Category: Humour

Two small explanations are required for the non-naval personnel to understand this anecdote:

First, what’s a Mids Board? Well, a Mid’s Board is a very detailed oral examination (viva) held at the end of one’s Midshipman tenure of about six months; a Midshipman is a rank between Cadet and a commissioned officer in the rank of Acting Sub-Lieutenant. Questions related to Bridgeman-ship, seamanship and all other aspects that one is trained on during one’s stint as Midshipman are normally asked.

Secondly, ships, submarines and other crafts at sea, at night and in low visibility exhibit various lights (normally Red for port or left, Green for Starboard or right, and white for main steaming lights on foremast and main mast and stern light. These lights are in accordance with International Regulations for Preventing Collisions at Sea, 1972. These lights can be exhibited in varying brilliance (for range or distance at which they can be seen) and varying combination to indicate restrictions in movement that the vessel displaying them has. For example, two Red lights in a vertical line would indicate a vessel not under command.

Normally, the Mids Board has three members; the senior most being the President. The drift of the questions is naturally the prerogative of the President.

Each President has some favourite subject or the other. In our case Captain Sethi’s (an ace navigator) favourite was to grill the Mids (snotties; a mishipman is often referred to as Snotty since he is perpetually snivelling especially when a hard question is asked) on the subject of Lights and Shapes displayed by ships and craft.

Those who appeared on the first day returned to tell us that a certain Moore’s illustrated book on Lights was his favourite and he’d open the book at random and ask the snotty to describe the scenario depicted by a combination of lights; eg, two vessels engaged in RAS or Replenishment At Sea at night.

During the entire night we mugged up these scenarios. We were then seeing more lights than we had ever seen in our lives. Now, if only those scenarios would stay in our minds.

The Gunroom (Midshipmen are not allowed in the Wardroom for officers but they generally pass their spare time in the Gunroom; the name came about since revolvers and pistols belonging to the ship are generally kept in a locked and glasses cupboard so that they can be sighted during the rounds) was agog with all kinds of complicated questions regarding the Lights. We even made several jokes about these. For example, the answer to the question: ‘if you sight a Red Light to your left and Green Light to the right coming towards you, what do you make out of it? is: ‘It is merely a sea plane flying upside down’.

With this new knowledge gained on the night before the viva, some of us did very well. Others were as confused as snotties make it a point to be.

One of the latter variety was my friend PLG Manu. He went in with confidence to face the board. As he answered a few simple scenarios, he noticed that instead of gaining confidence he was losing the con thing in increasingly larger measures. It is because the qs were becoming tougher and tougher.

Finally, the Moore’s page depicted a curious combination of Red, Green, White, Yellow lights and for good effect a Blue light too added.

Captain Sethi asked him to unravel the mystery. Manu started blinking and also started seeing some invisible lights. He shook his head from side to side. But, Captain Sethi was insistent he should venture a guess.

Finally, Manu saw the light that Moses had seen on the Mount. And he blurted the answer that should have been clear to him all along,  “Sir, it is evident that a ship has rammed into a Disco”.

Generally, the best Midshipman is given the Sword of Honour (a sword is carried by officers in the Navy with their ceremonial uniforms). It was later learnt that they (the Board) had decided to give PLG the sword…….but, alas, not as an honour and at an unspecified place.

Like any other young man wanting to join the armed forces, I was mighty impressed with Netaji Subhash Chander Bose. Though not half as qualified as Nandu Chitnis of my Facebook group ‘Humour In And Out Of Uniform’ (HIAOOU) wherein Nandu has single-handedly destroyed all enemies within thousands of miles of India, Netaji could have really won us independence just as Nandu destroyed Karachi and won us war against Pakistan. Sadly for the bespectacled Subhash, HIAOOU had not yet been conceived and winning and destroying anything wasn’t as easy.

What connection do I have with NS? Only this that after finishing my bridge watch-keeping training on board Indian Naval Ship Himgiri, I was sent to Calcutta to bring a 400 tons LS HSD (Low Sulphur High Speed Diesel) tanker for Naval Dockyard Bombay, along with two other officers. One of them was the late DB Roy and the other was Sushil, the submariner, who retired as C-in-C South. This tanker was being built in a Yard in Calcutta and we had to accept it and sail it back to Bombay before the monsoons.

We were accommodated in an establishment called INS Netaji Subhash. It was a laid back no-hurry-to-do-anything type of establishment and as far from Netaji’s ‘Kadam kadam badaye ja khushi ke geet gaaye jaa’ as anyone can get. The establishment had decided that doing everything at snail’s pace was as good as reliving the memory of the great Netaji.

The Wardroom had some of the old relics that had been looted from the East Pakistan five years ago. One of the officers who was on permanent duty there told us that after these were displayed in the wardroom, these were re-looted by a number of officers who were appointed there as Mess Secretaries and PMCs; in exactly the manner paintings on the tanker Shakti that was built for the Indian Navy in a Yard in West Germany vanished after her first commission.

The Wardroom had other old relics too. These would be sitting on the bar stools in the wardroom between 7:30 to 10:30 PM every evening and prove that they could take all the three Xs from the Hercules rum bottles that they consumed and post these against their names, presence of mind and Netaji Subhash like qualities. The three of us too joined their august company in the evenings.

Sometimes, life was supposed to be infused into the rag-tag groups of officers that had assembled in Netaji Subhash for some vague purpose or the other. One of these was this All Calcutta Officers Navy Hockey Tournament that was held on the weekends in the month of April. First of all I was surprised to know that INS Netaji Subhash had so many outlying units attached to it that a tournament with that kind of lofty name could be held. Secondly, the three of us with a few other temporary duty officers were asked to form a team. And thirdly, since I was a lion-hearted (Singh) Punjabi, the others in our team took it for granted that I knew how to play hockey.

It took me very little time to learn the game. Even if the business end of my stick rarely touched the ball, it made not-so-inadvertent contact with the shins of quite a few of the other team players. We won the tournament – as the expression goes – by hook or simply by crook. It was decided that the rolling trophy would be presented to us in the month-end Captain’s Divisions the next day, that is, Friday.

That night our joining the old relics in the wardroom of INS Netaji Subhash was very sentimental. The old relics kept telling us how superbly we played. The opponents stealthily nursing their shins admitted that we had a unique technique not ever mastered by the likes of Dhyan Singh and others. To cut a long story short, several rounds in the name of the great Greek/Roman warrior Hercules were called for and some of us became sort of unfit to attend the next day morning Divisions. One of us – no names at this juncture  – was also supposed to be the Guard Commander.

These were special Divisions; ladies too were invited as spectators. Officers and ladies had started taking their seats under the awning whilst the Divisions assembled. And after the Parade Commander took his post, he screamed with all the lung power given to Bengalis that nearly won us independence, “Guard onder laayo” (March in the guard).

Our friend, the Guard Commander, not used to the meridian where Calcutta is situated, took it for granted that the guard will be called for at 7:55 AM, five minutes before the Colours, and had remembered to set up his alarm at 7 AM to pierce through his condition caused by the Greek warrior and bring him back to mother earth named after the Indian warrior. Little did he know that the proceedings at Netaji Subhash were an hour earlier.

Ten minutes before the guard was to march in, one of the Gunnery sailors had got the brainwave that the Guard Commander had not made his appearance (Gunners are very good at ‘brainwaves’ and had run up to the first floor of the building adjoining the Parade Ground (erstwhile battle ground of war named hockey tournament) to somehow get him to his feet).

The Parade Commander’s call of ‘Guard andar laayo’ at 6:55 AM coincided with his (Guard Commander’s) donning the tunic though still unbuttoned. In panic he ran to the veranda and screamed back, “Abhi laaya shrimaan” (Bringing the guard in, Sir). With this whilst still buttoning his tunic with one hand, holding his sword in the other, he ran down the veranda and steps and shouted his command from the first floor itself, “Guard baayen se tez chal” (Guard, quick march, by the left). The guard started marching, the drummer gave the marching beat, and the Guard Commander joined in just before the guard halted in front the saluting dais.

After the Parade was brought to vishraam (at-ease) by the Parade Commander, a GI (what will we do without them?) marched up to the Guard Commander, smartly saluted him and brought some semblance of uniformed service in the wantonly appearance of the Guard Commander in about 30 secs. These worthy gentlemen (GIs, that is) can change people’s appearance in less than a second when they want to; but that is another story!)

Finally, after the Commanding Officer Netaji Subhash took the salute, inspected the Guard and Divisions, proficiency awards were given to a few sailors and then the Hockey Rolling Trophy was presented to DB Roy.

As he marched (!) from the ranks of the ‘spare officers’ standing on the left of the dais facing the parade; I too had a Gunners style ‘brainwave’ and I understood why was it called a ‘rolling’ trophy. DBR rolled on to in front of the dais to receive it, almost rolled off when it was handed over to him and then rolled back to regain his position in the rank and file of ‘spare’ officers swaying in all possible directions.

Straightway after the Divisions, we rolled back into our rooms and decided to break all ties with Hercules; a historic decision that lasted with us for quite some time……..until the evening that is.

So you have finished reading Parts I to III of this serialised post (If not, read ‘Gunners Too Are Human – Part I’, ‘Gunners Too Are Human – Part II’ and ‘Gunners Too Are Human – Part III’) and are now ready for Part IV? Well, fasten your seat belts; here goes:

I don’t know if it has changed now; but, during our times, Gunnery Officers also used to be responsible for ceremonials. Hence, somehow, ceremonies used to get into their veins. Everything was to be done with great pomp and show. C-in-C West was retiring and the Fleet was to sail for giving him a befitting farewell. A mass briefing was held at the Fleet Office and FGO was given the responsibility of explaining the finer points of all the ceremonies and accompanying manoeuvres. He and his team had prepared one chart after the other and all these were being explained with a large pointer. All of these were also parts of WFXP or Western Fleet Exercise Programme (as annexures). I hadn’t understood some of the stuff. As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts about Gunners, clarity at either end is what the Gunner likes the most. But, now, as I looked around, I noticed that one entire end wasn’t clear at all. Finally, one of the senior COs could not resist blurting out, “FGO, if you have finished making us totally confused about these manoeuvres, may we now go back to the ships and try to figure these out by ourselves?”

My Officer-in-Charge in Trials Team for acceptance of weapons and sensors in the Navy, however, was very clear about a few things: One was that he never diluted the role of his team, ie, WATT (B). He was very quick on the uptake and quickly grasped the crux of most problems without wasting much time brooding over these. Two, he enjoyed life like a true Gunner and here too he was quick on the uptake of a different kind. So whilst late Lieutenant Joy Banerjee (Trials Officer (Gunnery)) busied himself with trials of guns and associated radars and fire-control systems, our OiC looked forward to taking direct charge of these trials on Make-and-Mend days (Wednesdays and Saturdays when the navy used to have half days in a six days week). And, he made sure that his direct intervention would be just before 12:30 P.M. when most wardrooms would have PLD or Pre Lunch Drinks (PLD is a naval invention for which the Army and the Air Force do not have equivalents).

Indeed, under his active leadership as a true gunner, there was hardly any occasion of a gin-pennant being hoisted by any ship, craft or submarine in harbour, that we hadn’t made use of. (When an officer gets promoted or obtains an honour, he hoists a gin pennant on the mast to hurriedly invite all those who can see it; once again a naval tradition). The gin pennant looks like this:

One day, Joy reported to the Officer-in-Charge the result of his trials on the 4.5 inch twin gun of a Leander class frigate. The OiC said to remind him on Saturday morning. Meanwhile, I had done trials of their Electronic Warfare equipment and I too reported to him. He told me the same as he told Joy.

We reported the deficiencies to him on Saturday morning and he said we must visit the ship and help her get over these deficiencies. That afternoon, Joy (even though a Gunner himself) and I had made up our minds that we would be the road block in our OiC’s pathway to happiness at someone’s expense. Anyway, first we visited the EW compartment and then all the gun positions and Joy and I kept suggesting the ways to get over the anomalies. Suddenly when the OiC suggested that we could go somewhere where we could sit across the table (!) for better comprehension of the GO and EWO of the Leander, we knew it was time for us to intervene. Now, everybody would know that he was suggesting the wardroom where Heineken would soon start flowing. So, Joy and I pretended that we had left our Trial Diaries, by mistake (!) in the office and that we would visit the ship later to brief and counsel them.

The OiC, therefore, had no choice but to follow us to the gangway to beat a hasty retreat. However, here like Jeffrey Archer’s famous book, there was a twist in the tale. As we reached the gangway, we found that the brow had been removed for crane movement to load missiles on a Durg. Enquiry from the OOD revealed that it would be quite some time before the brow would be put back.

We announced for the GO and had no choice but to descend to the wardroom. The sweet click sounds of Heineken cans opening was music to our OiC’s ears. The ship’s Gunnery Officer learnt a lot that afternoon about not just 4.5 inch gun but all his weapons including small arms. The Gunnery Trials Officer, Joy Banerjee was much sobered after guzzling each can of the brew. And, your truly learnt a lesson for life: there is no such thing as an unlucky Gunner. Much before Paulo Coelho came on the scene, Gunners knew that if you are determined to get your heart’s desire, the elements conspire to make it happen.

P.S. I met him after a span of nearly 30 years recently and found that he had given up drinking altogether.

During my drinking days, the one drink that I really relished was Beer. I used to love ads and jokes about the virtues of this ale; the only sparkling drink I could afford at all times, whether posted aboard or ashore or even abroad. For example: ‘Beer drinkers make better lovers’; or, ‘Beer drinkers live longer’.

The one joke that I detested was:

“When I drink wine, the music of heavens plays softly in my ears; a slow warmth envelops me like mist in the mountains; and magical elation uplifts my mood. I can hear the jingle of distant bells……Beer, on the other hand, makes me burp.”

I, on the other hand, felt completely at home with beer and could drink it in gallons. My idea of ecstasy was to have beer on a beach in the afternoon and then sleep on the warm sand under a tree.

My home station is Kandaghat in Shimla Hills, exactly ten kms from the famous and country’s earliest Mohan Meakin’s Brewery. Golden Eagle is their brand of beer; the only beer made with spring water in India as opposed to ground water used for all the other beers. Mohan Meakin’s Brewery actually came up in 1855 at Kasauli and brewed Lion Beer. But, it soon shifted to Solan near my hometown and it is still there. Every time we pass the place, whether by road or by train, the strong smell of the brew overpowers us.

And then, one day, we visited the Brewery. It was an experience to taste the brew at its various stages. Also, the posters from the British days filled us with nostalgia. When we left the brewery, we were high on both counts.

After I joined the Navy, we could have foreign beers such as Carlsberg and Heineken. But, the first beer that I actually had abroad was the Russian Peeva during the visit of my ship Himgiri to the Black Sea port of Odessa in 1976. Ugh, what a taste it was as compared to the light ale that we were used to. Some of the officers from the ship suggested that it was perhaps recirculated beer. Most people stuck to Vodka after that; the popular drink of the Russians.

I always liked Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels having been made into movies. However, the only thing that cheesed me off was his trade-mark Martini in all the movies. Last to last year in April, I rejoiced, when I heard the news that Daniel Craig, as James Bond, in the next Bond movie would be swigging a beer. Cheers (Read: ‘Bond With The Brand’) I haven’t seen Skyfall; but, those who have seen it can tell me if he actually turns out to be a better lover because of Heineken?

Of all the incidents that I remember about my beer-drinking days, the one in Coimbatore, whereat I was posted as a young Lieutenant takes the cake. Being the junior most officer posted in Navy’s Leadership School named Agrani (to be pronounced as agranhi or Leading; however, most people have come to pronounce it as Aggraani, making it Fire Queen), I was made in-charge of producing a play to be staged in the Southern Naval Command Annual Dramatic Competition at Cochin. I made the trials and tribulations of looking for a drama and the potential actors into a play called ‘Hamara Drama’. To cut a long story short, we bagged the Best Play award and I got the Best Actor.

We were already in high spirits. However, after driving back from Cochin to Coimbatore on my co-actor Amarjeet Bajwa’s Bullet, the celebrations started in real earnest. Those days a 750 ml bottle of beer used to cost all of Five Rupees. Bajwa and I finished 95 Rupees worth of beer that night; this we came to know next morning. This makes roughly two gallons of beer in each tummy.

What do we do with this much beer? Yes, some of it goes out the Peeva way. However, we still had enough to put us in seventh heaven. That’s the time when sleep doesn’t come easily. So, against all sane warning, we went for a drunken drive and landed up in an army styled camp at Madhukarai firing range. This range is next to a hill. I looked at the nearest end of the hill with steep rocks and thorny bushes and in my drunken stupor declared to Bajwa that I felt like climbing the hill as nostalgia about my home station in Shimla Hills had overpowered me. He looked at the steep climb and concluded that it was like inviting sure death. Anyway, before he could talk me out of the idiotic idea, I had already started climbing. Looking back, we now think that one small slip and we won’t have been here to tell the story. It took us nearly an hour and a half to reach the hill-top. It was three in the morning when we reached the temple door-step.

I was about to enter the temple when Bajwa reminded me that the correct way to enter the temple was after ringing the brass bell hanging from a chain. On his orders, I went about ringing the bell in great earnestness. Suddenly we had the temple pujari, running down the hill shouting something in Tamil that we knew was: “Ghost, ghost”.

Running down the hill? Well, at this stage we discovered that on that side of the hill, there were steps from the foothill all the way up and that the steps were lit with tube-lights. And to think we nearly lost our lives climbing over slippery and steep rocks. But, then that’s the effect of beer for you.

Then there was another time when I got sozzled with beer. And this time it was not after drinking more than a gallon of it. I was undergoing the higher command course with the army and we were visiting the North East. At Kalimpong, there was an evening party for us. By this time, I had given up drinking; however, my course mates insisted I have some. I accepted. It came out that after just two mugs of it, I was already feeling high. So when the next time the steward came to serve me, I took out the white serviette and saw the bottle. It was a bottle of one He Man beer and it was 8 % strong whereas the normal lager is about 5 %. It was then revealed to me that in that part of the world, it was difficult for bar owners to obtain hard liquor permits. So, they obtained what could be easily obtained; that is, beer permit. And, since the locals wanted their money’s worth or literally bang for their buck, they preferred to go to the maximum strength permissible.

Later, of course, I discovered that there are other equally strong beers such as Khajuraho, Kalyani Black Label and Haywards 5000; however, I always preferred the light variety so that one could spend hours devouring it and feel nice about it.

When I went to Spain, I discovered that their beer Cerveza is really light beer both in alcohol content and in colour. I also came to know that after Germany, Spain is the second most beer-guzzling country in Europe. On the evenings of the weekends, any bar would have about a hundred young people inside and another three to five hundred outside drinking beer. I felt totally at home there and guzzled beer in large quantities.

Urdu poets can write voluminous tributes to grape wines and even have songs and ghazals about them; but, to me, my loveliest piece of poetry is a sign at a roadside bar in my part of the world: CHILD BEAR SERVED HEAR. I still freak out on that.

You breathe the air, you value it, but, rarely are you in love with it; for example when you go to the hills. You sail over the sea and you can’t help falling in love with it. It is around you; but, soon, you have it in your veins. It lends a distinct touch of romanticism by itself and to all objects around it: the sun, the moon, the stars, land, hills, rocks and beaches.

The lure of the sea becomes so strong that you can’t resist it. It is that strange enigma that draws you closer, serenades you, bewitches you, overpowers you and makes you a willing slave to be taken by it wherever it wants you to go.

Ever since the time Man discovered that seas connect lands, man have ventured into the sea to discover brave new world. Folklore, fiction and recorded history have lent adequate sentimentality to the discoveries beyond the seas; from Stevenson’s Treasure Island to Hemingway’s The Old Man And The Sea, from Columbus’s discovery of America to Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Cruel Sea. The fact is that even pirates have added to the romanticism of the seas.

You read, you hear, you see and then you join the Navy; to fight against visible and invisible enemies. Soon, the sea becomes your life; you can’t live without it. The way you do things at sea, your language, your conduct, indeed your very being becomes different from those of land-lubbers. The more they look at you with awe, the more you want to be at sea, your home. The days and months spent away from the sea are considered wasted and you start to rue the moment you are posted ashore. How nice it would be – you day-dream – if you could spend your life at sea without having to go ashore?

The serene, dark-blue, slate-grey or even black sea tempts you. On a moonlit night, it provides a most inviting picture. Sea-gulls waft over it to break the monotony of looking at its rugged vastness; dolphins tell of approaching land; and, sea horses when the winds are strong, present another beautiful picture. Indeed, looking at every mood of the sea, you realise you can never get bored. Even from ashore as you sit, reclining against a rock, you wistfully read Byron: ‘Roll on thou dark blue ocean’. You can’t help observing that sea and its surroundings are virtual heaven on earth.

Lets cut to the time when the sea gets rough. You can’t believe it is the same tranquil sea lulling you into a siesta on a  hot summer afternoon. Its transformation is as if your pet-dog, nestling against your feet and lovingly caressing you with its warm and soft fur, suddenly decides to get charged-up and bite you in your calf, drawing blood and enormous pain. Whilst earlier you used to get conscious of its serene beauty, now its might and truculence impinge on your senses. Whilst the sea churns itself in response to weather it churns your innards too if you are sailing over it.

It makes the ship roll from side to side or pitch from end to end and sometimes apply a sadistic motion called the cork-screw-motion; which is a combination of roll and pitch. Anywhere you are on the ship, for example, standing your watch on the Bridge, there are many occasions when you are airborne (one of the many reasons why Navy is called a truly three-dimensional service!) you hold on to the nearest support and pray that your sea-legs that you developed over years would be strong and steady enough to steady you. You pray that at least you won’t puke all over and let people around you know that you aren’t as much of a sea-man as you pretended to be.

You go down to the mess and don’t feel like eating anything. It is because there is rising matter in your food-pipe and the food that you eat can only go down if it competes against the rising matter. There must be some way, you tell yourself,  to calm the sea within even when the one without is roaring. Nothing helps. In any case, on the dining table, the crockery sways and slides from side to side and you have to synchronise all the moving parts including the spoon in your hand to help the food inside the mouth.

At moments like these, you ask yourself: why do men go to sea? To discover the brave new world, to conquer, to control? Oh God, you tell yourself, teach me to be brave.

It would have been alright if you had to just be at sea. But, you have to close-up on watch and conduct exercises and evolutions. In one of these, I had a Leander (Giri class) frigate engaged with me on the tanker Aditya in RAS or Replenishment At Sea. At one moment, I saw that on the Leander, half the forecastle (pronounced foxle) dipped into the sea and came back with an exploding wash. I closed my eyes and prayed that the six sailors on their foxle would be still there when it emerges out of the sea. I could count only five and I was about to raise alarm. But, after the wash cleared I noticed the sixth one clinging for dear life to the breakwater ahead of the 4.5 inch gun-mounting. It was touch and go. It is frequently so at sea.

I have never puked at sea though once I came very close to it on a Petya because of the sickening GT (Gas Turbines) exhaust fumes within the ship. I was one of the fortunate ones who are at home in any sea conditions. But, I have seen people wrenching their guts out until there is nothing left to throw up.

So, finally, after days and nights of the wretchedness, you return to harbour. As you step ashore you are still dazed from the experience. The steady land doesn’t respond like the rhythmic roll and pitch that you got used to and now, it is over land, that you tend to stumble; somewhat similar to Sandra Bullock’s landing from a space capsule on a Hawaiian island in the movie  Gravity.

Two days in harbour…and, you start going for morning jogs, evening clubs, tennis, swimming, movies and meeting friends. It doesn’t sound real at all. It sounds listless, lifeless, dull and devoid of interest. It is crazy but you long to be at sea again…tossing about, wind bringing damp salt to your face, battling against elements and be counted as a man. You say to yourself without pretence, without rancour: Sea is where I like to be; sea is me.