We Joined The Navy

by John Winton

  There were no more questions.

  Meanwhile, the cadets’ messdeck had a new visitor. A grim-visaged Chief Stoker with a complexion like weathered brass poked his head down the hatchway and silently nodded to half a dozen cadets.

  The Chief Stoker led the cadets down into tiny hutch-like compartments in the bottom of the ship which were filled with machines which thumped and hissed and spurted clouds of steam. The machines were guarded by troglodytic little men who glared malevolently at the cadets from behind pipes and out of holes in the deck. The Chief Stoker did not venture any explanation of the functions of either the machines or the men. The visit, if visit it could be called, was conducted in complete silence.

  After a quarter of an hour of muteness, Maconochie asked: ‘What’s the horsepower of this ship, Chief?’

  The Chief Stoker stopped suddenly, halfway up a ladder, as though he had just felt an excruciating pain in the back. Then he slowly and carefully descended again.

  ‘An officer doesn’t have to know anything,’ he said witheringly as though he were addressing a child who was being wilfully stupid. ‘All you have to do is say “Carry on, Chief,” and shout down and tell me when I’m making smoke.’

  There were no more questions.

  Back in their messdeck, the Beattys compared notes.

  ‘What did your Petty Officer tell you?’

  ‘Nothing. What did your Chief Stoker tell you?’

  ‘Nothing except an officer doesn’t have to know anything.’

  ‘Same here. Chummy lot, aren’t they?’

  ‘What I like about these conducted tours,’ said Paul, ‘is the continual flow of merry chatter and fascinating anecdote from the guide. Never a dull moment, customers kept amused all the time.’

  A voice shouted down the hatch.

  ‘Hey! You there!’

  ‘Great heavens!’ said Paul. ‘A human voice!’

  ‘Who’s cook of this mess?’

  The Beattys looked at each other.

  ‘Maconochie,’ said Paul.

  ‘Well, grub’s up!’

  ‘Away you go, Trog,’ said Paul encouragingly.

  In the afternoon The Bodger produced a timetable and organised tours of the ship. Ratings of various branches called at the cadets’ messdeck to conduct the tours. None of them was quite as silent as Petty Officer Moody and the Chief Stoker but on the other hand none of them was talkative. The Beattys could only get them to answer questions with the greatest difficulty. As far as normal human contact was concerned the ship’s company of Rowbottom were as unco-operative as the men who sailed with the Ancient Mariner. It was as though the entire ship’s company had successfully graduated by correspondence course from a Trappist monastery.

  While the tours were going on, Rowbottom was steadily nearing the island of Guernsey. She anchored there in the calm of a beautiful summer evening. Six Beattys were present on the bridge when Poggles anchored his ship.

  ‘Cox’n,’ said Poggles, down the voicepipe.

  ‘Sir?’ said Petty Officer Moody.

  ‘See that Bass Bitter advertisement dead ahead?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Steady on that.’

  ‘Steady on Bass Bitter, sir. Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Slow ahead both engines.’

  ‘Slow ahead together.’

  ‘Slow ahead together, sir. Both engines answered slow ahead, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Poggles leaned on the parapet and sniffed the evening air.

  ‘Good night for a run ashore, I think, Bodger. We might take a glass or three of the local vino, what do you think?’

  ‘Splendid idea!’ replied The Bodger.

  ‘Yes, I think so. A few tots won’t do us any harm.’

  ‘Alka-Seltzer bearing one-four-zero, sir,’ said Rowbottom’s Navigating Officer.

  ‘Alka-Seltzer?’ said Poggles. ‘What’s Alka-Seltzer got to do with it?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Hennessy. Three Star, two-five-two, sir.’

  ‘That’s better. Steady on Guinness, Cox’n.’

  ‘Steady on Guinness, sir. Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Just coming up to the transit between Martini and Sandeman’s Port, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Let me know when we reach Johnny Walker.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Stop together. I seem to remember a little popsy the last time we were in here . . . what in hell was her name now? Said she loved naval officers and would go miles to get one. . . .’

  ‘Johnny Walker, sir!’

  ‘Very good. Half astern together.’

  Poggles languidly let go a small green flag. Down on the cable deck the blacksmith swung his hammer. The blake slip parted, the cable thundered up out of the locker, thumped over the Scotsman and down through the hawsepipe. A gesticulating signalman began to make signs with flags.

  ‘Stop together.’

  ‘Stop together, sir. Both engines answered stop sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  The cable stopped rattling. The signalman held one flag out at rest. The Cable Officer looked out over the guardrail at the water and held up his thumb. Poggles stretched wearily. Rowbottom had anchored.

  ‘That was neatly done, if I may say so, Poggles,’ said The Bodger.

  Poggles shrugged his shoulders modestly.

  ‘Aw shucks,’ he said.

  The Beattys, too, were impressed. The Captain had found his way to an exact spot on the chart, guided unerringly not by radar, echo-sounders, light-houses, buoys or leading marks, but by brewers’ signs. It had been a magnificent performance.

  ‘That’ll do for now,’ said Poggles. ‘Come on, Bodger, shift into your glad rags and we’ll have a couple before we go.’

  Within half an hour, most of Rowbottom’s ship’s company and all her officers except the officer of the day had gone ashore. The Beattys too were anxious to get ashore. The houses ashore glowed yellow and crimson in the setting sun and formed a fringe of colour in front of the soft violet hills of Guernsey in the distance. It was an exciting prospect. But the Beattys did not get ashore immediately.

  Petty Officer Moody was Rowbottom’s duty petty officer. The Bodger had left instructions with him to see that the Beattys who did not go ashore were kept occupied.

  Petty Officer Moody thought of a long time ago when he had been a boy seaman at Ganges. He had done a considerable amount of extra boat-pulling in those days. He walked to the hatch of the cadets’ messdeck.

  ‘Away seaboat,’ he said.

  The seaboat was manned and lowered, pulled round the ship and back to the davits, hooked on, hoisted and secured. The Beattys looked at Petty Officer Moody.

  ‘Away seaboat,’ said Petty Officer Moody.

  With a fresh crew the seaboat was lowered, pulled round the ship, hooked on, hoisted and secured.

  ‘Away seaboat,’ said Petty Officer Moody.

  Before long the Beattys had lost count of the number of times the seaboat had been manned, lowered, pulled round the ship, hooked on and hoisted again. They reached that state of exhaustion familiar to the galley-slaves of old Rome where they saw only the oar and the rope and heard only the monotonous word of command which regulated their fatigue. When the seaboat was finally secured, very few of the Beattys still wished to go ashore. But Tom Bowles went to enquire about a boat.

  He found the Quartermaster, a stout Leading Seaman from the west country, drinking tea with the Bosun’s Mate.

  ‘Cadets’ liberty boats?’

  The Quartermaster looked blankly at the Bosun’s Mate.

  ‘The first Lootenant, eh said nothin’ aboat cadets’ liberty boats. There’s awficers’ boats, and there’s ship’s coompany’s boats, but cadets, he doan’t say nothin’ aboat them. Nor-r, there’s nothin’ aboat tha-at. Did the First Lootenant say anyhin’ to yew aboat cadets’ liberty boats, Jan?’

  ‘Yar-r, noaw ma lover-r,’ said the Bosun’s Mate. ‘Yers the boat rewtine, sir-r, but it doan’t say nothin’ aboat
cadets.’

  The Quartermaster and the Bosun’s Mate gazed at Tom Bowles with interest, as though a cadet of any sort was a new phenomenon to them but a cadet who talked of going ashore was a thing completely rich and strange.

  ‘AH right,’ said Tom. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Dawn broke on a grey sea and a heavy swell. Long sweeping waves hissed past Rowbottom’s scuttles. Rowbottom rose and dropped uneasily over them. The shore was hidden in a thick opaque mist. Droplets of fine rain drifted over the decks and hung in rows along the guardrails. It was the weather the shepherd shuns and every holidaymaker in England recognises.

  When The Bodger awoke at seven o’clock he stared about him in amazement. Then he remembered where he was and thought of his cadets.

  ‘Ten thousand maledictions,’ he said. ‘They’re supposed to be on a training cruise and here they are loafing. Have been loafing since the cruise started.’

  The Bodger looked out of the scuttle and decided to exercise the seaboat as soon as the swell died down.

  The swell did not die down. It grew livelier and more troublesome and pitched Rowbottom to and fro on its crests. The fine droplets became steady rain and the mists were cleared by squalls which swept down and lashed the ship from end to end. At noon Rowbottom was forced to raise steam and put to sea in a rising gale.

  The Beattys were totally ignorant of the appalling effect of even a moderately rough sea upon living conditions in a small ship and they had not taken any precautions to guard themselves or their belongings. Rowbottom’s first swoop as she left the shelter of the land and dug into a heavy sea sent a torrent of water through the open scuttles and brought every cup, plate, knife, fork and spoon on the tables cascading on to the deck in a cacophony of sounding crockery and tinkling cutlery. The reverse roll brought a further cascade of trousers, caps, socks, shoes, shirts, and a tennis racquet belonging to an optimistic Indian cadet.

  Maconochie was suddenly and comprehensively sick on the deck. The others climbed into their hammocks and stayed there except those who had already been detailed for watches. These climbed unsteadily up the ladder into the outer air, thankful to leave the messdeck. Three Burmese cadets, whose names The Bodger was unable to remember and whom he referred to as Port Tak, Starboard Tak and Tin Tak, crept on to a pile of spare bedding in a corner of the messdeck and lay down there to die. Their feet were swilled by the water which flowed back and forth over the deck carrying its flotsam with it. Winds might blow and crack their cheeks, cataracts and hurricanes might spout until they drenched the steeples, but the Burmese contingent lay immobile, their faces the colour of Irrawaddy river mud, and their thoughts impossible to divine.

  The cruise was cancelled on Sunday afternoon because of the weather. Rowbottom had steamed slowly up and down the Channel for thirty-six hours, sometimes heaving to for hours at a time, waiting for the gale to blow out. But it showed no signs of doing so and Rowbottom anchored in Dartmouth on Sunday evening.

  The Beattys emerged on deck, looking pale and tired. Some of them needed help with their hammocks. Poggles stood on his bridge and watched them go, with a sense of wonder that human beings could change so much in so short a time. So might Surajah Dowlah have watched the survivors emerging from the Black Hole of Calcutta.

  The last visit of the term was to a submarine. The visit was distinguished by its lack of incident. The Beattys embarked, were taken to sea, submerged, surfaced and brought back again. The whole operation was performed by so few men and with such a lack of apparent effort that the Beattys were unable to appreciate the amount of skill and training involved. Maconochie was not sick, neither did he fall overboard. Nor was the commanding officer of the submarine an old friend of The Bodger’s.

  5

  In later years the Beattys looked back on their Dartmouth days as halcyon days, when the sun shone, when the Navy was new and mysterious, when their horizons had not yet been clouded over by examinations, responsibility, the cares of a family, and promotion. It was summer and every day was warm, long and full of promise. It was a novel, green world and they danced like sprites in it, before the Navy and the Fleet claimed their youth. Dartmouth was like the early hours of a cricket match. The sun was still climbing, the grass still damp and hopes high. It was not yet the heat of the afternoon when the sun reached its height and runs and wickets preoccupied the minds of the players.

  Dartmouth let them dance, let them win small victories, knowing that it had already won the most important victory. The Admiral had been right. The Navy did not want normal boys but boys who would carry out their duty without questioning the ultimate end, like special tools which, once moulded, would carry the shape of their calling for ever. The Navy required its officers to have a way of thinking and a way of life of its own and though hampered by lack of money and badgered by politicians and the press it set about getting them at Dartmouth, hiding its true purpose under a camouflage of tiny false purposes like the branches over a hunter’s pit.

  Each day at Dartmouth was new and different and contained some fresh experience, but the sum of the days, looked back upon afterwards, appeared as a homogeneous whole, each day inseparable from the others. But there were landmarks, days which stood out in every Beatty’s memory. One such landmark was the Royal Visit to Dartmouth.

  The event had been on the Dartmouth social calendar for some time, but the Beattys were only made aware of it when Mr Froud took over their drill periods from the Chief G.I. That in itself was enough to convince them of the gravity of the occasion.

  At the beginning of the term the Royal Visit had seemed to The Bodger like a small cloud the size of a man’s hand. It remained there until The Bodger realised that the increased parade ground activity by other terms showed that the cloud was now the size of a camel or an elephant.

  ‘In two weeks’ time,’ The Bodger said to Mr Froud, ‘Royalty will be inspecting the Royal Naval College, Dartmouth. They will inspect the cadets. They will inspect the Beattys. And what will they find? They will find the biggest shower of lazy, idle, scruffy, slack and mutinous trogs there ever was! One look at them and the cry will go up--”Who can be their divisional officer?” The answer will come--”The Bodger.” “Off with his head!” shouts the Red Queen and another lieutenant-commander bites the dust. James, you must do something. You must personally regard these cadets. Cherish them. Watch over them. Breathe over them like the voice over Eden.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ said Mr Froud. ‘Heaven knows, I watch ‘em enough already. The Chief says they’re making him old before his time.’

  ‘You must lighten his darkness then, James,’ said The Bodger.

  Mr Fraud’s task was not so formidable as that which the Chief G.I. had faced a few weeks before. The Beattys now knew at least the rudiments of the Naval Drill Book. By patient and never-ceasing admonishment and example the Chief G.I. had worn the roughness off the Beattys’ movements and had cured their more marked idiosyncrasies; he had even cured Maconochie of his habit of giving the Boy Scout salute in moments of stress. But much had to be done before the Beattys were adequate for a Royal Occasion.

  The Beattys were conscious of their inadequacy. They were determined to impress Mr Froud, but when he first appeared they were not confident enough to avoid some considerable shuffling before they aligned themselves on three markers in lines which, if not straight, were the best they could do with Mr Froud looking at them like that.

  ‘Like a lot of bloody old women!’ observed Mr Froud succinctly. ‘Four, rear rank! Get those arms in!’

  Paul stiffened into a posture similar to the once-fashionable Grecian bend. But Mr Froud did not think it fashionable. He walked behind Paul and spoke in his ear.

  ‘WHEN YOU STAND TO ATTENTION YOU STAND WITH THE BODY BRACED CHEST OUT STOMACH IN HEELS TOGETHER AT AN ANGLE OF FORTY-FIVE DEGREES HEAD UP EYES STRAIGHT TO THE FRONT BOTH EYES LOOKING IN THE SAME DIRECTION,’ Mr Froud said to Paul. ‘My small daughter of three could do better. Blindfolded.’

>   Mr Froud walked in front of the Beattys and surveyed them.

  ‘Two weeks tomorrow,’ he said, ‘Royalty will be coming down here to have a look at us. You’re not fit to be seen. If we could hide you somewhere for the day, we would. I’ve heard some horrible things about you lot on this parade ground. Let’s see if you can prove they’re not true.’

  Mr Froud had a beautiful word of command. It had been trained from an early age, practised on the prairies of Whale Island, and was now reaching its full time of fruition. From the first command, the Beattys knew they were in the hands of a parade prima donna, a drill-book diva.

  They plunged forward together and headed for the centre of the parade ground as solidly as a Zulu impi. They marched in line, swinging their arms, keeping their dressings, in step with each other. Mr Froud wondered whether the Chief G.I. had been mistaken.

  But at the turn, where Mr Froud achieved a high soaring B Flat which would have tested Dame Melba herself, Mr Froud saw the cross which he, like the Chief G.I. before him, had to bear.

  Before marching off the Beattys had been sized, the tallest on the left and the shortest on the right. This arrangement always left three small Sikhs in the right-hand file.

  The three small Sikhs had the individuality and the proud independence of spirit which have always made their nation good friends and bad enemies. They were incapable of marching with the rest. They were of the main body, but not with it. Time and again, when the division wheeled and crunched off in a new direction, three turbaned figures marched away on another line.

  The erratic behaviour of the Sikhs affected the other Beattys. They saw three Sikhs approaching them, first from one side and then from the other; they saw three Sikhs receding into the distance; and they saw three Sikhs struggling through the ranks after the rest had turned about. The Beattys grew nervous. Such was the Sikhs’ co-ordination and so determinedly did they manoeuvre that several of their neighbours were hypnotised into following them. The remainder lost the step, missed orders, forgot their right and left, and their proper file and their proper direction. When Mr Froud halted them, the Beattys were no longer a division, or a squad, or a platoon, or any known symmetrical formation of men. They were a shapeless, rankless, straggling rabble.