Barrack Room Betty

By Michele Nylons

Chapter One – Wish I Was Wren

“Wish I was a Wren,” Recruit Brian Perkins mumbled under his breath.

‘Fuck! I wish he hadn't said that!’ thought Recruit Michael Nyland. He knew that no good would come of it. “Your wish might come true,” Leading Recruit Jason Jones (Spike to his friends) sneered.

Michael Nyland shivered, and not just because he was standing at attention (or at the ‘Ho’ as it was referred to in the RN) on parade in the freezing cold. Eight members of Collins Division of HMS Chelmsford were standing in the freezing winter weather, watching the recruit WRNS (Women’s Royal Naval Service colloquially called Wrens) boarding the last bus to leave the depot. It was going to the railway station so the last of the Wrens could proceed home on leave.

In 1973 HMS Chelmsford was the Royal Navy’s recruit training establishment, charged with providing the hundreds of new sailors and Wrens required to man the RN. The Wrens lived in the Wrenery, fenced off from the male General Entry recruits and were guarded by ferocious and large Chief Petty Officer and Petty Officer Wrens who were rumoured to be butch dykes. The young sailors envied the privileges bestowed on the Wrens. Wrens travelled in First Class sleepers on trains, they received a meal allowance when travelling, and, they were entitled to an underwear allowance as they were not issued with stockings, tights, knickers and undergarments from ‘slops’, the RN clothing store, and were expected to purchase their own.

The male sailors travelled third class on British Rail, paid for their own meals when travelling, and had fewer ‘privileges’. Most men serving in the RN in the 1970s overlooked the fact that they were paid far more than the Wrens, had the opportunity to serve at sea and travel the world, and they didn’t have to leave the Navy when they married unlike the Wrens.

HMS Chelmsford had been a Racecourse-class minesweeper of the Royal Navy laid down in 1916 and the Recruit Training Establishment was named after that ship. Built in the 1930s it was now almost decrepit and was soon to be closed; but in the winter of 1973 as the RN entered the Christmas and New Year Reduced Operational Period (ROP), the Navy was looking at ways to save money as its budget had been slashed. The Admiralty came up with an initiative. Normally the depot would be, for all intents and purposes, shut down and all personnel sent on leave. This was a costly exercise, effectively ‘winterising’ all the facilities for six weeks and then bringing the facility back on line in time to recommence training in January so they decided a skeleton crew would remain behind to keep the depot manned and ticking over until all of the other personnel returned from leave.

It was a no-brainer for the CO, he directed the Officer in Charge of the recruit training school to keep part of a Division of recruits, under the charge of a Petty Officer, to remain behind and maintain the antiquated facilities whilst everyone else proceeded on leave.

It was also a no-brainer for the OIC; he selected eight members of Collins Division, the malingerers, misfits and under-performing recruits to remain behind as the ‘hook-rope party’.

The ‘hook rope party’, a naval term for a special party who has work to do which is best left uninterrupted. Their job was to keep things ‘ship shape and Bristol fashion’ while the rest of the crew fell in for parades and presented their spaces for senior officer’s inspections or ‘rounds’.

Collins Division was established to assist the underachievers in the archaic training system so that they had a chance to graduate. It was supposedly led by the best performing Leading Recruits so they could mentor their peers and assist them in achieving the results required to graduate from recruit training school. In reality the RN recruit training school was still manned by misogynist bullies who used corporal punishment, mental cruelty and deprivation of any form of compassion to train its people. The officers treated the NCOs like shit, the NCOs treated the ratings like shit and the ratings treated anyone over whom they had authority like shit. As the saying goes, shit rolls downhill, and Collins Division was at the bottom of the hill.

The Leading Recruits were bullies who thought that inflicting as much pain and degradation on the recruits in their Division as possible was effective leadership. The recruits had no choice but to suck it up, no one was interested in their ‘bitches’, they were under-performing losers who would benefit from astute application of the rod.

The Navy had thrived on the traditions of ‘rum, sodomy and the lash’ so why should anything change?

The OIC had selected his worst performing Petty Officer to remain behind with Collins Division. PO ‘Knocker’ White was an alcoholic malingerer who had twice been reduced in rank during his service. Not that he cared. He was divorced and lived ‘on board’ in the Senior Ratings mess where he spent most of his time propping up the bar. He would have to reside in the Duty Instructor’s cabin at the recruit school but he had stocked up on cases of Newcastle Brown Ale, Captain Morgan Rum, purloined a 16mm projector and borrowed as many pornographic and action movies as he could lay his hands on, and with the recruit school galley remaining open, manned by a recruit cook from Collins Division, he was assured of three squares a day.

To Knocker White it was almost like a vacation. He intended to do fuck all but drink, eat, watch movies and read J. E. Macdonnell novels all day and let the Leading Recruits run the ‘rock show’ or as it was termed at the time ‘maintain good order and discipline’.

So the remaining eight members of Collins Division were dismissed by PO White as the bus loaded with the last of the Wrens drove away.

“You fucking Leading Recruits take charge of your rabble. You have your daily routines posted; I don’t want to hear a fucking peep out of you unless this shithole is sinking. And as we are twenty miles from the sea and this ship is made of bricks and mortar that’s highly fucking unlikely,” he yelled.

“Ok you fucking retards, back to the barracks!” Spike Jones ordered.

HMS Chelmsford recruit school was now a cold, windswept, wasteland. The four red brick blocks set out in an H formation was deserted except for two cabins occupied by the eight recruits. The four brawny Leading Recruits, Spike Jones, James (Jimmy) Lovejoy, Jean Burgess, and Billy Marron shared a cabin at one end of A Block and the four weaklings, recruits Michael Nyland, David Holliday, Brian (Polly) Perkins, and Ray (Mary) Maine, shared a cabin at the other end. A separate small building comprising a galley with an adjoining mess and wet bar (the ‘wets’) stood alone at the bottom of the H and another separate block held the Instructors Study, Divisional Office, Regulating Office and the Duty Instructor’s (DI) cabin, currently occupied by an already intoxicated PO White.

The wets was only allowed to be used by leading recruits and the senior graduating class and was only opened for two hours in the evenings and afternoons and on weekends but Spike had already pilfered the key from the Regulating Office and he and his cohorts were drinking beer, smoking and engaging in that time old Naval tradition, bitching.

“What a load of bollocks! The whole fucking Navy is on leave, home with their families and we’ve gotta look after this shithole and those four grommets!” Jimmy Lovejoy whined.

“Six weeks of boredom, cleanos (cleaning stations) and fucking pussers scran (navy rations)!” chimed in Jean Burgess.

“The cunts have even cut off the heat to the other blocks and all the phones are disconnected except the one in the DI cabin,” whinged Billy Marron.

“Well at least we won’t have to worry about Knocker drilling us, morning PT, or fucking locker inspections,” Jimmy chimed in.

“Stop your bitching! We can have six weeks or boredom or we can have six weeks of fun!” Spike cut them off.

“We’ve got four grommets to torment, the keys to the boozer, and the place to ourselves. I’m sure we can think of plenty to keep us amused.”

The four leading recruits had been in the Navy for three months and had not even seen a ship yet, yet they thought of themselves as salty. They wore the standard dress-of-the-day for the period, dungaree trousers tucked into black gaiters, spit-polished black boots, blue cotton shirts and polished black belts. The red lanyards around their necks signified their badge of office. Their ambition was to be ‘gunners’ and they were looking forward to forthcoming sea postings. Gunners in the Navy at the time were the specialist seamen and weapon handlers; a job that didn’t require much in the way of brains, just brawn and an ability to blindly follow orders.

The four ‘grommets’ cowering in their cabin at the end of H block had been selected for what was considered ‘shiny-pants’, ‘inky-fingered’, ‘day-hand’ jobs.

Michael Nyland wanted to be a Writer or ‘scribe’, Ray (Mary) Maine and Brian (Polly) Perkins wanted to be Officers Stewards or ‘bed-making beagles’, and David (Doc) Holliday wanted to be a cook or ‘tucker-fucker’.

It was not unusual in the navy for men to have female nicknames if their last names were associated with famous women. Examples were: Mary Maine, Dolly Gray, Polly Perkins, Daisy May, Pansy Potter, Connie Francis and the list goes on.

The leading recruits turned to bitching about the Wrens, how in their opinion they got preferential treatment. And of course how they would like to shag them. None of them had had sex from the time they had arrived at the establishment and their hormones were raging.

“If I got my hands on some Wrens I would make them be my slaves; they’d have to do all the shitty jobs that I’m forced to do,” Jean Burgess slurred.

As the lads got drunker, they became more boisterous, and their ramblings more preposterous.

“Yeah! How good would that be! Getting our own bevy of Wrens to do our bidding, to wait on us and do all our shit duties,” Billy Marron guffawed.

Spike Jones was sitting sullenly listening to his mates ramble; he was germinating an idea. The sailors got drunker and their conversations more banal but Spike had tuned out. He suddenly interjected.

“Shut up for a minute. I got a great idea. What if we could have a few Wrens to do our bidding?” he mused.

“What the fuck?” Jimmy inquired.

“We don’t have to do fuck all for the next six weeks right? We’ve already decided the grommets are going to do all the work anyway. But what if we really tormented those retards? What if we made them dress like Wrens tomorrow and took the piss out them all day?” Spike proposed.

“Oh fuck that would so funny,” Jimmy howled.

“But how the fuck do we get them to do that?” he asked.

“I have a plan,” Spike smirked and went on to relate his scheme to the others.

“Oh fuck that is just choice! That will really put those losers in their place!” Jean Burgess laughed and let loose a beery burp.

The door to the grommets cabin burst open and the four leading recruits burst in carrying a case of beer and a bottle of rum. The grommets cowered on their bunks wondering what fresh hell their nemeses had planned for them.

“Don’t worry shipmates, we ain’t here to give youse a ball-blacking or roust your cabin. We figure we’re all in this shitfight together, left to look after this shit hole, so we might as well have what fun we can,” Spike Jones announced to the terrified recruits.

“Come on, get out some ashtrays and grab some grog; it’s time to party!” Billy Marron slurred drunkenly.

At first trepidicious, the recruits were soon seduced by the offer of free beer and rum and soon they were all drinking and carousing.

“Fuck me lads, you ain’t so bad. There’s no reason we can’t get along,” a drunken Jimmy Lovejoy announced, and they clinked bottles and toasted each other.

Eventually, when the grommets had had a few drinks, Spike Jones steered the conversation to bitching about the Wrens.

By this time the four recruits, who hadn’t had a drink for three months and were as drunk as their leaders, had let down their guard and considered themselves all chums.

“Yeah! Why do those recruit Wrens get to go home on leave and we pull this shit duty,” Dave Holliday burped.

Doc was a red faced, rotund, young man who had trouble with any physical activity and was on ‘backward PT’ and ‘backward swimming’ as were all of the grommets. Being a potential tucker-fucker, his roly-poly physique was tolerated as most cooks in the navy were fat and as the saying went: ‘never trust a skinny cook’.

“I’ve got an idea! Why don’t we go on a panty raid over at the Wrenery? Who’s going to stop us? Petty Officer ‘I’m pissed as a parrot’ White?” Spike Jones proclaimed.

“Fucking great idea! I’m in!” Polly Perkins grinned and upended his bottle of beer and chugged away.

Mick Nyland saw the sly grins exchanged between the leading recruits and although he suspected this jolly was going to end bad for the grommets he knew there was nothing he could do to challenge the other seven drunken sailors.

It was cold and dark, the first snows starting fall, as the eight recruits, swaddled in their greatcoats, staggered across the parade ground, out of the recruit school, and across the road to the Wrenery. Spike Jones being the fittest and most able to handle his beer climbed the chain link fence and dropped to the ground on the other side. One of the duties the hook rope party was to inspect each block every day to ensure there was no storm damage, leakage from frozen or broken water pipes, and to generally square away the building. Spike had the key to the Wrens quarters but not the key to the gate in the surrounding fence.

But now he was on the inside of the fence he was able to kick open the double gates that opened outwards with little difficulty.

“Come on me hearties; lets steal some knickers!” he drank deeply from a bottle of rum offered to him by Billy Marron and head down into the wind, led his band of miscreants to the Wrenery.

Mick Nyland could still smell a rat. Why were four leading recruits who hated the grommets suddenly their friends? Sure, they were all fucked over having to spend the holidays on duty but the leading recruits had made their intentions clear that the grommets were going to do all the work, so why the sudden camaraderie? He couldn’t do much about it and was pretty drunk himself so he would let the evening unfold and see what eventuated.

The drunken rabble made their way to the double glass doors of the Wrens block and Spike fumbled with the ring of keys he had hanging from his belt.

“So what’s a panty raid again?” Doc Holliday asked drunkenly.

“It’s when a bunch of lads raid the women’s quarters and nick their knickers,” Jean Burgess guffawed.

“A fine naval tradition!” Billy Marron burped.

“In ya go,” Spike held the door open as they staggered into the lobby.

The block was dark with all the lights extinguished.

“Okay me buckos! Follow me,” Spike led them down the passageway of the lower deck.

The doors to the cabins were closed but not locked. Recruits were not entitled to privacy and none of the cabin doors were fitted with locks. Just like the sailors, the Wrens lived four to a cabin.

Spike picked a cabin at random.

“In here,” he said and the eight drunken young sailors entered the cabin.

Spike turned on the lights, he was not concerned with turning on the lights in few of the cabins as he knew that Knocker White was firmly ensconced in the DI cabin two hundred yards away and was probably paralytic drunk by now.

“Ok what now?” Polly Perkins asked.

“Now you cunts are shit out of luck!” Spike growled and grabbed Polly Perkins by the collar and threw him onto one of the bunks.

The other three leading recruits grabbed the other grommets and pushed them into the cabin.

“Strip!” Spike ordered.

“What?” Ray Maine asked, puzzled and nearly incoherent.

He was rewarded with a boot to the arse.

“All you grommets get your fucking clothes off!” Jimmy Lovejoy ordered.

“Oh fuck!” Doc Holliday protested.

The four grommets were forced to strip down to their underpants and vest, slapped and punched by the brawny leading recruits when they hesitated.

“Ok you rawbones, we all agree that things around here would be great if we had some Wrens to do all the work. So you four are going to be our Wrens for the next twenty-four hours. Get dressed up as Wrens and be ready for inspection at 0700 tomorrow morning!” Spike Jones growled.

“What?” Doc Holiday complained, and was rewarded with slap across the face.

The four young men stood shivering and cowering in the corner of the cabin.

“Use your initiative, find uniforms that fit you and dress in them!” Spike snapped.

“I want you all dressed in blues tomorrow.”

“What the whole uniform?” Polly Perkins whined.

“Yes the whole fucking uniform, and tights, and makeup, and find something to hide your shaven fucking skulls so you look like women!” Jean Burgess laughed.

“We want our own Wren Division tomorrow and if you don’t pass inspection it’ll be fucking hell for you for six weeks!” Spike gulped on his bottle of rum; terror in his eyes.

“Wait on a minute chaps! This really is going too far! How do you expect us to…….” Mick Nyland was cut off with a punch to the stomach.

“Recruit Wren Nyland; if this bunch of scurvy riddled fuckwits are not turned out in Wren’s number twos tomorrow I’ll hold you personally responsible. I also want them wearing makeup and you better find something to make wigs out of cause if you don’t look like proper Wrens I’m going to bring out my cane!” Spike shouted into Michael Nyland’s face.

“Ok; we’re locking you grommets in here and will see you tomorrow dressed as required thirty minutes after call the hands. Stay up all night; I don’t give a fuck, get the job done!” Spike spun on his heels.

“Come on lads there’s more beer to be drunk,” Spike led his gang of bullies back down the passageway laughing and guffawing as they went taking the four recruits’ uniforms and greatcoats with them.

“What the fuck?” Doc Holliday looked as bemused and confused as his three friends.

“So Recruit Brian Perkins! Do you still wish you were a Wren?” Michael Nyland hissed.

The four recruits were freezing dressed only in their underwear. All the bunks had been stripped but as the layout of every cabin was the same they knew where the blankets were stowed in the overheads above the four kit lockers and they quickly scranned the blankets, wrapped themselves in them and huddled together trying to get warm.

“Fuck!” what are we going to do now?” Doc Holliday whined.

“I ain’t dressing up as a Wren! Fuck them! They can’t make us!” Polly Perkins hissed.

“They can do whatever they like! Who’s going to stop them? PO White? He won’t even come out of the DI cabin,” Ray Maine whined.

Mick Nyland sat huddled up in his blanket thinking. He had a secret. Michael Nyland had been a crossdresser. He’d had a penchant for wearing women’s clothes for as long as he could remember and by the time he was nineteen he could dress quite passably. But there had been an incident. A very embarrassing incident, which had forced him to leave home, and so he had run away to the Navy where he could get away from the ridicule and shame of being caught dressed as a woman. He’d join the Navy to see the world just like most of the others but he’s also joined to run away from home to leave behind the disgust and loathing that his father felt for him when had discovered he was a crossdresser.

He had no intention of telling his fellow grommets about any of this, but as he had become their natural leader he intended to use the acumen he had for dressing enfemme to advantage.

“Ok boys this what we are going to do,” he explained his plan to the three other recruits.

“Mick; thank fuck you’ve kept your wits about you. That might just work! All we have to do is play dress up for one day and let those four tossers take the piss out of us and then its over,” Polly Perkins espoused.

“Yeah the joke will only last for a little while before they get bored with it,” Ray Maine chimed in.

“We’ll look like those blokes in panto who dress like women; it’ll be a lark,” Doc Holliday said.

“I fucking hope so,” Michael whispered to himself.

“All right my buckos; let’s get going, you have your orders!” Mick Nyland exclaimed.

The recruits spread out through the block wrapped in their blankets and following Mick’s instruction riffled through the lockers trying on skirts, blouses, jackets, shoes and caps until they found items that fit. It was lucky that except for Dave Holliday, the recruits were slender and had no problems finding clothing that fit. Lucky for him there were a few plump Wrens and eventually Doc found clothes that fit him. They bought all the clothing they had scranned back to the cabin and layed it out. Recruits, including the Wrens, had to keep all their clothing washed and ironed stowed correctly in their kit lockers so the uniforms they had pilfered were ready to wear.

“Ok, well done boys, now go and find knickers and bras and two pairs of tights and two pairs of socks each. Also I need you to check out all the drawers in the girls desks, you can guarantee that some of the girls knit. Get me some knitting yarn, black, white, brown but no bright colours,” Mick directed his cohorts.

“What the fuck for?” all three crooned.

“Don’t fucking ague just get it! I’ll get the makeup. As soon as we have what we need we can get some sleep ok?” Mick answered.

They were all in agreement that sleep was good idea so they all went off and did as they were told.

By one o’clock in the morning they had everything that Mick had told then to get.

“Ok boys, grab all the blankets you can, grab a bunk and get some shuteye,” Mick said.

Ten minutes later the lights were out the room reverberated with the sounds of four snoring young men.

“Wakey, wakey lads,” Mick banged a shit tin lid against the bin to wake his shipmates.

They are reluctant to get up but they were used to early starts and he soon had them motivated. They went down to the heads and bathroom and took care of their morning ablutions. Mick had even found a couple of razors the girls use to shave their legs and they washed up and shaved, all in freezing cold water. Then he mustered them back in the cabin and fell them in.

“Ok boys out of your uderps (Naval slang for underpants) and pull on those knickers,” Mick said.

The lads pulled on the regulation white cotton knickers that the Wrans were required to wear when in uniform while at recruit school and then they struggled into their brassieres with Mick doing the rounds helping them adjust straps and clasps.

“Ok lads take a pair of socks and shove them in the cups of your bras, they are your false tits.”

The recruits began to skylark and jibe each other and Mick stepped in straight away.

“Stop your fucking skylarking you grommets; those fucking arseholes are going to be here soon and if we haven’t made our best efforts what do you think they are going to do?” Mike snapped.

That shut then up got them focussed.

“Now sit on a bunk and unroll your tights.”

Wrens kept their black tights rolled up in neat balls when stowed in their lockers to meet locker inspection requirements. They usually wore 40 denier tights when on duty but nearly all of the girls kept some sheer 15 denier tights hidden away for when they were allowed out of the Wrenery or on short leave.

“Watch me.”

Michael showed them how to roll up the legs of the tights and put their feet into the toe section and how to pull them up their legs and snuggle into the gusset of the tights and then how to smooth the nylon up their legs to remove the wrinkles.

“They feel kind of nice,” Polly Perkins giggled.

Ok mates, put on your blouses, just remember they button from the other side so help each other, put on your ties and then put on your skirts. They huffed and struggled and cursed but eventually they were dressed. Okay step into those court shoes (Wrens court shoes were low heeled ‘pumps’ and were their dress shoes as opposed to the lace-ups they wore for day to day menial tasks) they struggled to stand in the courts even though they were low-heeled.

“Alright now pay attention, grab another pair of tights and two balls of knitting yarn that are the same colour and I’m going to show you how to make a wig. We’ve all completed basic seamanship and this isn’t that much different than the bends, hitches and ropework we did there,” Mick said.

Mick painstakingly led them step by step how to make makeshift wigs using the gusset of a pair of tights as the skullcap and the yarn as the hair. He knocked up his own black bob reasonably quickly and then went around and assisted the others using scissors to snip here and there to cut the wigs in some sort of shape. When they had finished they had four, collar length bobs of varying grades; Doc’s was absolutely awful but Michael’s wig looked quite good, except it was made of knitting yarn. Two were black, and one white, one brown.

“Ok you fuckers, Polly and Mary you want to be Stewards so go down to the brew boat and make some tea for us, there won’t be milk but there will be sugar. Doc sit down here and I’ll do your makeup,” Mick ordered.

Every block had a ‘brew boat’ where the sailors and wrens could make tea and coffee and if they were lucky have a biscuit. No other food was allowed in the barracks and it was a breach of discipline to bring food into the blocks.

“Fuck me Mick you seem to know a lot about this girly shit,” Doc jibed.

“I was the only son with four sisters; do you think they never forced me to play dress-up?” Michael tossed off as a casual response.

He thought to himself: ‘If you only knew the truth!’

They sipped tea while Mick did his best with their makeup. He could have actually done a lot better job than he did but he didn’t want to raise any suspicions but he couldn’t help himself when cane to doing his own. He took the makeup down to the bathroom and did a half-decent job on himself.

He came back and helped his mates put on their makeshift wigs and then he got them to pull on their blues jackets. He adjusted the Wrens caps with the HMS CHELMSFORD tally bands on their heads. They where subtly different to the sailor’s caps but he got them fitted flat-a-back.

“Ok you mucky lot; fall in and lets have a look at you,” he said.

They actually looked pathetic in their ill-fitting uniforms and poorly applied makeup. Hems weren’t straight, tights were saggy and some of their legs were downright hairy, and obviously so, even though they were wearing the heavy tights, and their makeup looked very clown-like. They looked exactly what they were: a bunch of hairy young men wearing women’s clothing with no idea how to do so. The exception was Michael Nyland, who except for the fact his wig was made of wool actually looked quite presentable.

The remains of Collins Division began to take the piss out of each other and jibe and jest until they heard the ominous sound of the foyer doors unlocking followed by the sound of hobnail boots on the tiled floor. Even more ominous was the sound of a cane tap tapping on the deck.

“Wrens Division HO!” called out Leading Recruit Spike Jones, and it echoed down the deserted passageway.

The four ‘Wrens’ of Collins Division fell in, in single file and snapped to attention.

To be continued

Author’s Note: Anyone who served in the RN during the period that this story is set will laugh at the implausibility of the situation described in the story. That said, I tried to make the details in this chapter as accurate as possible. My apologies if I have offended anyone but I do claim an author’s right to drive an implausible plot device so long as it suits the narrative.