senojekips
Active member
For those who do not know what a Thunderflash is, it is a pyrotechnic used in training to simulate explosives very similar to the flashbangs used by special forces to disorient their opponents. (very very noisy)
Once upon a time, back in the mid-sixties, there were three Stokers, all based at HMAS Penguin a Sydney training establishment, who for better or worse we shall call Shorty, Tommy and X (an Oggie submariner). Being of relatively sound mind, after hours and moderately cashed-up they decided to go into the city for a spot of refreshment.
Although it may seem odd now, in those days the pubs closed at 1800 for an hour, (in an attempt to send civvies home to their families before they trashed the pay check). During this hour most "Jolly Jacks" used to buy a bottle of cheap wine and retire quietly to a nearby park to pass the time until opening. On this particular night the weather was inclement to say the least, so our valiant band decided to adjourn to the Men's toilets in Wynyard station, where during quieter times the attendant used to clean up and barricade off sections of the urinals to minimize his work. Such was the case on this night.
The business of the day was proceeding merrily, with our friends having shaken off their cares and opening time getting closer and closer... when in walks a typical management type of the day, dark suit, school tie, attaché case, Financial Times, brolly, the whole box and dice. For the benefit of our newer brothers in arms, it must be mentioned that in those days, for junior sailors, to go ashore in civvies was not an option.
"The management type, is horrified and disgusted", and after giving our friends a very disparaging look, scurries into the first available cubicle, lest he be infected by this lowlife.
This was not unnoticed by our happy band, and feeling grievously wounded by this perceived slur on their spotless characters, decided to have a little fun. Tommy, who was working at the NBCD* school at the time just happened to find a thunderflash that must have fallen into his pocket. So without further ado, having waited until the 'swank' was well settled and absorbed in his paper, proceeded to ignite the said thunderflash and roll it under the cubicle door.
For those of us who have heard a thunderflash in a confined area the result can well be imagined. A thunderous bang and instant action from the much shaken toilet attendant, who until this time had been hiding in his office. "What the bloody hell happened" or words to that effect. Putting on his best innocent voice, Shorty replied, "That bastard in there, I reckon he had a bomb in his briefcase". The attendant used his passkey and opened the cubicle door. The 'swank' is in shock, laying back with his pants around his ankles, bits of his newspaper strewn everywhere. By now people had started to arrive at the run, station staff, passing "goofers" and other would be helpers. It was during the ensuing confusion that our heroes quietly departed the scene.
There was a short column in the following morning's "Sydney Sun" describing a mysterious explosion in the toilets of Wynyard Station. It ended with the ominous words, "The Police are anxious to interview several sailors who may be able to assist them further with their enquiries”….
*Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Defence.
Once upon a time, back in the mid-sixties, there were three Stokers, all based at HMAS Penguin a Sydney training establishment, who for better or worse we shall call Shorty, Tommy and X (an Oggie submariner). Being of relatively sound mind, after hours and moderately cashed-up they decided to go into the city for a spot of refreshment.
Although it may seem odd now, in those days the pubs closed at 1800 for an hour, (in an attempt to send civvies home to their families before they trashed the pay check). During this hour most "Jolly Jacks" used to buy a bottle of cheap wine and retire quietly to a nearby park to pass the time until opening. On this particular night the weather was inclement to say the least, so our valiant band decided to adjourn to the Men's toilets in Wynyard station, where during quieter times the attendant used to clean up and barricade off sections of the urinals to minimize his work. Such was the case on this night.
The business of the day was proceeding merrily, with our friends having shaken off their cares and opening time getting closer and closer... when in walks a typical management type of the day, dark suit, school tie, attaché case, Financial Times, brolly, the whole box and dice. For the benefit of our newer brothers in arms, it must be mentioned that in those days, for junior sailors, to go ashore in civvies was not an option.
"The management type, is horrified and disgusted", and after giving our friends a very disparaging look, scurries into the first available cubicle, lest he be infected by this lowlife.
This was not unnoticed by our happy band, and feeling grievously wounded by this perceived slur on their spotless characters, decided to have a little fun. Tommy, who was working at the NBCD* school at the time just happened to find a thunderflash that must have fallen into his pocket. So without further ado, having waited until the 'swank' was well settled and absorbed in his paper, proceeded to ignite the said thunderflash and roll it under the cubicle door.
For those of us who have heard a thunderflash in a confined area the result can well be imagined. A thunderous bang and instant action from the much shaken toilet attendant, who until this time had been hiding in his office. "What the bloody hell happened" or words to that effect. Putting on his best innocent voice, Shorty replied, "That bastard in there, I reckon he had a bomb in his briefcase". The attendant used his passkey and opened the cubicle door. The 'swank' is in shock, laying back with his pants around his ankles, bits of his newspaper strewn everywhere. By now people had started to arrive at the run, station staff, passing "goofers" and other would be helpers. It was during the ensuing confusion that our heroes quietly departed the scene.
There was a short column in the following morning's "Sydney Sun" describing a mysterious explosion in the toilets of Wynyard Station. It ended with the ominous words, "The Police are anxious to interview several sailors who may be able to assist them further with their enquiries”….
*Nuclear, Biological and Chemical Defence.
