Barrack Room Betty Chapter Ten
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Barrack Room Betty Chapter One free porn video
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.
Kierra
- 19.11.2022
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