The first event I am about to describe happened on December 15, 1963 at HMAS Leeuwin, site of the JRTE (Junior Recruit Training Establishment),
highlights or exceptional events, remain. This day stood out because it was the day of the Passing Out Parade (graduation) for the JR1s (boys who had spent their twelve months of JR training and were, after Christmas leave, to join The Fleet.) I have established the date through reading the brochure of the event reproduced in the 6th and 7th intakes web site. I have other reasons to remember it.
I recall there was nothing significant about the weather; it was sunny, a typical WA summer’s day. Boys were busy, had been busy in various ways, (I, for example, had been a member of a small work party the day before, tasked to hose down the ‘bullring (parade ground) getting ready for the parade to be held that evening under floodlights. From previous experience at JRTE, I can say that there was a good deal of polishing, boots and brass, whitening webbing and ironing going on. We were all - I think it is safe to add, looking forward - not so much to the parade as ours, the JR2s, was still six months away - to going home for Christmas. I venture that there was an atmosphere of considerable excitement mingled with anxiety over the night’s event.
I don’t know the time what I will describe occurred, but it was around noon, somewhere between late morning and early afternoon. I was in our ‘donga’ ( barracks hut). The Mokare 2 (Mokare was the name of our division) donga was at the far corner of Leeuwin with only a couple of yards (metres) between it and the perimeter fence. Two JR1s entered the donga using the back door and approached me. I was told to remove what I was wearing, put on a towel and go with them, follow them – something like that - outside. Their manner, something about the atmosphere generally, suggested to me that it wouldn’t be wise to resist. Another JR2 whose name I cannot recall - only that he was an Australian boy but from
Regarding what I think, now, of my treatment, I don’t think that those involved were acting on impulse or some short-term emotion. I think that the day, time and place were quite well chosen, selected to avoid detection, protest or intervention, insofar as almost of all of the boys were busy, if not pre-occupied, with the coming Passing Out ceremonials. Also, it was in a few days where the normal routine of drill, training and school had been broken off for Christmas. As a consequence, there were few staff, (sailors, NCOs or officers), about. Also, the senior boys, JR1s, were leaving around 48 hours later, never to return, at least, not in the foreseeable future. It is my suspicion that the two JR1s were acting on some kind of directive from a more senior person/s within the Mokare Divisional hierarchy; perhaps not. I also believe that, even when the establishment was running its normal routine, there was insufficient supervision around the JRs barracks area .( It is only a small exaggeration to say, ‘it was the Law of The Jungle’ up there, particularly when it suited the hierarchy’s purpose to turn a blind eye or to encourage punishment. such as in an incident was where other JRs were used to punish boys who had taken a short-cut during a cross country run. Or, at the very least, some boys’ resentment and anger at having to run the course again was acted out on the ‘skulkers’ and I am satisfied that, on that occasion, a veiled order was given permitting the action. One of the participants in this punishment was a larger-than-average boy who fought in the Heavyweight division of the compulsory boxing tournament.)
Mokare2 donga was the furthest from the main gate, ‘the gangway’, where any duty watch or Naval Dockyard Police patrol would likely be. However, apart from the isolated verbal protest I describe above, nothing was said, or done, to help me. I don’t think that anyone apart from Ian, in describing the threat made to him, mentioned the incident. I do remember that we, Ian and I, were mutely fearful. (My naval record shows that we had leave from the 14th of December, 1963{?}). Ian and I stuck together on the flight from
I did not fully realise how badly abraded my back was until, a day or so after getting back to
In January 1964, I returned with the other boys for our stint at HMAS Leeuwin as JR1s. Frankly, I had mixed feelings about going back at all. These feelings ranged from uneasy acceptance to actual dread. Geographically, it was 2600 miles (4000Ks) to Perth and, far more importantly I now realise, I didn’t feel safe any longer in that place, with a lot of those people - I don’t mean necessarily other JRs . From Day One we were told that JR2s, were ‘the lowest form of marine life’; powerlessness was to be the dominant feeling in our daily lives. We had to call even an Ordinary Seaman (the lowest naval rank above recruit) ‘Sir’. There was no privacy, night or day. There was no access to counselling; a visit to the ‘trick cyclist’ (psychologist), was a notion to be laughed at. The only person who seemed to be ‘there for us’ was a protestant minister from a church in Fremantle who actually visited us in our donga some evenings. I enjoyed his visits; I argued with him over theological issues such as the ‘no atheists in foxholes’ notion; to the extent that a sixteen-year-old could, that is. And, it was to go on - far beyond the basic training in any other service that I know of - for a year, not the normal three months in a recruit school that many, many millions of servicemen have experienced. I come from a service family; my father and two brothers, altogether, spent over forty years in some arm or other of the services. I lived as a little boy in the married quarters at Ingleburn Camp outside Sydney (My father was a drill sergeant there in the early ‘50s) The ideas of being ‘toughened up’ of ‘being-made-a-man-of’ weren’t unfamiliar to me. Also, I’d seen enough movies featuring tough drill instructors to understand that we would be shouted at and made to jump through hoops, so to speak, but, that this was well-intended, designed to make men of us and we’d all be shaking hands, throwing our caps in the air and clapping one another on the back when it was over. Was that so very naïve? I don’t think so. I could take the drill and the work. I had joined the navy in good faith. I had thought we were going to JRTE to train as sailors. We did about one hour of basic seamanship in any week; we learned to pull oars in 27-foot whalers and to tie bends and hitches which I had learned in the cubs as an eleven-year-old. The instruction seemed out-dated; we were shown films of fire drills, for example, shot at Chatham Dockyard in the
The place itself, HMAS Leeuwin - at least the JRs part of it - was in a lamentable state in 1963. Apart from one new, two-storey block, accommodation was in around eight WW2 (or older) vintage huts with no heating (not really an issue on the coast of WA) or cooling, beyond leaving windows open, that I ever saw. Around 360 boys lived there; ate, slept, studied, worked, played, laundered and toileted in a few hundred square yards(metres). (Some men, I have to accept, when looking back at their time at Leeuwin describe it as ‘the happiest time…’) There were great patches of lino missing from the floors; flyscreens were holed. In short, it was nothing like the recruiting brochures. I don’t know about anyone else, but I had adjusted to life at Leeuwin. Many of the boys were straight out of school – they certainly behaved like school children, tossing food around the JRs mess at afternoon tea and petulantly refusing anything to eat anything but steak or chicken, turning their noses up at perfectly good stews and casseroles – and a few acted like they were fresh from reform school – bullying, harassing and ‘loan sharking’ - lending money at up to 50% interest. These were aspects of life at JRTE that everyone had to put up with, I know that. I also know that, in a group of around 360 fifteen/sixteen-year-olds, you can expect the best and the worst pretty much, but, these boys had been, supposedly, psychologically vetted to join an armed service. I can’t help but be reminded of the U.S. World War II practice of offering men time in military service as opposed to gaol. Some of those boys were hoods in uniform. Also like hoods, they were always smartly dressed and ostensibly law-abiding. What was the navy thinking? Was it a question of making taking anyone and everyone to make up the numbers in order to sustain the junior recruit programme? There were, also, some boys who really shouldn’t have been away from their mothers. I shouldn’t make light of it, they were boys who suffered from the distance and alienation from their families and really didn’t ‘get’ the navy at all; boys who made frequent phone calls to home – there was often a longish queue at the sole phone box situated by the main gate; boys who couldn’t fight back even if they were victimised. I recall one JR2 - (it was in the Winjan donga) when I was a JR1, duty watch, and had to accompany the Officer Of The Watch on Rounds - who set out a wet towel, a white front and a pair of football boots as a kit muster. He was also wearing a shirt that was visibly wet. That boy, I recall, stood shaking, red-faced and close to tears. He was sent home shortly after that incident. I don’t know why - perhaps it was because we had worked in civilian life - but some of us were treated as young men and others were treated as boys. Likewise, some of us behaved like young men and others, as I have stated, like school children. These are all details of daily life at Leeuwin that everyone there as a junior recruit had to put up with; I understand that. No-one else, to my knowledge – apart from the boy I describe above, the one who was taken out from Mokare2 donga when I was and I don’t know what happened to him, I can only surmise - got the same or similar treatment as I did. I would go further and say that, after my return from Christmas leave in January, 1964, I was singled out, victimised; I was being charged and being punished for ridiculous things, such as the loss of a thin exercise book. LJR White, who slept only two beds away from me, was ‘on my case’. The more tired and ‘out of it’ I got, the more I seemed to fall foul of authority; it was a downward spiral.
Certainly, some boys that the navy found intolerable were sent home without ceremony or much delay. ( I describe, above, such an boy.) I have to re-state that we were not told that we could leave of our own accord. Testimony to this can be found on various web-site related to Leeuwin. What, for me, was a torment – my last three months of time in the navy - might have been avoided. My navy ratings record card says virtually nothing. It is a two pages, front and back(?) of official form, stating only my basic personal details (NOK, height, weight, colour of hair etc…) and one note of a scholastic qualification and date of leave period. (Official excuses are made about records being made, sometimes, in pencil and/or difficult to copy. But, in this instance, we are speaking about two or three basically blank pages) No record that I have been able to access says anything of use, except to say I was in the navy for a period. Surely this, as can be said of so much else of my treatment, was negligence. There is no evidence that I asked to be discharged as unsuitable when, apparently, this was my right. As well as doing all the things that were usual for JRs during this time - it was a hectic routine - I was under punishment for the larger part of it. The extra duties and ‘drill’ involved made me more and more tired. It was in a fatigued, befuddled you might say, state of mind that I visited the Base psychologist. I think I had asked to see him. I don’t recall much at all of at that meeting. I do know the experience was largely alien to me. (I have applied to Navy Medical Records and will send certified copies to the DVA.)
After being discharged from the navy and returning to
To place this in the fullest, and hopefully, the most helpful context, I need to describe some aspects of my experience as a junior recruit. When I first arrived at Leeuwin (I arrived in Perth by plane, alone, as I had had to remain behind in Sydney for dental treatment to an impacted tooth.) we were issued a complete set of kit; socks, shoes, boots, jumpers, etc…We were also provided with a kind of personal stamp, like typeface, which we were to stamp our clothes with. Between the issue of the clothes and the issue of the stamp, however, a period of time passed and, during that time, I had washed virtually everything (unmarked) and hung it out on a Hills Hoist at one end of the Winjan block. Someone stole most of my underwear and socks and other things. I didn’t know what to do about the theft. I had already gained the impression that losing your kit, even through theft, was some sort of crime in itself. (Dobbing people in for stealing was a different kind of crime.) Frankly, I had never had so many clothes in my life up till then and losing a lot of them so quickly was actually hurtful, as well as bewildering. For months, therefore, I muddled through as best I could. One pair of long socks, I wore over and over was full of holes.
Some time after my return to Leeuwin in 1964, I picked up a pair of underpants from the sand under our donga. They did have another name stamped out them but it was scarcely legible. I’m not making any excuse here. I was desperate. That day, we were being issued with our summer uniform (‘ice cream suits’) and we had to line up in the Stores building in our underwear which is why I had to hurry away, literally, and find some, otherwise I would have had to go bare-bummed which was, any reasonable person would agree, unthinkable. I was accused of stealing them by Leading JR Z who pointed at the name, somewhat dramatically, shouting: “Those’re not yours!” I was put on a charge. Around that time, I lost my belt. I think it’s some measure of my state of mind that I lost that. I had to get a belt from the AB in charge of the gunnery school and I was in such a panic I put it on upside down. I was told off for that by an AB Musician, Depasquale, who told me I looked “…like a bag of shit.” I don’t know that that was true; untidy perhaps.
Being on ‘chooks’ meant that, after the daily routine, (in the late afternoon for two hours) we were subjected to punishment; this took several forms, including being made to double march, back and forth, with rifles on our shoulders. Otherwise, we cleaned up litter around buildings, extra duties like that Also, in the evening around 1900; I had to lay out our whole kit on our beds for inspection by the Officer-Of-The-Day after which I had to put it all away again. I don’t recall how I got the extra ‘kit musters’ as they were called. As a consequence of all this extra activity over a period of 4 to 5 weeks, I became more and more tired. (The JRTE routine, even if you weren’t under punishment, left you tired – and hungry – a lot of the time.) I came to the point where I was getting around in a kind of daze; there’s no other way to describe it. I have to say, on my own behalf, that since the incident of my torture, I was quietly determined ‘ to clean up my act’. I don’t remember anyone being particularly impressed. Indeed, when I tried to show LJR Z the folded and ironed kit in my locker, he made some remark about me hiding my dirty stuff elsewhere. The officer, Lt. Uksi(sp?) who had inspected my kit earlier, did remark that it was ‘the best we’ve seen so far tonight’. A short time afterwards, maybe a few days, I was again charged; a charge brought by a Naval Reserve petty office who taught ABCD (Atomic, Biological and Chemical & Damage Control({?}) this time with losing a small exercise book, one which we all used for ABCD notes; I told the PO that I had left my exercise book in the Education Block, but, when I went to look for it, I couldn’t find it. I didn’t know where it was; more chooks, more extra duty. It was, it had turned out, a crime to lose things. I stole a pair of shorts from another washing line, it was a mindless thing to do, but, I was getting in more and more trouble through my missing kit. LJR Z told the boy whose shorts they were that I had stolen them, and there was a towel, I also stole from a washing line belonging to a JR2 whose name I never knew. White again told the boy involved and, that evening in the Mokare1 donga, I was to be ‘filled in’ (bashed). A small crowd of boys gathered and GD set about me but I was stronger than him and just held his arms until he got tired swinging punches, some of which did connect. Again, I felt that if I actually fought back, things would get worse.) Then it was the JR2’s turn; he aimed a punch at my face and, in the act of ducking, I overbalanced onto a bed behind me. It may sound theatrical, but an odd calm came across me and I was getting up to give this kid a hiding when one or two of the onlookers had clearly seen enough: “Run ‘im in (charge him) Don’t fill ‘im in.” a couple of boys shouted. I remember that clearly. The crowd broke up quite quickly after that. I went to my own end of the donga. I recall one boy gave me a quick, sympathetic look. He was, I remember, one of the gentler people about the place. I was to appear at Commodore’s Defaulters; the Commodore was W.B.M. Marks, senior naval officer in WA. (NOICWA), apparently to face the charge of stealing the towel.
I ‘fronted’ the commodore. An officer – an instructor lieutenant commander who taught us Physics and Maths and Chief Quartermaster Gunner Rodgers (CQMG), from Mokare Division – spoke. It sounded like the officer was speaking about my scholastic ability “- except when he’s acting the village idiot,” were words I remember him using. To this day, I have no idea what the man was talking about. I don’t recall that I had acted any kind of idiot. Apparently, CQMG Rodgers was there to comment on my ability as a seaman: “I wouldn’t want to go t’sea with ‘im sir” Rodgers stated. I remember that quite distinctly. I think he was talking about my dirty socks; something like that anyway. Despite the fact that I’d ‘taken my medicine’ in the form of the scrubbing, I had been labelled ‘a grub’ (a dirty or smelly person); despite the fact that I’d kept quiet about it; and despite the fact that I was trying to improve, I wasn’t going to be allowed to forget it.
I recall, then, that I told the commodore – since he did ask - I wanted out (of the navy). I didn’t know what to say, however, I had just had two vastly senior men, one of whom I respected and liked somewhat, insulting me in front of the commodore. Continuing in the navy – most certainly as a JR at Leeuwin – seemed a hopeless prospect. I don’t recall that there was anyone present – I was only 16 or so – actually representing me. Shortly after that, that same day or the following, I was in such a state within myself I have no real idea how long but it wasn’t long, I was removed from our usual routine, and from the Mokare1 donga and had to sleep in a cell behind the gangway (door unlocked all the time since I wasn’t old enough to be locked away completely) for around two weeks before my discharge. Until that time, I hadn’t spent any time in confinement, anywhere. I was allowed to go into a very small open area at the back of the gangway; an exercise yard. You couldn’t see out and that made me very, very uncomfortable. I took that confinement very badly. At one stage during this time, two much older ratings - a leading seaman and an AB - I think, tried to make me work; they marched me up to an area where new lawn was being sown and wanted me to dig, rake or something like that – they were openly hostile and contemptuous in their manner - but I tacitly refused and they went away after taking me back to my cell. I’m not sure where I got the courage – whatever – to refuse to work. The only man I remember asking me what was the problem from the period of time I spent in the cells was CQMG ‘Wally’ Walton; he struck me as at least a little bit concerned for my fate but he didn’t do anything. I did feel a bit of hope at his enquiry, however. This is an indicator, despite how I had been treated, that I wanted to stay in the navy. After a week or so, I was taken through the discharge routine. On that same day, I was escorted to Perth Station and seen onto the train to make the long trip to
My civilian clothes had also been sent ahead to my father. I spent four days on a series of trains:
No medical treatment I have had allows me to forget what happened at Leeuwin. I see the smiling faces in photos; men like me in their early sixties now , ex-JRs, on various Internet web sites; men who appear content and materially comfortable; men having a beer and a yarn over old times; men wearing medals at official occasions, and still feel alienated, not jealous or vengeful, alienated.
Within eighteen months of my discharge, I attempted suicide on the
I see, now, that the RAN was frequently negligent in its duty of care to us youngsters. I suppose some would argue that duty of care didn’t exist in those days. However, the RAN saw itself ‘in loco parentis’ which is the same thing. Further, due to flaws in the recruitment system at the time, a variety of people - the kind of person who lends money at 50% interest, for example, was allowed to serve; the kind of person who tortures, at least, injures, degrades and humiliates his fellows, was also allowed to serve; and the kind of person who is promoted basically because he is an outspoken bully - were allowed to serve. The RAN and indeed, my peers, can think what they like about me. I didn’t deserve the treatment I got on December 15 1963 and later, through the early months of 1964.
The fact is I have not been able to hold down a job for more than six months in forty-five years. As a consequence, I have no superannuation and no retirement entitlements outside of what is available to most citizens. I don’t even have a proper record of my naval service with which to pursue this matter. I have made a couple of attempts to get a job within the past 12 years, with no success. I had to give up trying to find work; mainly because it seemed futile and, also, it brought back painful memories; memories painful enough to stop me from trying to find work. I also made an attempt at gaining a university degree which was embarrassingly unsuccessful. The only work I have done outside the family home in the past 20+ years – apart from two odd jobs lasting no more than a few days - has been of a voluntary nature; as a literacy tutor for the Lithgow TAFE. I did that with various clients for 8 years. That’s the kind of thing most people do after retirement and I was 42 when I took it on.
I have included a medical certificate, provided by my current doctor, stating that I have suffered from depression, anxiety and insomnia (also, osteoarthritis and diabetes which I don’t attribute to anything other than age and circumstance, certainly not to my naval service) from 2001. I don’t have medical records which reach back further than that. Before 2001, I didn’t go to doctors much. When you can only get casual work, you don’t even need sick notes. I did suffer, but I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I assumed I was in the wrong. Some people I knew thought of me as a ‘no-hoper’, indeed, one man told me as much. On another occasion, while working on a jackhammer for Tippings at the site of the, now, NSW Trades and Labour Council building in Sussex St. - that was in 1969 - the foreman called me ‘a bum’. (at least I was a working bum.).
The period 1967 to 1975 wasn’t any better for me, although, through mates and casual acquaintances and experience, I had become able to navigate the life of a homeless person a whole lot better. I knew, by then, where to get a bed for the night – at the City Mission in Kent Street or the Mathew Talbot in Woolloomooloo, or the Sallies near Central Rail or the Methos in Francis Street and, also, where the ‘hand-outs’ for food and clothing were; the Smith Family, Roger Bush etc… Also, there were numerous places where you could get a meal, again, during the day at
.
