Memories of Ninian Stewart

It was sixty-six years ago when a tousle-haired young lieutenant, Ninian Stewart, greeted me—an eighteen-year-old Ordinary Seaman—with a bright, “Good morning.” That small gesture, so unusual and unexpected, left a lasting impression. Ninian was likely twenty-three at the time, already carrying the quiet authority of command.

I was one of just six National Servicemen posted to the Royal Navy’s Hong Kong Flotilla—an extraordinary assignment for National Service ratings, and a stroke of great good fortune. I served in Hong Kong from late 1955 to June 1957, not under Ninian directly, but aboard ML 3510 under the command of Lieutenant Peter Hudson—who remains as dear a friend as Ninian. My original draft of six NS men were placed throughout the Flotilla’s ten boats, and during that time, Ninian and I came to know one another well.

All the captains knew each other; we shared exercises, patrols, social moments, and more than a few moments of tension, as we manned the maritime frontier between the Free World and Communist China in uncertain times. It was in July 1999—over forty years later—that Ninian and I met again, when ten of us sat down to found the Hong Kong Flotilla Association.

At first, I didn’t recognise him. But later, I rang him and spoke of the old crew from ML 3512—his command—and memories stirred. He remembered me. Shortly after, I came across a photograph I’d taken during exercises in Lamma Channel: ML 3512 charging ahead, smoke screen trailing behind, mock firing in full swing. I even recalled a loose rocket landing in a junk, its stunned occupants describing it as “fire from heaven.” We laughed at that story many times.

From that point onward, our association deepened. Together we traced old shipmates, with surprising success, and many returned to join us at reunions. But as the years passed, our numbers dwindled—some fell ill, others crossed the bar—and yet Ninian remained steadfast. He and his beloved Liz even returned to Hong Kong before our 2003 pilgrimage to honour the men of ML 1323, killed in the Pearl Rover Incident when attacked by a Communist vessel.

In 2005, Brenda and I made our own journey back, visiting sacred places like Tai O and Castle Peak. We were not just visiting old haunts—we were walking in the footsteps of memory. Since 1999, and increasingly in later years, Ninian—as our President—and I as Treasurer, Reunion Organiser, and Historian, worked side by side to sustain the spirit of the Flotilla. Even in the difficult Covid years, as we faced cancellations and heartbreak, we held fast. In 2021, against the odds, we managed a Reunion once more. It was a sad occasion, for we had lost so many.

And then came the sudden and devastating loss of Ninian himself. Ours was a unique friendship. He praised me often—sometimes too generously—for the other events I organised. He followed my business career with interest, knowing I had become Managing Director of a leading steel stockholding firm. Our views on many things, including politics, seemed to align. And yet, he was so clearly of another age—gracious, measured, with a distinct way of speaking. He always signed off our conversations with, “So long,” though sometimes the conversation would end a little abruptly, once he had tolerated my chatter to the limit. He was amused by the way I still called him “Sir” at the beginning and end of each conversation, as I did with my own commanding officer. I

did it not out of formality but affection—a way to preserve that special bond between officer and rating, which had, over the years, transformed into something deeper and more enduring. He corrected my exaggerations during dinners, as if still minding discipline, but always with a twinkle in his eye. The memories we shared—the October 1956 riots, the names that still echo with magic: Castle Peak, Chueng Chau, Ping Chau, Green Island, Aberdeen, Picnic Bay. They are part of our shared history. And now, with so many who knew us gone, it is with increasing sadness that I look around and find fewer of those familiar faces.

Ninian's passing has left me bereft. He was a friend, a mentor, a gentleman—forever the officer. In matters of the Association, he remained in command, and while we sometimes disagreed over procedures, there was never friction—only a healthy difference of perspective, rooted in mutual respect. His role was to advise, to consult, and to lead with quiet authority. That was the joy of our friendship. We both found meaning in revisiting our past. Together we spent time aboard the historic Motor Launch Medusa, a living echo of our service. We were not indulging in nostalgia—we were reliving something vital and real. When we re-formed the Association in 1999, we didn’t just honour the past—we re-launched the Flotilla.

After Liz’s death, things changed. The Association grew quieter, and then Covid nearly brought it to an end. But Ninian would have been proud of our last Reunion—though only 28 attended, we pushed through hotel difficulties and made it a triumph.

This October 2022, we shall gather again at the Trouville Hotel. We will read aloud the names of those who have gone before, as we always do. This time, we shall add Ninian and Liz to that growing roll of honour. Only two or three of us remain now from those days, and it is our solemn duty to remember. Our archives are full—from the golden days of 1955–1957 to the rebirth of camaraderie from 1999 to 2022. We are like a vintage wine, savoured again and again—not to dwell in the past, but to draw strength from it, to continue meeting, laughing, remembering, and creating new memories.

One final thought: when Ninian and I said farewell in 1957, we were not yet the friends we would become. But our reference point—always—was that shared time of service. And now, after twenty-two further years of reunion and reflection, that friendship has become one of the most meaningful of my life. Ninian and Liz met my daughters, now in their sixties—one a distinguished Matron of Midwifery, the other with a career in banking. My grandchildren came to the early reunions. Now, even my great-grandchildren attend.

The Royal Navy, the Hong Kong

Flotilla, and HMS Tamar have become part of our family’s tradition and identity. After a lifetime in business, I can say with certainty: the happiest years have been these last, shared with my Naval family. And I shall miss Ninian deeply—my friend, my captain, my link to a remarkable chapter of life lived in loyalty, duty, and fellowship. So long, Ninian. Until we meet again.