by John Winton
The Commander was complete even to his eccentricities. Achilles had a vulnerable heel, Siegfried had a spot between his shoulder-blades where the leaf masked his skin from the dragon’s blood, even Baldur could be touched by mistletoe, and Richard Gilpin was preoccupied by the Yellow Peril. At quarterly intervals he rose at the dinner table and addressed the Mess on the subject of the Yellow Peril. With the oratory of an Athenian and the powers of pantomime of a Port Said street arab, he described an effete, rotting western civilisation overwhelmed by a yelling horde of Asiatics, led by a modern Attila, who laid a bloody trail of murder, rape, arson, famine and pestilence from the Danube to the Rio Grande. The Turks had been stopped at Vienna, Attila had been checked at the very gates of Rome, the Moors had penetrated no further than the Pyrenees, but, Richard asked the Mess, who could stop them now?
The Mess President’s rhetoric was so masterly, his choice of words so graphic, and his pantomime so vivid, that it was not unusual, on the morning after the Address, to see Mr Piles furtively trying on steel helmets from the Gunner’s Store and the Chief Steward restraining two of the most junior stewards, who happened to be twins, from going about their duties back to back. Richard’s Address became a Mess institution, on a par with the silver and decanters, and the Navigation Officer, who was Mess Secretary, threw away all calendars sent to the Mess at Christmas, remarking that the Mess did not need them since the members could adequately observe the procession of the seasonal equinoxes by their President’s Address on the Yellow Peril. The Wardroom as a whole treated the Address as Frederick the Great’s courtiers must have tolerated his playing of the flute, as the harmless idiosyncrasy of a hard-pressed administrator, although The Bodger had a theory that the one thing which really scared Dickie was the thought that the Yellow Peril might come upon them all before he had become an Admiral. The Bodger maintained that Dickie’s most recurrent nightmare was one in which he was massacred by little yellow men while still wearing a Commander’s uniform. Popular opinion on the Lower Deck, however, which received each Address verbatim et literatim from the stewards, held that Dickie’s grandmother had been raped during the Boxer Rising.
At the beginning of the cruise the Commander was recovering from a severe bout of influenza (contracted at a party given for the children of his sister, whose husband was a Rear Admiral) and the Ship’s Company had hoped that disease had chastened him. But from the moment on the first day of the cruise when they had heard the pipe--’Chief Bosun’s Mate, Sailmaker and Captain of the Side report to the Commander’s cabin at the rush’ and ever since, the Ship’s Company had regretfully concluded that their hopes had been unfulfilled and, by the time Paul reported at six o’clock to start his day’s duty, the word had run many times around the length and breadth of the ship-- ‘Richard’s himself again!’
As the Commander, followed by Paul, came abreast the midships cross-passage after attending both Watches, a figure carrying a small canvas bag darted up out of the hatch from the Cadets’ Messdeck and scuttled away long the upper deck. The Commander started and pointed like a dog at a shoot.
‘You there!’ he shouted.
The scuttling figure came to a quivering standstill.
‘Yes you! Come back here!’
The figure hurried back.
‘D-did you mean me, sir?’ quavered George Dewberry.
‘Of course I meant you. What are you doing?’
‘I’m Cadet E.M., sir.’
‘Cadet what?’
‘Cadet Electrician’s Mate, sir.’
‘And what in hell’s name is that?’
‘Well, sir, I go around with this little bag and mend electric light bulbs. Or something, sir.’
The Commander thrust his face down to within an inch of George Dewberry’s.
‘What do you mean, or something?’ he hissed.
‘Well, sir ... I, well what I mean is ... you see, sir, nobody’s really told me . . .!’
George Dewberry’s hesitation was excusable. A Cadet E.M.’s duties were nebulous. They had never been properly defined and George Dewberry’s definition was perhaps as good as any. When George Dewberry reported to the Cadet Office the Chief G.I. had given him an armband and a small canvas bag and told him to get cracking. When George Dewberry had asked what he was to get cracking on, the Chief G.I. had intimated that it was immaterial so long as it took place removed from the Cadet Office. His equipment gave George Dewberry no enlightenment. The armband had faded to anonymity and the small canvas bag contained the stub of a smashed electric light bulb, a piece of copper wire two inches long, and the Chief G.I.’s shoe-cleaning gear.
George Dewberry had therefore become a Cadet E.M. with an exhilarating sense of pioneering, of having the world before him to do with as he wished. But he had been arrested by the Commander before he had even time to reach the frontier. George Dewberry was unable to account for his movements and Paul was beginning to feel sorry for him when there was a fortunate distraction. The Commander caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head.
‘Mr Badger!’ he barked.
The Commander and The Bodger disliked each other. They were natural opposites. The Bodger wished that the Commander would pay more attention to the Ship’s Company and leave him to run the cadets as he liked, while the Commander considered that The Bodger’s appointment as Cadet Training Officer was a terrible mistake in Admiralty policy, tantamount to training the next generation of naval officers as bookies’ runners.
The Bodger saluted politely. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Mr Badger, this cadet is skulking. What he’s supposed to be doing, I don’t know, and he doesn’t know. I’ll leave you to deal with him.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The Commander stalked off. The Bodger beetled his eyebrows at George Dewberry.
‘What have you been up to, Dewberry?’
‘Nothing sir, really. I’m Cadet E.M. for today, sir, and the Commander asked me what I was doing so I said I was changing electric light bulbs, sir. Or something, sir.’
‘Let me give you a piece of advice, Dewberry. This is a golden rule in the Navy. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing, always look as though you do. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred nobody will ever know the difference. Now cut along and mend electric light bulbs, or something.’
‘Aye aye, sir! Thank you, sir!’
The Bodger watched George Dewberry double happily away.
‘Ah well,’ he said to himself. ‘Little things please little minds, little pants fit little behinds. Let that be today’s beautiful thought’.
The Bodger pursed his lips, clasped his hands behind his back, and wandered enigmatically off to shave and change before breakfast.
Meanwhile, the Commander continued along the upper deck. As he walked the decks emptied in front of him and refilled again behind; he seemed to carry an uneasy bow-wave before him which slipped aside to let him pass and filled in again in an uncomfortable wake behind.
Paul, following miserably, began to feel like a leper’s dog. This character, Paul thought, could not have been born in the normal manner. He must have been from his mother’s womb untimely ripped, and given sour grapes to suck for milk. He must hate everybody, including himself. Poor old George, obviously doing his best in spite of the fact that he had not the vaguest idea of what he was supposed to be doing, torn up for--
Paul looked up. Cadets were still scrubbing decks. Petty Officers were watching them. The sea still heaved and scraped at the ship’s side. The horizon was still visible and level, with the sun still normal in the east. Everything was as it was every morning at scrub decks, except the most important item for Paul. The Commander had vanished.
Paul broke into a run. He passed Michael and Tom Bowles who were going through the motions of scrubbing a piece of deck. They had been bored with it since they started it. They welcomed Paul as a distraction.
‘What’s up Paul?’ asked Michael. ‘This your morning constitutional?’
&n
bsp; ‘Have you seen the Commander, Mike?’
Michael and Tom paused. This was better than they had hoped for.
‘Have you lost him?’
‘Yes. He was here a moment ago and now he’s just bloody well vanished.’
‘Goo-er,’ said Tom Bowles. He looked at Paul sympathetically. A doggie who had lost his master was a pathetic sight at any time. A doggie who had lost this particular master was in a perilous state.
‘Tell you what! Pipe for him to report to you on the quarterdeck!’
‘Don’t try and be funny, Tom,’ said Paul desperately. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Have you tried the cable deck?’ Michael suggested. ‘He sometimes goes up there to nauseate the foc’sle men.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’
Paul looked on the cable deck and all along the upper deck and in the likely places, the bridge, the wardroom, and the Commander’s cabin. Then he looked in the less likely places, the cable locker, the sailmaker’s store, the saluting gun deck, the ship’s police office, and the shipwright’s shop. Finally, he tried the most fantastic parts of the ship he could think of, the awning store, the cells, the engine room, the electrical maintenance workshop and the band instrument store. But the Commander had vanished completely.
Breakfast time came and went and just as Paul had given up the search and was sitting down to a late breakfast, the loudspeaker on the Cadets’ Messdeck came to life.
‘Cadet Vincent, report to the Commander’s cabin at the double!’
The Commander was waiting in his cabin.
‘Where in Hades have you been, you little worm?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been looking for you, sir.’
‘Looking for me? Great heavens boy, you’re supposed to be my doggie so help me! What’s the use of having a doggie who spends his time looking for me? You follow me about for two minutes, yawning and stretching like something that’s just crawled out of the double bottoms and when I want you you’ve disappeared!’
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’
‘Fat lot of good that is. Now stand at the door and call out the names of anyone who wants to see me and what he wants to see me about.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Paul took up a position near the door.
‘Outside! How the devil can you see anybody from there?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Paul stood outside the cabin door. Within a minute he was back again.
‘Mate of the Upper Deck, sir. Paint for paint ship, sir.’
The Mate of the Upper Deck went in and came out again. Paul went in.
‘Captain of Royal Marines, sir. Boot money for the postman, sir.’
With a wink at Paul, the Captain of Royal Marines went in and came out again. Paul went in.
‘Communications Officer, sir. Times of watchkeepers’ cinema show, sir.’
‘Sorry I didn’t bring my card, James,’ said the Communications Officer to Paul, grinning.
‘Chief Petty Officer Marks, sir. Dartboard for Chief and Petty Officers’ Recreation Space, sir.’
‘Shipwright Officer, sir. New counter for Ship’s Company Bookstall, sir.’
‘Senior Engineer, sir. Compassionate case, sir’
‘Instructor Lieutenant Evans, sir. Ship’s rugby in Jamaica, sir.’
‘M.S.O. Messenger, sir. Signals, sir.’
The stream of callers was continuous. There was always another waiting when Paul came out and as they came and went Paul began to have an inkling of the amount of work the Commander did in a day; he also began to understand the Commander’s early morning tetchiness.
‘Master at Arms, sir. Requestmen and Defaulters, sir.’
Paul stood in an inconspicuous position in a corner of the Keyboard Flat for Requestmen and Defaulters and watched his master begin the daily process of answering requests and administering justice. He noticed the differences in the Commander’s manner when dealing with Requestmen and when dealing with Defaulters.
With Requestmen, the Commander was charming. He kept his most genial manner for them, whether their request was for compassionate leave or to discontinue shaving. He beamed, he prompted, occasionally he laughed out loud. His good humour was such that other officers attending the table had sometimes wondered whether Dickie had had unexpectedly good news, perhaps even an answer to the Yellow Peril. But with Defaulters the Commander’s manner changed, as though a steel shutter had dropped over his good humour. His eyes were bleak and cold and his voice clipped. His attitude was so menacing that the officers standing round the table were forced to conclude that they had been mistaken about the Yellow Peril. It had clearly gained the upper hand again. The Commander studied each charge sheet as though it were an ultimatum from Genghis Khan himself.
Paul’s stomach began to bother him. Deprived of its customary breakfast it made an audible protest.
After Requestmen and Defaulters, the Commander went back to his cabin, sat down at his desk, and took out a trayful of papers. Paul assumed his old position outside the door but the procession of callers had stopped. The Commander was no longer at home.
Paul shifted from one foot to the other. He counted the rivets in the bulkhead and carefully studied a notice describing the proper use and maintenance of a nearby fire extinguisher. He traced air the pipes in sight across the deckhead until they disappeared. He examined a crack in the paint work which closely resembled, from a certain angle, a profile of Pontius the Pilot.
‘Vincent!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘We shall be streaming paravanes next week. How much do you know about paravanes?’
Paul hesitated.
‘Obviously nothing. Get out the Seamanship Manual and read it up.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The Commander’s bookshelf was typical of the man himself. There was the Seamanship Manual, all three volumes, three life histories of Nelson, four or five books on naval history, a copy of Brasseys, the R.N. and R.M. Sports Handbook, Jane’s Fighting Ships, the Navy List, several back numbers of the Naval Review, and a miscellaneous bunch of files, standing orders and signal logs. There were no novels, no poetry, no books indicating any pastimes or interests outside the Navy. The books depressed Paul. The man was invulnerable.
Paul took down the Seamanship Manual and found the section on the streaming and recovery of paravanes. He had not expected to find it interesting reading and, after the first sentence, he saw that he was not mistaken.
The cabin was peaceful. The sea made a regular hushing beneath the open scuttle and the Commander’s pen scraped methodically over a page. Paul was thankful for the peace and hoped it would last until dinner time.
Paul’s stomach then began its revolutionary debate of protest. The argument was subdued at first, led by an obscure backbencher, and it sounded like the preliminary rumblings of an approaching summer storm.
The Commander looked up.
‘Vincent,’ he said, ‘I can’t stand this. Self-control is one of the foremost requirements of a naval officer. If there’s one thing that gets under my skin, it’s a doggie sitting in my cabin bubbling and rumbling like a blasted hookah! Take this signal log outside and find me a signal about a Stoker Foster whose wife is supposed to be having a baby prematurely. Don’t come back until you’ve found it.’
Paul took the signal log, leant it against the Keyboard Sentry’s desk and began to read.
The signal log was a mine of detailed information. Paul was amazed at the number and variety of signals in it. There were signals about ship’s movements and intentions; ratings taken to hospital, qualified for advancement, or absent over leave; R.P.C.s from one wardroom to another for drinks at lunch time and from one captain to another for dinner; demands for spare parts, fuel, water, and stores; information on officers’ and ratings’ rigs for sporting and social functions; and weather reports, reports on accidents and reports on examinations. The Signal Log was the complete daily conversation of ship, flotilla, squadron, fleet, dep
ot and command, neatly recorded for months past, each signal with its date and time, addressee and priority, and it contained every kind of signal except one relating to the premature baby of the wife of Stoker Foster.
Paul laid down the Signal Log with a new sense of wonder and of humility that there had been so much happening, so much organisation, of which he had known nothing. He looked at his watch and saw that he had been reading signals, entranced, for over half an hour. He hurried back to tell the Commander that he could not find the signal.
But the Commander was not so easily satisfied.
‘I know that signal is on board somewhere. Look in the M.S.O. and Captain’s Office Logs. There must be a copy somewhere. Don’t come back until you’ve found it.’
The signal was not in the Captain’s Office nor in the M.S.O. and Paul asked the Yeoman of the Watch if he had any back numbers. The Yeoman brought down a pile of old files and logs.
‘There you are, sir,’ he said. ‘That’s all the signals we’ve got. If it’s not in there we haven’t sent it and we haven’t received it.’
Paul delved further and further back. He read signals relating to political crises long since resolved and forgotten, to machinery declared obsolete and removed, even to ships which had been broken up or sunk by the enemy years before. He found signals concerning every refit, recommissioning and full power trial the ship had ever had. Finally he came to a signal in which Barsetshire’s first Captain proudly informed the Admiralty that he had, on that day, commissioned the ship for the first time. Dinner time came, the Yeoman of the forenoon watch was relieved, and still Paul could not find the signal.
