's......Mountains green, or Land of Hope and Glory None of which made any bloody sense but were guaranteed to stir the hardest soul...followed perhaps by the twenty third psalm...which you can't fault...having weathered the extreme test of time...and then a generally short hard hitting sermon if Janaway was in the pulpit or a more languid, obtuse one if the Skipper, Davy Jones took the stand.

The sermon was followed by letters, if any...and since these took a generally moralistic tone, I often suspected Janaway of having contrived them...but I could have foregiven him anything because service would be concluded with the highlight of my week...the bookreading by the 'Man' himself...often pages of Neville Shutes...'Chequerboard' comes to mind...his powerful voice giving rise to images that the written word did not surrender. My mother to this day remembers "Wellesley" as that 'terrible' or that 'awful' place. Both Robert Brant and Fred White recall "Wellesley" with a fondness...despite the difficulty of life there. Memories can often be skewed by time. Mine, again bolstered by indisputable fact, cannot.

About a year prior to my release, my parents emigrated from England. At that time I was given the choice of going with them. I chose to stay. At "Wellesley" I discovered for the first time simple yet comprehensive precepts of mind and body...and equally important, shown and taught by example rather than served a list of unfathomable edicts that you were meant to subscribe to by rote and without question [and if that paragraph appears to be a mouthful, chew it over again...eventually you'll digest it...and besides,I couldn't think of any other bloody way of sayig it]

My life at present appears to be one of chaos...I'm financially broke[so what else is new? I've always been on a financial roller coaster...so much so that going up or coming down, all seems the same to me...I tend to have fun both ways...and anyway there's another business venture in the works, in shellfish mariculture] All about me real chaos does reign...communities are in collapse as traditional life forms crumble and folks unmindful or unable to adjust to new realities of local and global economies, turn increasingly to drugs,alcohol,violence and suicide...yet within me there reigns an inner peace...and I think how else could it be?...

I wake to otters rollicking on my dock in a morning...herons and kingfishers working the shallows...further out perhaps an eagle or more occassionally an osprey stoops on a fish...the woods around abound with deer, cougar, bear and wolf...salmon,crab,prawns and rockfish are at my fingertips...I am surrounded by my gardens and fish ponds...my boats are old but generally in good shape...all wealth cannot be measured by base coin [of course month ends are sometimes a bit of a curiousity]....and my overall financial picture might have looked a little rosier but for my life long attachement to sailboats' good kayaks and young women...all expensive habits to cultivate

In retrospect I wouldn't trade one moment of the time that I spent at "Wellesley"...It set both the tone and the toughness of my life; and though I'm not a particularly religious man, Janaway and his counsel and the peaceful santum of the "Wellesley" chapel provided the inner tranquility I've enjoyed all my life...If you don't believe in the Power of God...Believe at least in the power of Good Aug/22/01 Although it is nobodies business but our own... in deference to Greta... her kith,kin and ascendents...and the more prurient among you...our young love was an unconsumated one...But Greta, if you're out there love we could put that to rights in a moment....Well, maybe a moment or two.. the appellation "Rabbit" fell away a long time ago.

If any of the following read this or anyone recognising the names, incidents or time frames...please get in touch with me. Greta Long...Lived Wensleydale Terrace, Blyth late 1950s early 1960s... father was lighthousekeeper Jane Crompton...Father was Officer at "Wellesley" Christine Sanderson... Ditto Bob Crook Charlie Clements Jack Steele Ron Worrall Ron Wiggins ?Humphrey ?Hughes ?Cottrell Thanks to all the incredible Officers and Staff at "Wellesley"...with only a couple of notable exceptions. Thanks also go out to all the nameless people who have contributed to the making of the "Trainingships" website thereby helping to preserve a precious piece of history.Both my pleasure and pride to make some small contribution.

THE WELLESLEY HEDGE

The Wellesley "hedge" was more a state of mind than it was a physical barrier.

If any of us had known what the word had meant we might have said it was a metaphor for life itself!...it was a mindset of your own construction....a barrier built by peers...a fence erected from fear of retribution [read flogging]...a demarcation between the assured within and the unknown beyond.

For myself it was an extremely permiable membrane that I crossed and recrossed, back forward and lengthways almost at will, using it as badly as I've used most of lifes constrictions ever since...I need to breathe fresh air! In my early months at the school when I was still in my running mode...twice from the Worksop Remand Home...Once from Stamford House, London and four times from Wellesley[before the threat of an application to the Home Office to raise me to Adult Status put paid to that nonsense] and despite the fact of having the P.O. of Hawkins,Cottrell for a period as my ball and chain, the "hedge" never was much of an impediment to my freedom of movement.

What did prove to be an unsurmountable obstacle to prolonged bouts of freedom was my young looks small frame and soft voice. Later in my term, when I had things running more to my own liking, for an abbreviated period I had[shades of young Fagan] a little gang of felons doing B&Es...the spoils from which I'd take down[often blankets] to the Blyth docks and trade with the Polish fishing fleet for tobacco, the "hedge" never proving much of a nuisance.

Again, further into my term, after establishing my relationship with my girl Greta, I jumped the hedge as many as three times in a day.. although that would be a rare exception...probably done more to prove some unremembered point...but I'd walk her part way to school...often met her coming home for lunch...and spent many evenings with her. It would appear that anyone in a reform school that had that much unaccounted freedom reflected a profound lack of supervision Not necess- arily so! You could mostly only get away with it under a given set of circumstances...one of which was belonging to the galley staff. The civvy cooks if you turned a blind eye to what they did, in turn didn't hold us to much account. I just simply took it to its extreme! Evenings were a different item all together. If I happened to get lumped in with the T.V. mob, then I was pretty well assured an hour or two with Greta [unless Tyrell or Cleall.(.the tailor), was officer of the watch...he was a bugger for calling snap roll calls...he got me a couple of times like that.

To appreciate how I got liberty you have to understand the lay-out of the T.V. room.Wellesley had formerly been a Naval base and most of the remaining buildings had most assuredly been dormitories which are built the same the world over. Just inside the door and to the right is a small room that would have been P.O.s quarters...to the left a row of sinks leading to the head. This constitutes the scrub room. A few steps inside the door,seperating the scrub room from the main dorm is a wall reaching to eave level[the dorms having no ceilings they are open to the peak] once the boys had been marched into the T.V. room the officer would secure the door from the inside with a wooden bar and he in turn would sit just inside the inner wall. Now, ostensibly the only way out was past him, supposedly keeping tight rein on his charges...and really about the only valid reason to pass him was to use the head. Then there was the bypass!

The seating was wooden benches and at the back it was usual to stack a bunch together to give a clear view over others up front...which also gave you an elevated leg-up to the top of the inner wall and with a bunch of my whackers obscuring me from the officer, who is merely feet away, I'd roll over the wall, drop down into the scrub room and step into the head...then it was up to one of your good buds to ask to use the head...and this was essential...you could not go out the front door...the sound of the wooden bar lifting, as well as not being able to replace it, plus the air and the light of the night all conspired to nix that exit...so you needed one of your whackers to answer an urgent call of nature to muffle the sound of an apparently blockaded window being removed and replaced[something I don't think I was originally responsible for but which I definitely made most use of] And I was off into the night.To utilise this exit, you needed just the right balance of youthful balls,slight frame, raging hormones and good mates.

If everything was done right...and for the life of me I can't remember how we worked out the smooth logistics of all our meetings... then life was great!...but if things went wrong then they generally went for a total shit. Coming back over the "hedge" there'd be a perceptible difference in the air. The lack of activity around the dorms or the disquieting quiet of the school would spell a roll call in progress and more than once I've stood outside of "Nelson" staring in, knowing I was probably the only one not accounted for. Moments like these you don't want to dwell on...there's just the consequential flogging to be dealt with....... Which leads us naturally into corporal punishment. Amongst the material put together for the trainingships website, quarter deck pg.6 there is mention that corporal punishment was abolished in the R.N. in 1948 as well as Borstal at the same period. Fact or fallacy I cannot say but I can testify that it was still in effect in the late fifties in the Remand Homes and Approved Schools...and I have little doubt the Borstals also.

I was a runner...an absconderer...a scarperer...that is until the threat of the Home Office application stemmed a budding career...and each time I ran...or I guess more correctly, each time I was caught I was flogged. Add to that my various Wellesley escapades and the total of individual strokes reaches a heady number. How many exactly now escapes me [obviously didn't make a lasting impression...although I wore some of those marks on my arse for years after] but the number was never less than six a session and may very well have risen to eight on occassion at Wellesley.

Only the "Punishment Book" should it resurface again, will tell that story. The literature calls the canes "birches"...I knew them to be "greenheart"...They may have been one and the same. I remember "greenheart" only because early flyrods were made of the material... although I can't imagine flogging man, beast or stream with the stuff. Supple and kept that way by immersion in water, it was as weighty as all get out, with a grain that was more reminiscent of mahogany than that of birch. I've read many accounts of the accoutrements that accompanied the flogging ritual...grates,racks,frames and such...but at Wellesley, as with most everything else, it was just bare bones...stooped over a chair,either in gym shorts or jeans with skivvies removed...no shackles. ..no bonds...just your own compliance with the procedure and from then on,with only a witness in attendance, only the fortitude of flogger and floggee spelled the outcome.

With a fellow like Lt. Chatburn...not to belittle the man...because he really was a prince, it was more of a giggle than anything...he just didn't have the heart to do the job...this was one time in my life when I believed the adage..."It hurt him more than me!"...the pain in his eyes was genuine. Now on the other end of the scale was Commander Janaway...a short man but built massive...and damn he was rough. Robert Brant in letters to me states he took delight in these floggings. I cannot lend credence to that statement but I can say the one flogging I received at his hands was the roughest I ever took...and none too accurate. One of his cuts took me mid way down the back of my thigh. To this day I swear the incredible pain made me, if not "black" out, then "grey" out, dropping me to one knee. Barely conscious I pulled myself back into position and the flogging was completed. Straightening up...and I don't know whether it was intentional or not...but I retained a hold on the chair...both Janaway and the witness backed away.

Finally I lowered myself off the chair and turned to Janaway and very quietly thanked him! His face turned nearly black with rage...and this was a turning point in my life...learning for the first time, in moments of extreme oppression, quiet understatement is far more powerful than loud bluster...Then Janaway did the only single low item of the time in which I knew him. Him and I had a very complex relationship...it wasn"t love/hate.. because god knows I loved and still love the man...and I know he had much affection for me...but we often pitted ourselves against each other and despite his power and office, he didn't always come off best.This was one of those times...even though I could barely walk and couldn't for days after.

What he did was gather the "Divisions" in "Nelson" and announce to the entire "Ships Company" that I'd broken and begged for mercy. Janny wherever you are, I hope you're squirming! It was unfair...it was untrue ...it was uncalled for...In short, it wasn't part of the game! You remain unforegiven and I consider I won that round...and deserve a couple more by way of penalty!!! When I learned in my exchange of letters with Robert Brant that the "Punishment Book" had been opened to "Outsiders" I was more than a little incensed! Somehow I'd always considered this a sacrement between the immediate parties...but whatever, I hope the practise of flogging ceased not much after my term...It is my belief it left indelible marks on both sides Kip Sept/04/01

.Three more names for our list...Harry Moore,one of the 'scouces ?Needham....?Ingram...all Hawkins Div. Fred...where the hell are you?...come on line...I don't want to have to come and fetch you!

Anyhow perhaps try posting this episode and we'll see what responce we get. Ken[Rabbit]Wright

Ken (kip) Wright now lives in Canada

FOOD ECT