He had joined the Y Scheme, which took public-school boys – and some of them were literally straight from school, nineteen years old – the idea being that after six months on the lower deck as an ordinary seaman, you progressed automatically into the officer class and training.
He left London with great bravado, seen off by a huge drinking session with his fellow medics, and arrived at the barracks in Portsmouth with a sinking heart and a rising sense of terror. He was right; it was one of the worst periods of his life. The petty officers loathed and tormented him and Crispin Steele, his only compatriot in the Y Scheme, and did and said everything they could to make their lives as difficult as possible. Well, who could blame them, he kept telling himself, as he tried to find some comfort and explanation for their behaviour; a pair of toffee-accented lads, wet behind the ears, being trained to rise to become, theoretically, their superiors.
Ned had looked at Crispin with misgivings when he met him for the first time: a pretty boy with brown curls, a history graduate, who looked as if he might burst into tears any moment. He would greatly increase the chances of their both being labelled as mummy’s boys, probably fairies. At least, Ned thought, feeling a rare stab of gratitude towards his parents, he had a sensible name. Crispin, for God’s sake.
It was evening when they arrived, and they were given their kit and sent below, away from the danger of the constant bombing of the docks, where, allotted bunks, they were told to get undressed. Crispin, Ned was grateful to see, was on the other side of the room.
He had just removed his trousers when a huge tattooed man appeared at his side and said, ‘Well, who the fucking hell are you? What’s your fucking name?’ He pushed his face into Ned’s, then studied his almost naked lower half, his expression a sniggering leer. Ned felt he was probably about to be raped.
‘Well, come on, posh boy. Lost yer tongue?’
‘Welles,’ said Ned, trying to keep his voice strong and steady, ‘Ned Welles.’ The man stood back, and after a short silence, spat on the ground and then laughed.
‘Welles,’ he said. ‘What a fucking stupid name.’
And he moved on.
Ned got into bed; he was longing for a pee, but he was too frightened to leave the comparative safety of his own area. Hours later, when the petty officers had gone, with cheery promises that all forty of them would soon wish profoundly never to have been born, he managed to locate the toilet block. As he left, Crispin Steele came in; clearly he had been crying. Ned pretended not to have noticed, nodded to him briefly and hurried back to his bunk. He felt ashamed of that moment for the rest of his life.
After a couple of days they were moved in the middle of an air raid to Collingwood, a naval training base near Portsmouth; the next six weeks were spent square bashing, climbing ladders and ropes to terrifying heights – and even worse a huge mast – the petty officers shouting abuse at them from below. It was a nightmare. As he lay in his bunk at night, exhausted, sickened by the brutality, the ceaseless profanity, Ned marvelled at his stupidity in subjecting himself to this misery. Sometimes he was actually frightened by the sheer vindictiveness of the whole thing.
‘You want to watch it,’ his first tattooed tormentor, who turned out to be a butcher in civilian life, warned him one night. ‘You annoy somebody once too often, you could go overboard in the middle of the night. No one would ever know – we’ll get rid of you and good riddance, you fucking filthy poncey snob.’
There was no apparent reason for this threat. Ned had committed no crime, had neither said nor done anything to offend anyone; the only possible response was silence. Once, when he was loading up shells, his hands raw with cold and bleeding, he was made to continue for a double shift; there was no redress, no hope of reprieve. The only thing was to endure it and survive it – although he was not sure what for.
After a few weeks they were transferred to a newly built destroyer; he had hoped it might be better than the endless square bashing but it was worse. Crispin got pneumonia, nearly died, and was finally shipped home to hospital, never to return. Ned envied him from the bottom of his heart. He, however remained stubbornly healthy; and the destroyer was sent to the North Atlantic on the Murmansk Run, taking supplies to Russia, one of Churchill’s obsessions at this stage. And then, finally, it was over and he was posted for officer training at Hove.
It was truly, he often said afterwards, like finding yourself in heaven after a very long spell in hell.
‘Hello, Mr Pemberton.’
Mr Pemberton looked up, failing just for a moment to recognise Tom: a different, thinner, more grown-up-looking Tom, in uniform. Then he smiled: a tired, delighted smile.
‘Tom,’ he said. ‘How very nice to see you. Do come in and sit down – Mrs Foxton, look, it’s Tom Knelston, come to pay us a visit. Cup of tea, Tom?’
‘Oh, yes, please.’
‘My word, you’ve grown up,’ said Betty, beaming at Tom. ‘Suits you, though, you look like a real man. And more handsome than ever. Like a piece of cake with your tea? Looks like you could do with some feeding up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Tom. ‘That’d be lovely.’
She disappeared; Gordon Pemberton sat back and studied Tom.
‘So – Royal Engineers, eh? You enjoying it?’
‘Yes, very much. I can drive now – well, I can drive a jeep. And build a Bailey bridge.’
‘Can you now? Well done. That’ll stand you in good stead when this is all over. You got a posting yet?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘yes, I have. Somewhere very exciting. But we’re not supposed to tell you where. Off at the end of the week. I’m on my way home, but we were dropped off here, so I thought I’d come and see you.’
‘That’s very good of you.’ Gordon Pemberton was clearly genuinely touched. ‘I’m delighted you did. You know Nigel’s somewhere overseas now?’
‘Well, I assumed so,’ said Tom. ‘What regiment is he in?’
‘The Royal Artillery,’ said Pemberton, and his voice was thick with pride. ‘He went straight in as an officer, of course. Second lieutenant. Apparently he could be a captain before very long. His commanding officer thinks the world of him.’
Tom wondered how Mr Pemberton knew, but said, ‘Really?’ in a tone that he hoped was convincingly awestruck.
‘He joined up immediately. Wouldn’t hear of waiting. Very brave, my son. But – what am I thinking of? You don’t want to hear about him. Let’s talk about you.’
‘Well,’ said Tom, ‘I’m a corporal now.’
‘Already? Well done. And decent lot of chaps you’re with?’
‘Very decent, yes. My sergeant’s a really nice bloke.’
‘Is he? Nigel had a brute while he was doing his basic training. Treated him like some sort of idiot, humiliated him on the parade ground, that sort of thing.’
‘They all do that,’ said Tom cheerfully. ‘That’s how they lick us into shape.’
‘Well, maybe, but it’s most unnecessary. Especially with someone like Nigel. He writes regularly, very brave, cheerful letters. Mind you write to your parents. Makes all the difference.’