Investigations into paranormal activities at Devonport Naval base have reminded a former Blue Jacket of the strange goings-on at Chatham in the late 1950s – and the Ghost of St Mary’s.

Mick Jeffs said the RN Blue Jackets Band lived in the old St Mary’s Barracks above the main base when he was billeted there in 1958, and everyone knew of the place’s reputation, particularly a derelict building across the parade ground which was “definitely haunted”, according to Mick.

“Each night a light could be seen shining from one of the upper windows and the single beat of a drum could be heard, yet daylight investigations found no sign of any source of light or sound,” he said.

The explanation he heard was that, during the Napoleonic Wars, some French prisoners being held in the building planned an escape just after the midnight change of watch, but a guard coming on duty was adrift so the man who should have been off watch had his throat cut and has haunted the place ever since.

Mick said there were stories of various attempts to lay the ghost.

“It was said that some years earlier three chief petty officers had spent the night in the building, found nothing, but came out with white hair in the morning,” said Mick.

“And during one middle watch a guard on patrol in the old barracks had called down to the main gate for assistance.

“The relief sent up supposedly crept up behind his chum and tapped him on the shoulder – whereupon he dropped dead.”

Mick said the ghost was not openly discussed, but most band members believed there was something in it – in the evenings, few would dare going out to the toilet block alone; “if a request for a companion went unanswered, the needy one crossed his legs until someone else wanted to go.”

Mick added that “the field gun crews (who trained there) were just as nervy as the Blue Jackets.”

Mick had his own terrifying experience one evening when returning to the barracks after a NAAFI club dance.

His mate failed to turn up to meet him at the main gate, as was the usual arrangement, so Mick climbed the steps up to St Mary’s on his own.

“It was pitch dark, and as I made my way slowly down between the two huts something grabbed my neck.

“I would have screamed if I hadn’t been throttled. I stumbled around clutching my sore throat, fumbled for my cigarette lighter, flicked it on and found I had walked into a dhobey [washing] line.”