A Lucky Day in St Pierre.

I’m on a roll now. I have the anecdote bug. I recommend you either give this one a miss or have a whole pot of tea on hand. Or coffee. Or... whatever keeps you awake. I promise that the following isn’t some raconteur’s bullshit. Every word is true.

I’ve mentioned that I had a brief spell in the navy once. I was an officer cadet at the Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth. Having spent three months being bullied and brainwashed in the hallowed halls of the college, we all went off to sea to start learning the practical stuff. ‘They put us then on board a ship, to cross the raging main.’ But we fought no bloody battles in the sunny land of Spain. Instead, we spent three months wandering around the eastern seaboard of North America.

One day we made landfall on the little island of St Pierre, a French dependency off the south coast of Newfoundland. I’d committed some minor misdemeanour a few days before, and had been awarded one day’s stoppage of leave as punishment. The navy’s rules were immutable: the punishment had to be served at the next port of call, so no going ashore for me on St Pierre. But there was a problem. Each cadet received an invitation from the local dignitaries to attend a cocktail party in honour of our visit. The navy’s rules are immutable on that one, too. Declining an official invitation is ill-mannered and not be countenanced.

I was called to an interview with the Bo’sun. He told me I was to go ashore with the rest of the cadets and take the chartered bus to the function, but I was to return to the ship as soon as the cocktail party was over.

‘No going to the disco afterwards, right?’

‘Right, Chief.’

Yippee! I was going to spend my punishment having a free booze-up. My lucky day! It got better.

When we arrived at what they rather optimistically called the ‘hotel,’ we found we’d arrived early. The place was deserted apart from a lone barman. We were pleased to see, however, that they had prepared well for our arrival. The long reception room was laid out with lots of tables and chairs, and on every table there were lots and lots of glasses of scotch. Large measures, too. The barman invited us to help ourselves.

Strange as it may seem, I didn’t like scotch in those days. Gin was my drink. It made me giggle. But a free drink is a free drink, and so I helped myself to one. And another... and another. I began to feel empowered. At least, I think that’s the right word for it. I went over to the barman and asked whether I might have gin instead of whisky. It was hard going. He only spoke French, poor chap, but eventually he got the message.

‘Zheen!’ he exclaimed.

‘Oui, oui, zheen,’ I cried triumphantly.

He gave me a large one, which I drank quickly out of an honest sense of relief. He gave me another one, and he continued to accede to my request every time my glass was empty. Nice chap - so far.

By that time the other guests had arrived – a gaggle of attractive young women, which is usually the way of it when the navy’s in town (the story of me and Jeannie Brown in St John’s, Newfoundland stems from a similar set of circumstances, but is rather more soberly inclined.) I walked over to a table where two of the said ladies were sitting with a fellow cadet. How should I describe him? He was a perfect example of what we in Britain call ‘the English upper class twit.’ For those who don’t know what one of those is, all I can suggest is that you imagine the very silliest interpretation of Bertie Wooster you’ve ever seen, and multiply it by a factor of about ten.

He was trying to talk to the girls in French. His nose was in the air, what passed for a chin was following it, and he was speaking very poor French with an English public school accent. The result was hilarious. The girls evidently thought so, because they were in stitches. They were saying things back to him, but I’ve no idea what. Taking the piss with a good measure of Gallic gusto, I expect. I sat down next to him and listened, just for the entertainment you understand. I didn’t stay next to him very long. I remember finding myself under the table, doubled up with helpless laughter.

And then I woke up, sitting alone at the table. The place was empty except for the lone barman who was washing up. They’d obviously all gone off to the disco and left me to my own devices. Bastards! I went over to the barman, glass in hand.

‘Zheen?’ I implored. He waved me away with a scowl. I decided I should be heading back to the ship.

I returned to the table to collect my belongings, and was horrified to find that my cap was missing. The navy’s rules are immutable on that, too. Losing official equipment is bad form; losing your cap is a hanging offence. I staggered out of the ‘hotel’ in a state of dismay.

A fellow cadet was walking past when I got outside and I asked him, rather hopelessly I suppose in the circumstances, whether he’d seen my cap. But no, not hopeless.

‘Dave Pearce took it to the disco,’ he said.

Now, just why Dave Pearce should have taken it to the disco, I have no idea. Maybe he thought it prudent to keep it safe, me being in a somewhat less than responsible state. Or maybe it was because he came from Devon, I don’t know. I asked my colleague where the disco was.

‘Turn left there, and then follow the noise.’

Right. I followed the directions and opened the door to a large, wooden, shed-like structure in which the festivities were being held. What I beheld reminded me of a scene from Dante. Smoke, crashing music, heaving bodies, flashing lights, and the periphery of the room in almost total darkness. The chances of finding Dave Pearce were as remote as recovering a lost soul from Hades. There was nothing for it but to hope for the best. I headed back to the ship. Problem. I had no idea where I was, or where the ship lay in relation to it. I took a guess and headed off down the road that ran away from the ‘hotel.’

I soon spotted a group of youths coming in the opposite direction. I hailed them.

‘Scusez moi,’ I said. ‘Ou est le bateau Anglais?’

I woke up again, being carried along the road by the group of youths. We were approaching the towering form of a ship tied up to the quay. Even in that state, I recognised it as the Dutch merchantman that was the only other vessel visiting that day.

‘Non, non,’ I cried. ‘Le bateau Anglais.’

I woke up again to see dear old HMS Scarborough only yards ahead. I stood on my own feet and thanked the youths. I took a load of change out of my pocket and gave it to one of them. Then I began the long walk to the bottom of the gangway. It struck me that I didn’t remember paying them.

‘Scusez,’ I cried after them. ‘Est ce que... oh, bugger! Have I paid you?’

‘Oui,’ said the lad, holding out the hand that still carried the money.

‘Bon.’ The incident went clean out of my head.

‘Scusez,’ I cried after them again. ‘Have I paid you?’ Same result.

I came to again, getting undressed in the messdeck this time. I got as far as my underwear, and tried to climb into my hammock. Getting into a hammock is easy enough when you’re sober, but... I fell out the other side and landed on the table below. I should have been injured, but I didn’t feel a thing. I began running around the messdeck on my hands and knees, playing horses.

‘Shut the **** up and go to sleep,’ came many anguished and angry cries from the darkness.

I woke up again. It was morning. Several cadets told me what had happened when I arrived at the ship. There were normally three people in attendance when the ship was in harbour: an officer, a petty officer, and a cadet bo’sun’s mate. The officer had been in the wardroom carousing with the local girls who'd been invited back, and the petty officer had been doing his rounds. The lone cadet had summoned some of my shipmates and they had carried me aboard without being seen. Oh, lucky day again! Better still, I had no trace of a hangover, and Dave Pearce presented me with my cap. But then the tannoy rang out.

‘Cadet Beazley report to the Bo’sun immediately.’

Whoops.

The Bo’sun laid the charge before me. I had failed to return to the ship as instructed, immediately after the cocktail party. What did I have to say for myself?

I had plenty to say for myself. I explained how Dave Pearce had mistakenly taken my cap, and how – knowing the gravity of such a loss – I had diligently searched the dark streets and the disco in an attempt to find the revered article. I left him in no doubt that I had done everything that could be expected of any responsible cadet, and had returned to the ship at the earliest opportunity - which wasn’t entirely untrue, if you think about it. He appreciated the rightness of what I was saying and dismissed me. Phew!

On the way back to the messdeck I passed two other cadets en route to their ‘hearing.’ Their crime had been found out, too. They had been picked up by the patrol, sitting on a bench in an attempt to brush off a case of mild inebriation. Their punishment was two weeks stoppage of leave. Given the relative merits of our ‘crimes,’ on that basis I should have been keelhauled at the very least, if not strung up from the yard arm for the gulls to feed on. I offered my condolences. ‘No hard feelings,’ they said.

I think the gods must have been smiling on me that day in St Pierre. Or maybe the goddesses. Yes, I prefer that. Makes up for the officers getting the girls.