by John Winton
The mineral-water bottle vanman had been sitting in enthralled silence. He had followed every word of Augustus’ narrative. The Air Show had been meat and drink to him. He had developed a very high respect for Black Sebastian. But now, as the argument gained momentum, the young man in the blue cuffs began to grow impatient. He fully appreciated that he was probably the most junior person present and was not likely to be called upon for an opinion but he could not allow this discussion to pass without putting forward an obvious solution. It was not in his nature to remain silent when the simplest way to solve the argument must surely be staring everybody in the face.
“Why not build more ships, sir?” he called out.
It was the compelling voice of innocence, the voice of the child who pointed out that the Emperor had no clothes on. It cut through the heated atmosphere of the Wash-Up like a cold fresh wind. The escort captain who had been speaking stopped, frowned, and sat down at once. CincRock stood up and searched the rows of faces.
“Who said that?”
The vanman had been dumbfounded by the effect of his remark. He felt like a small boy who, having mischievously pulled at a small insignificant length of chain, discovers that he has stopped the express.
“Me, sir,” said the vanman, blushing bashfully.
“Well done,” said CincRock. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard today.”
Staff Officers who had been bursting to deliver themselves of brilliant logistical suggestions changed their minds and decided to put their ideas on paper. Captains who had been reserving their most telling arguments until last decided that perhaps there was nothing further to add after all. The vanman had killed the Wash-Up stone dead.
Just as he was about to close the meeting, CincRock remembered that there was still one community who had not yet made any contribution to the Wash-Up.
“How about the submariners? Anyone want to say anything back there?”
Like the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door and asking “Is there anybody there?” CincRock repeated his question.
Dagwood tactfully nudged The Bodger who came awake immediately, stood up and said: “From our point of view it was a splendid exercise! It was a good clean fight, no holds barred, and may the best man win! “
So saying, The Bodger relapsed enigmatically into his seat. His place was taken by Ole Miss who was jerked to his feet by a firm hand under each arm-pit. He was a very short man and he was temporarily suspended, his feet pedalling at the floor, like a gnome on gimbals.
“As a career-motivated officer,” Ole Miss said, “I can tell you all that Exercise Lucky Alphonse was the goddamned best exercise, logistics-wise and sea-familiarization-wise, we’ve ever partakelized. The only time we hit trouble was some goddamed yacht. He really scared the juice out of me . . . ! “
Ole Miss stopped, blinked, appeared to have lost the thread of what he was about to say, and was rapidly lowered out of sight.
The only other submarine contribution was from Count Ugolino who shook off his former mask-like torpor and launched a torrent of Italian, embellished with histrionic gestures, flashing eyes and snapping fingers.
The Bodger stirred uneasily. “Who’s that noisy bastard?” he inquired irritably. The message was passed along the row to Farfarelli’s Navigating Officer who spoke softly to his captain. Count Ugolino finished his sentence, bowed low, blew a kiss to CincRock and sat down.
After the Wash-Up CincRock released the normal statement to the press, confirming that “Lucky Alphonse” had been a complete success, having consolidated the maritime defences of Europe and strengthened once more the bonds which united the nations of the free world.
The only flaw in the confident facade was disclosed by CincRock himself. He was button-holed about “Lucky Alphonse” by the Naval Correspondent of the Daily Disaster outside the “Keppel's Head” and replied that in his opinion the United Kingdom was no better fitted to defeat a determined submarine attack than it was equipped to beat off a swarm of locusts.
“At least,” CincRock shouted, as he was hustled into his car by his Flag Lieutenant and Augustus, “we could eat the bloody locusts! “
9
“This week,” said The Bodger, “we really must get organized. Work Study is the latest cry in the Staff Office at the moment. Apparently we’ve been doing it all wrong all these years. It seems that what was good enough for Nelson is not good enough for us after all. Everybody’s got time and motion study charts showing that if you hold your glass in your right hand and the bottle in your left you’ll have time for twenty per cent more drinks before the bar closes. Or something. Anyway, Captain S/M has told us all to get our Maintenance Weeks organized instead of having the usual shambles.”
The rest of the wardroom looked sceptical. The Submarine Service had been trying to organize its Maintenance Weeks since the first of the Holland boats went to sea at the turn of the century.
“So,” The Bodger went on, “seeing as how it’s Monday morning, I thought we might have a conference and see if we can fix everything to happen at different times instead of in one Godalmighty chaos. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Now. . . . What have we got on this week, Number One?” Looking like a man upon whom great issues hung, Wilfred took out the desk diary which he kept hidden in his drawer. He began to read from it in a hollow voice, as though chanting a rubric for lost souls.
“Paint ship, sir. Twelve bodies overdue for the escape tank. They’ve got to requalify this week. Five blokes for X-rays. Another six to have a first-aid course. Store ship for six weeks at sea. Survey all emergency stores. Send all the bunk covers and curtains to the cleaners. Get Chippy to mend the cupboards in the Petty Officers’ mess. Muster all the attractive items in the permanent loan list. Fix up the ship’s company run ashore to Brighton. Captain S/M’s rounds of the messdeck inboard.”
“Fine, fine,” said The Bodger. “I can see you’ve got a pretty busy week.” It was a long time since The Bodger had been First Lieutenant of a running submarine and he had forgotten how many details had to be arranged. “How about you, Chief?”
Derek opened a huge blue file marked ‘Engineer Officer--Very Urgent’ and found among the papers, drawings and stores notes which overflowed from it a piece of paper covered in figures and squiggly drawings.
“The starboard supercharger was rumbling on the way in, sir. We’ll have to strip that down and have a look at it. The main engine lub-oil’s due for a change. We’ll have to fuel and take on fresh water some time this week. We’re docking on Thursday to fit that new echo-sounder for the boffins. And we’ve got to change the after periscope. . . .”
“Fine, fine, fine,” The Bodger said hurriedly. Talking to technical officers on technical subjects always gave The Bodger a feeling closely resembling vertigo. He nerved himself again.
“How about you, Dagwood?”
“The radar bioscope was on the blink on the way back, sir. And we’ve got to charge sometime this week. We’re fitting a new whip aerial and there’s our side of the echo-sounder to fit and test. . . .”
“Rusty?”
“Load three fish on Wednesday, sir. All the sonar ratings are due for another ear test. We need some more smoke candles. Terrapin have challenged us at cricket, sir “
“Pilot?”
“New chart folios, sir, and a new ensign if we can get it. That one’s getting a bit crabby. Change binoculars. They’re all flooded. We’ve got to swing compasses again some time before we leave, sir. . .
“Have you got anything on, Mid?”
“I must get some more films, sir. Everybody’s seen the ones we’ve got. And we need some more squash and lime juice. . . .”
“Well.” The Bodger was slightly taken aback by the multitude of requirements Seahorse must fulfil before she was ready for sea again.
“Let’s not get down-hearted, men. Let’s say we do the charge tomorrow, load fish on Wednesday, swing compasses on Thursday. . .
“But we’re going into dock
on Thursday, sir.”
“So we are. All right, let’s do the charge today . . . God.” The Bodger stopped, aghast. “I’ve just remembered. This morning is the only time we can have the Attack Teacher.” The Bodger looked at his watch. “And we should have been up there five minutes ago! I’ll go and tell them we’re still coming. . . .”
The Bodger sprang from his chair.
“Get the Attack Team together as soon as you can,” he said to Wilfred over his shoulder as he went.
There was a short silence in the wardroom after The Bodger’s passing.
“So much for work-studying our Maintenance Week,” said Dagwood, at last.
The wardroom had no more time to ponder upon work study. Messengers from all over the establishment were already queueing up outside. The telephone rang continually.
“First Lieutenant, sir? The Sick Bay say can they have the ratings for X-rays now, sir? It’s the only time the Barracks can take them.”
“Engineer Officer, sir? The Spare Gear Office inboard says would you send up two hands to collect some gear, sir. . . .”
Each message drained away a little of Seahorse's effective force. By ten o’clock, Derek found himself quite alone. The other officers were in the attack team and the ship’s company had scattered like autumn leaves. When Derek poked his head out of the wardroom, the control room was empty. The whole submarine, in either direction, was empty.
“Anybody there?”
Derek’s voice echoed along the deserted passageway.
“Hello? Anybody there?”
“Sorr?”
A head projected from the door of the stokers’ mess.
“Gotobed, it’s nice to see you!”
“Want somethin’, sorr?”
“No no, Gotobed, it’s just nice to hear another human voice, that’s all.”
Derek sat down again in the wardroom, full of warm thoughts towards Stoker Gotobed. He was enormously cheered to know that there was somebody else there.
Derek’s feelings towards Gotobed would have surprised a stranger to Seahorse, because Gotobed was not a man of prepossessing appearance. His face, chest and most of his body were covered in a tangle of thick black hair. His arms hung down to his knees. In repose--his favourite position--he looked like a successful mutation of man and ape.
Gotobed was long overdue for a move to another submarine, but Derek had fought off all attempts to have him drafted because Gotobed was the one man in Seahorse who was irreplaceable. Other stokers could be relieved.
Derek could be relieved. The Captain himself could be relieved. Gotobed could not. Gotobed was the only man living who could work the Oily Bilge Pump.
Seahorse’s Oily Bilge Pump was a piece of machinery which defied the normal principles of mechanical science. On the shop floor it passed all tests imposed upon it, but as soon as it was fitted into the submarine, it became possessed by devils. Dockyard workmen had wept salt tears over it. The maker’s representatives had spent sleepless nights by its side. A succession of engineer officers from various submarines and surface ships had tried out every combination of its valves. But the Oily Bilge Pump refused to take a suction for anyone but Gotobed. When anyone else but Gotobed tried to use the pump it not only refused to take a suction but sprayed its compartment with bilge water. Gotobed was therefore as vital to Seahorse as her pressure hull.
Derek’s pleasant meditations upon Gotobed and his indispensability were suddenly interrupted.
“Excuse me. . .”
Derek looked up. A young man in clean white overalls, carrying a brief-case, stood in the doorway. He wore two stop-watches slung on lanyards round his neck. In one top pocket he carried a row of pencils and in the other a small slide rule. His eyes burned meanwhile with the fierce fanatic glare of a reformer.
Derek recognized the face at once. This was the keen young scientist in the advertisements for chemical products, the successful business executive advising his less successful colleague to change his brand of tobacco, the wholesome salesman soothing the nervous housewife’s fears.
“I’m from the Work Study Team.”
“Oh. Well, come in. What can we do for you?”
“We’ve been asked to do a survey on the way submarines plan their maintenance periods.”
“Really? Well, when you find out, let me know, will you? I’ve been in submarines nine years and I’ve never managed to plan a maintenance period yet.”
The Work Study Man smiled. “That’s exactly why we have work study. Frankly, you know, you need it. . . .”
“Do we?”
“Yes. Do you know, we did a short survey on Terrapin last month and we found that the average time worked by each man per day was two hours!”
“Blimey,” said Derek. “The Lamm of God must have been cracking the whip! Did she go to sea all right?”
“Yes.”
“Did she come back again?”
“Yes, but. . . .”
“Obviously two hours a day was enough then.”
The Work Study Man smiled again. Overcoming the subject’s prejudices was Lesson One, Line One in the Work Study syllabus.
“Let me show you some of the results we’ve achieved. .. .”
“Oh no, please don’t bother,” Derek protested. “You just crack on and do whatever you have to do. Don’t mind me. . .”
But the Work Study Man had already, in two economical movements, unzipped his brief-case and whipped out a large drawing.
“Here are some of the surveys we’ve done. You can see that in the case of a large shore establishment we cut the pay office staff by fourteen officers and thirty-seven ratings, merely by replanning their office layout. We cut the maintenance time on the potato-peeler in a cruiser by nearly seventy-five per cent! On one air station we cut the rum issue time by a half. . . .”
“Just a minute,” said Derek, his argumentative instincts rising, “that may be all right in industry but not in the Navy. What exactly have you achieved?”
“What have we achieved? An enormous saving in . . .”
“Let’s take the examples you’ve given me. You’ve cut the staff in some wretched pay office by umpteen blokes. But what’s happened to those blokes? They haven’t gone outside. They’re not civilians. The Navy’s still paying them. They’re probably settled in some other pay office right now and when you come to work study that pay office you’re going to find some familiar faces. And they’re going to hate you. And the chaps who save all that time on the spud-peeler. What do you think they’re going to do with that extra time? Maintain more spud-peelers? Not likely! I’ll tell you what they’re going to do. They’re going to have time for two cigarettes instead of one. And as for cutting the time of the rum issue by half. . . . Do you think the Navy’s going to thank you for that? Why, it doesn’t bear thinking about! It would be like missing out every other bar of the National Anthem!”
As Derek finished his rhetoric he realized that it had all been wasted. The Work Study Man was still talking.
“. . And so the best thing would be for me to take one of your ratings and plot his daily work.”
“You want one of our blokes to work-study?” The idea struck Derek with such force that he blinked.
“Gotobed!”
“Sorr?”
Gotobed’s massive face appeared at the wardroom door. “Gotobed, this gentleman would like to work study you.”
“Sorr,” said Gotobed blankly.
The Work Study Man was already writing in his notebook. “Gotobed,” he said briskly. “Right. What’s your job, Gotobed?”
“Ah gits a soction on the bliddy bilges with the bliddy pomp, sorr.”
The Work Study Man paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“He pumps out the engine room and motor room bilges,” said Derek.
“I see. Is that all?”
“It’s quite enough.”
“I see. Well, this should make a very good subject. A fairly simple operation with clearly defined movements.” De
rek kept his face expressionless. “Off you go, Gotobed. Pump out the engine room and motor room bilges. This gentleman will go with you.”
Gotobed led the way aft to the small pump space which contained the Oily Bilge Pump. It was Gotobed’s own compartment; he was responsible for its cleanliness. It was his shrine. Gotobed climbed down while the Work Study Man started a stop-watch and made symbols in his notebook.
Gotobed’s performance was well worth a few symbols.
He primed the air pump with water from a small can, blew some drops of water from the filling hole, replaced the cap and sealed it with two mighty strokes of a hammer. A faint frown appeared on the Work Study Man’s brow.
Humming tonelessly between his teeth, Gotobed climbed out of the pump space and shambled along the engine room to the first bilge suction valve which he opened one turn. Returning to the pump, he placed his shoulder against the motor casing and shoved, at the same time turning the starting rheostat one notch.
The Oily Bilge Pump started with an eerie whistling noise which made the hair on the back of the Work Study Man’s neck rise involuntarily. The whistling note deepened to a whirring and then to a steady roar. The pump began to give spasmodic shudders which Gotobed met with timed shoulder heaves, crouching by the pump as though assisting a cow in labour.
“Bliddy pomp’s got a bliddy wackum! “
“What’s that?”
“Bliddy wackum!”
“Eh?”
“Wackum wackum wackum!” roared Gotobed over the booming pump. The vacuum gauge quivered wildly, whereupon Gotobed released the pump, hoisted himself out of the compartment, ran to the bilge suction, opened it fully, and dropped down again into the pump space. Once there, he raised a foot, placed it firmly against the pump casing and thrust. The pump gave several more shudders and settled down to a steady contented hum. The Oily Bilge Pump was taking a suction from the bilges.
Derek had strolled aft to watch the show.
“How’s it going?” he asked the Work Study Man.
The Work Study Man’s face was transfigured with holy rapture.
