You know the sort of thing - "Of course you can have a few more beers tonight, your alarm always goes off at the the right time, so you won't be late for work/on parade"; cue no alarm and you're in front of the OC (or Boss) for a meeting with no coffee and biscuits.
Anyway - this missive below comes from a thread on the Army Rumour Service website:
http://www.arrse.co.uk/now-thats-what-i-ca...ouncements.html
It's quite long, but makes a good read...enjoy:
You think you had it bad?
Pull up a sack of spuds (no sandbags aboard ship), tune the direction finder into Radio Luxembourg, crack open one of those cans of beer you've been hoarding and let me tell you a story (with some explanatory notes for those who are not of a nautical disposition).
Emperor Mong has been serving afloat since neanderthal man discovered he could sit on a floating log and paddle it with his hands. Mong has long since traded in his good conduct badges for a long service medal with many, many bars. Trafalgar, Jutland, the River Plate, Bluff Cove - Mong's No 1's hang heavy with campaign medals from all these places. Usually, he served with both sides at the same time.
As fans of films like 'The Cruel Sea' will know, ships used to be controlled by an officer standing on the bridge and shouting orders into metal tubes. This wasn't some form of early, computer voice recognition. They were just metal tubes that ran through the ship and appeared somewhere that orders needed to be heard.
One of the tubes led to the 'wheelhouse' - an armoured, windowless compartment in the middle of the ship containing the ship's steering wheel, a gyro repeater to show the ship's course and absolutely nothing else. Except, that is, for a poor person with the worst job in the world: staring at the gyro repeater for hours on end and making small adjustments on the wheel to keep the repeater showing the ordered course.
If you were unlucky, you'd get the middle watch - from midnight to 0400 - in the wheelhouse. If you were really unlucky your ship would be transiting the Pacific and the course wouldn't change for days at a time.
On one occasion, at about 0300, the wheelhouse was occupied by the trusty coxswain who handled the wheel with a masterly grip, and a cook of ill repute who was at a loose end while the batch of tomorrow's bread he was baking was in the oven.
Despite having a combined IQ that was lower than some of the marine invertibrates fouling the ship's hull, this pair were easily bored. As they say, the Emperor makes work for idle hands and they soon discovered that the bolt securing the ship's wheel was loose. Not only could the bolt be unscrewed, but the entire wheel could be removed - thus leaving a 2,500 ton warship doing up to 20 knots and containing 300+ mainly sleeping matelots totally out of control.
A new form of entertainment was born (no ipods, playstations or DVDs in those days). The pair of loons took turns unbolting the wheel and then bolting it back on again. The 'winner' of the game was the one who needed to apply the smallest course correction after reattaching the wheel.
Like all games, this one soon became boring. To spice things up a bit, they decided that they would run round the wheelhouse, carrying the wheel, before reattaching it.
Of course, this also became boring. To cut a long story a bit shorter, they ended up unbolting the wheel and running round the entire upper deck (that's the main, outside 'floor' of the ship that has the big guns, superstructure and helicopters parked on it) while carrying the wheel before returning to the wheelhouse and reattaching it.
As I said, they were not burdened by the ravages of intelligence. It didn't occur to either of them that, at all times when the ship was at sea, the bridge was occupied by an officer of the watch who was selected for having near perfect eyesight and whose powers of observation were honed by years of training. Naturally, he was somewhat perturbed to see some foul creature scurrying across the fo'csle (the pointy bit at the front) in the small hours of the morning carrying a large object of indeterminate origin.
Three swift steps and the OOW was on the bridge wing (an open 'balcony' at each side of the bridge). With the flick of a switch he activated the searchlight and illuminated the miscreant, who froze like the protagonist in a comedy jailbreak. The shouted conversation went like this:-
OOW: Who the **** is that on the fo'csle.
COX: Nobody sir.
OOW: Is that you coxswain? Who's steering the ship?
COX: Err ...
OOW: What's that you're carrying?
COX: Nothing sir.
OOW: It looks like .... - IT'S THE SHIP'S WHEEL.
The ship's company were promptly roused to their emergency stations (the bits of the ship where they go in an emergency such as a fire, a hull breach or a mad b@stard nicking the main steering gear).
The Captain, on hearing the pipe for emergency stations, promptly ran up the bridge ladder in his pyjamas, fearing that his ship had been torpedoed by a rogue Nazi submarine that didn't know WW2 had ended or a rogue commie submarine that didn't know WW3 had yet to begin.
The ship's wheel was reattached, the off duty crew returned to their bunks and calm returned to all parts of the ship. Except the part occupied by the Captain, who was crazed by a furious rage.
At that time, the Naval Discipline Act still allowed the death penalty in some circumstances. The regulators (naval military police) were kept up all night investigating whether this was one of those circumstances and whether the Captain could, through some obscure legal loophole, award a death sentence at the end of a summary trial (where the Captain is the judge and jury and usually hands out a fine).
Not wanting to damage the ship's new fangled radar and sensitive antennae, the Captain quickly ruled out hanging and made enquiries among the Royal Marines about the possibility of a firing squad on the quarter deck (the flat bit at the back of the ship - usually occupied by a knackered, 25 year old helicopter on modern RN ships).
Sadly, the Captain's hopes of conducting the first summary execution aboard ship since Pte John Dalinger RM met his maker in 1860 were to be dashed. He had to make do with Courts Martial, discharge and hefty jail sentences for the hapless coxswain and hopeless cook (whose bread ignited during the aftermath of the incident and brought the crew, once more, to emergency stations).
So remember, when Mong speaks to you, think of the consequences. Being reamed by the Captain is far, far less of an ordeal than being reamed by your cell mate when Emperor Mong lands you in Wormwood Scrubs for 2 years.
Please note - if you follow the link to the Army Rumour Service website, it is definitely NSFW!
