by Shaun Lewis
Long ago Richard had stopped being shocked at the way Mullan spoke to the most senior rate on board. He stiffened himself for the onslaught he knew was coming his way. Goddard went below without uttering a word, or tellingly, the traditional response of, ‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘The wind’s up and the weather’s deteriorating. Why didn’t you report it, you papist bastard?’
‘You were asleep, sir, and I didn’t like to disturb you,’ Richard lied and silently prayed. Hail Mary, full of grace. Pray for us sinners. Amen.
‘You thought I was asleep? Is that some kind of dig at me, Miller? It’s no fucking excuse. What do my standing orders say about changes in the weather, you Taig?’
‘To report the fact to you immediately, sir.’
‘So, knowing this, you still failed to obey my orders. That’s fucking wilful disobedience, sonny. You’re not fit to be my second-in command, let alone to receive my recommendation for a command of your own. I ought to land you. Now, skitter to windward. I need to have a dump.’
Like Richard, Mullan chose not to use the ‘head’ or WC onboard to void his bowels. It was a complicated apparatus to flush and often resulted in the embarrassment of, ‘receiving one’s own back’. The endurance of the B-class was only three days in winter so Richard deliberately constipated himself at sea with the assistance of opium tablets. Mullan had his own solution. He would surface the boat every day and perch on the edge of the bridge like a seagull whilst voiding over the side.
As Mullan dropped his trousers, he spotted the look of distaste on Richard’s face. ‘What’s your problem, oh pious one? Haven’t you seen a proper cock before?’
One of Mullan’s many less-endearing traits was his willingness to flaunt his member. Richard had heard a rumour that Mullan and the TI had once held a competition in the fore-ends to see who could store most pennies up their foreskin. Richard had no idea who had won.
*
A submarine is designed to sink. There is a law of physics that the greater the metacentric height of a ship, the difference between its centre of gravity and its metacentre, then the more stable the ship. A submarine’s design is such that on the surface or at periscope depth, the metacentric height is virtually nothing. In the words of the sailor, ‘They would roll on wet grass’ and Richard, never a good sailor, was beginning to feel queasy.
The wind had risen to about thirty knots with a sea state of about five, meaning that life was very uncomfortable on board B3. It was not quite blowing a gale outside, but it was enough to generate waves between fifteen and twenty feet in height. In such seas many a hardened sailor feels sick, or at least green about the gills. For the submariner the conditions were especially bad and most of B3’s ship’s company had already begun vomiting. Some had made it to a bucket, others had not made it, or had missed the target as the boat was lifted high into the air by a wave and then slammed down into the trough. The B-class submarines were not fitted with accommodation for the men, so those not on watch lay on the deck-plates or spare torpedoes or crammed into any available nook or cranny. Only the officers had been afforded the relative luxury of a single bunk at the forward end of the control room. Naturally, at sea one officer was always on watch so the bunk was shared. In harbour the men, except for the duty watch, were accommodated in the relative comfort of hammocks on board the depot ship or ashore.
Richard had served with some sympathetic captains who would dive the boat to avoid much of the poor weather, but Mullan was not one of them. He delighted in rough weather to show off his cast iron stomach and constitution. Moreover, B3 was not only faster on the surface, but could run her engines to charge the batteries. Dived, the batteries would only last about four hours at about six knots before the submarine would have to surface again anyway. Mullan had told Richard that he had an evening lined up with one of his ‘aunties’ in Portsmouth that night and did not want to waste time by diving. As it was, they were running late anyway, since even Mullan had seen the sense in reducing speed to eight knots in a head sea.
Richard had wedged himself into the wardroom camp-chair rather than lying in the bunk. It was more comfortable, but sleep was impossible. Outside, the sounds of the slamming of the waves against the hull and the smashing of the hull into the sea competed with the noisy chugging of the 600 horsepower Vickers petrol engine running flat-out to turn the single screw and keep the batteries charged. Facing aft, he watched with fascinated horror a large pool of vomit creeping from the engine room towards a recumbent sailor stretched out on the urine-soaked deck at the back of the control room. Every time the bows pitched into a trough, the trickle of vomit advanced another foot or so, but as the bows rose again to meet the next wave, it only receded a few inches.
Besides the cacophony of noise, Richard found the stench almost unbearable. The rough weather had upended several buckets of urine as well as vomit, but this was not the principal problem. Unlike his old submarine D2, B3 had no bulkheads dividing the engine room from the control room. The submarine interior was one open space. It meant that the fumes from the engine permeated the whole submarine. He was due to relieve Mullan on the bridge in half an hour but, for the sake of something to do in the meantime, he decided to check on the health of the white mice the boat carried to give warning of any dangerous build-up of carbon monoxide. B3 carried two cages of mice, one hanging from the deckhead of the engine room in accordance with normal custom and practice, and an unofficial one in the torpedo compartment. As was the wont of sailors, all the mice were not only overfed but named, and there was intense rivalry between the seamen and stokers as to who had the healthiest, fattest and cleverest mice. As it was nearer, Richard started with Fratton Park, the cage of the stokers’ mice. Leading Stoker Benthall rose from his squatting position to make way for him. Richard spoke directly into the stoker’s left ear. It was impossible to have a normal conversation with the noise of the engine running. The stokers tended to communicate with each other by tapping the deck with a spanner or by sign language.
‘Hello, Benthall. I’ve just come to check on your mice. Is all well?’
Benthall shouted back, ‘Why thank you, sir. They’re grand as ’owt. Mind, I think little Harry Taylor there is looking a bit peaky.’ The stokers had named their mice after Portsmouth’s football team members, before learning that their star centre forward was female.
‘I see what you mean. She does look a bit dopey, but the others seem all right. Maybe she’s pregnant again.’ Richard put his finger through the bars of the cage and one of the mice gave it a bit of a sniff before retiring in disgust.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I didna’ catch your meaning. Dopey?’
‘Sorry, Benthall, it’s an Americanism. I meant drowsy and under the weather.’
‘Ah, that’s very good, sir. Under the weather. I wish we bloody were. I’m right sick of this pitching and rolling.’
‘Don’t worry. We should still make Pompey before the pubs shut tonight.’
‘I hope you’re right there, sir. I’m duty watch tomorrow so tonight’s my only chance of a run ashore.’
‘There’ll be a chance between exercises off Portland, and we’re due a port visit to Torquay at the end of the month besides.’
‘Aye, sir. True enough, but there’s a certain barmaid in Pompey whose acquaintance I’m keen to renew, if you know what I mean, sir?’ Benthall winked conspiratorially at Richard.
‘Oh, I think I understand you perfectly. Just remember that the last liberty boat leaves from the Portsmouth side at 03.00.’
Chapter 9
It was not just the rain that had dampened Elizabeth’s spirits. All day she had tramped the streets of Bow, handing out leaflets espousing the cause of women’s suffrage. A blister on the heel of her left foot was causing her pain, the two smallest toes of her right foot were pinched and she was wet through. She looked down at the filth that had collected at the base of her skirts; a mixture of mud, horse dung and the general ordure of the East End. Despite her hat, her hair
was wet and bedraggled, but she counted herself fortunate in her decision to reject make-up. She might have looked a worse sight in front of the crowd of costermongers, whose vote she was attempting to entice. One of them had taken on the role of spokesman for his fellows.
‘Ye still ain’t explained, madam, why our MP had to resign ’is seat. He only won it for Labour two years ago.’
‘Sir, I was about to explain that,’ Elizabeth replied patiently, trying hard to avoid sounding vexed. ‘The Labour Party is only paying lip service to the issue of votes for women. Mr Lansbury is a man of conscience and recognised this. By resigning his seat and forcing this by-election …’
‘Walkin’ away from his responsibilities, more like,’ the costermonger cut in.
‘Not at all, sir. Mr Lansbury is now standing as an independent member of the Labour Party in the cause of enfranchisement … Is now standing directly for the cause of giving women the vote. If you re-elect him, it will show the country that the working man is also in favour of women’s rights.’
‘I’m not ’avin’ none of those rights for women in my ’ouse,’ somebody called out. ‘My missis is bossy enough without ’avin’ the right to tell me what to do.’ The crowd cheered in support.
‘That’s right,’ the spokesman continued. ‘I’m more interested in our MP fighting for improved ’ousin’ and better wages for the workin’ man than women’s votes. Whaddya toff women know about life in the East End? Tonight yer chauffeur’ll take ye back to yer cosy ’ouse in the West End an’ we’ll still be ’ere.’ The costermongers all burst into applause and shouted, ‘’ear, ’ear.’
Ever since Lansbury had triggered the by-election in his constituency of Bow and Bromley nearly two weeks earlier, Elizabeth and her WSPU colleagues had met similar resistance. The voters wanted bread, not votes for women. It did not help that they regarded the WSPU activists as well-to-do. Even though the local Labour Party was not fielding an official Labour candidate against Lansbury, the members were being uncooperative. They seemed to resent the burden of the election. Elizabeth had discovered that the majority of working-class wives were sympathetic to the campaign, but their husbands, who wielded the votes, wanted to use the election as an opportunity to cut the Pankhursts down to size. Elizabeth feared that Emmeline and Christabel’s strategy was going to lead to the avowedly anti-suffragette Conservative candidate, Reginald Blair, winning the seat in two days’ time.
*
Richard finished checking the pilot cells of the battery and satisfied himself both that the battery was fully charged, ready for sailing in the morning, and that it was properly ventilated. ‘Battery gassing’ was a problem in charging the batteries. They gave off hydrogen and, without proper ventilation, one spark, many of which were encountered in a submarine, could ignite the gas and cause a serious explosion. On completion of his rounds he did not neglect to check the draught marks.
It was a cold evening with a strong south-westerly wind blowing across Haslar Creek where B3 was berthed on one side of the depot ship, between B4 and a C-class submarine. It was not easy to see the draught marks in the dark, even with the aid of a flashlight and the powerful gantry lamps over the side of the depot ship. However, it was important to take the readings carefully. B3 had taken on fuel and fresh water that day and this would have affected the displacement of the submarine. Unlike the new D-boats, the B-class only had a ten per cent reserve of buoyancy. With their very low freeboard it would not take much for water to flood an open hatch and sink the boat alongside. It was Richard’s job to ensure not only that the submarine was not dangerously low in the water, but he had to calculate the diving trim for the exercises off Portland over the next few days.
Having satisfied himself that all was well, he considered joining the other officers in the wardroom of the depot ship ‘inboard’. Then he remembered that over dinner he had witnessed Mullan becoming increasingly inebriated with the COs of two other boats alongside. Richard reflected that Mullan would no doubt take advantage of his presence to humiliate him further in front of his fellow officers. It called to mind Goddard’s comment about ERA Thompson’s drinking. He was intrigued. Thompson was the senior ERA, in charge of the engineering department. Without a doubt, he had a difficult task in keeping the relatively elderly B3 fit for sea, but he had always struck Richard as a quietly competent technician. Ever since their arrival in Gosport the week before, Richard had discreetly observed Thompson carefully, but had neither seen nor smelled any indication of excessive drinking. Richard shrugged his shoulders and decided that, instead of returning inboard, he would retire to the part of the control room defined as the wardroom. He pulled the curtain across to give himself relative privacy from the duty watch and settled himself into the chair with his Bible.
As a consequence of Johnson’s guidance on the subject, Richard had since been careful to maintain his religious beliefs more privately and he was careful not to read the Bible in Mullan’s presence. However, it still pricked his conscience that he had lied to his captain about the weather on leaving Dover. He chose to read Psalms fifteen to twenty-three, but found he could not keep his attention on the text. His mind wandered to the subject of Mullan and what to do about the situation.
It was open to him to state a complaint against Mullan. Complaints were treated very seriously by the Admiralty hierarchy and it was said that a sailor had the right to take his case even as far as the House of Lords, if he did not receive redress. However, King’s Regulations stated that any complaint should be made in writing and passed through the commanding officer. Richard could well imagine Mullan’s reaction. In any case, were Mullan even to forward a complaint, the interests of naval discipline would ensure that the senior officers backed the commanding officer and it would make Richard look weak and a sneak. Similarly, he could not ask his father to place a few words in the right quarters. Richard knew that Keyes had once fought with Papa in China. But if he failed to act, then it was obvious that his submarine career would soon be brought to an end. Mullan had made it very clear that he would not recommend him for command and, if he could not obtain a command, then he would be returned to the surface fleet. Richard shuddered at the thought. It wasn’t that he could not bear the idea of being a mere watchkeeping officer in a capital ship. Like all submarine officers he had spent a compulsory year in a surface ship and had been well received. The captain and the Gunnery Officer had been pleased to make use of his technical acumen. He might even enjoy a spell in destroyers. No, the problem was that there would be the stigma of failure with him forever.
Perhaps I should resign my commission, he thought. He would at least be spared the remaining few months under Mullan’s command. Should I kill myself? Should I kill Mullan? He realised that these were fanciful ideas without merit. He had no real choice but to stick it out, come what may. This wasn’t war or a life-or-death situation. Papa had seen action in the Sudan, China and South Africa, and been awarded the Conspicuous Service and Victoria Crosses. What would Papa think if he quit? Jesus had suffered far worse tribulations prior to his crucifixion. Somehow, with God’s help, he would persevere.
Something else troubled him, though. Perhaps it was a life-or-death situation, after all. Mullan’s heavy drinking was now affecting his competence and Richard suspected that some of the ship’s company had noticed. Several instances came to mind. Whilst exercising dived off Dover three weeks before, Mullan had taken his turn on watch in the control room. When adjusting the trim he had forgotten to shut the suction valve on the forward trim tank before opening the trim tank aft. As a result, water had rushed back and forth, making the ‘bubble’ uncontrollable. Had it not been for the swift action of one of the stokers in shutting the valve, B3 might have hit the sea bed at an unhealthy angle and speed. Mullan had thrown a tantrum and publicly screamed at Richard that he must have handed over a bad trim. Just two days earlier, when bringing B3 to periscope depth prior to surfacing at the end of an exercise with two destroyers in the Solent, he had fa
iled to carry out an ‘all round look’, a 360 degree sweep of the horizon, and instead focused on the destroyer ahead. But for the swift action on the bridge of the other destroyer, it might have rammed the submarine from astern. Both incidents had occurred on the first day at sea after a night in harbour. It was a pity as, despite his foul temper, when Mullan was not afflicted by alcohol, he was a first class seaman and a very competent submariner.
Richard’s musings were interrupted by a rumpus on the casing above. As he approached the main access hatch to investigate, a body fell on him, almost knocking him to the deck. It was Mullan, clearly the worse for wear.
‘I thought you might be skulking down here. Why aren’t ye in the mess with the others? Oh, I see. You’ve been reading yer precious Bible again. You really are a fucking prig.’
Richard regretted that he was still holding his Bible in his hand.
‘I was just walking round the boat, to ensure we’re ready for sea tomorrow, sir.’ Richard felt comfortable that this was not actually untrue.
‘Really? Tell you what then, my conscientious Number One. Why don’t we have a wee drink down here then?’ Mullan produced a bottle of whiskey from inside his reefer jacket. ‘It’s good stuff. Proper Irish.’
‘Er…- no, thank you, sir. I don’t drink.’
‘Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Well I think you should change your mind. Come on.’
Mullan shuffled over to the wardroom, perched on the bunk and poured two glasses of whiskey. He gestured to Richard to resume his seat in the wardroom chair.
‘You know what I discovered tonight, Miller?’ He didn’t wait for a response, but gulped his drink and poured himself another. ‘I heard that your Da is a Captain at the Admiralty and some sort of fucking hero. Fancy that.’
Richard could not think of a suitable response.
‘So what have yer to say to that, then?’ Mullan slammed his glass down onto the chart table.
