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Off to sea
The Hawkes turn came in September 1917. We were sixteen
and a half when we were distributed amongst the battleships and battle
cruisers of the Grand Fleet based at Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands.
In London, we were herded together as we came out of the family photographers,
wearing our new midshipman's white patches, and crammed into a northbound
express. At Thurso, we embarked in a storeship and plunged out into the
Pentland Firth where we found that, as usual, it was blowing a gale. We
were distributed round the Grand Fleet in seasick heaps. Four or five
of us scrambled on board HMS "Colossus", an aged battleship
armed with 12" guns. She was No. 2 flagship of the Fourth Battle
Squadron. HMS "Hercules", of the same class, carried the Vice
Admiral Commanding the Battle Squadron. We only had a Rear Admiral. The
Captain of HMS "Colossus" was Dudley Pound who one war later,
had risen to First Sea Lord of the Admiralty. Even if I remembered what
I expected life in one's first ship would be like, I'm sure it wasn't
like that at all. About a dozen midshipmen of varying seniority existed
in that gunroom with a mixed overcrowded bunch of officers of varying
rank and qualifications living in a similar mess on the other side of
the ship. The Admiral, his Flag Captain and staff lived in sacred territory
elsewhere. In the gunroom, we were the junior "snotties" as
midshipmen were called. In harbour, we kept "Quarterdeck" watch
under (a long way under) the officer of the watch. At sea, we did the
same with seasickness on the bridge. Some of us were appointed as "doggie"
(short for dogsbody) to the Executive Commander or to the Heads of Departments
gunnery, torpedo (which included "electrics"), navigation and
engineering. It was all just another, rather more violent, change of life.
Inside our gunroom, seniority prevailed also. Senior midshipmen kicked
the "warts" (junior midshipmen) around with the "Sub"
(SubLieutenant) as "monarch of all he surveyed"! We had to keep
the gunroom clean, scrub the deck, polish the brightwork, but it was our
home where we could relax if that is the right word.
It was also our torture chamber, for any Wardroom Officer only had to
send our Sub Lieutenant a chit saying he noticed Mr A failed to salute
the quarterdeck this morning, or Mr B delivered a message incorrectly,
or Mr C was not carrying a knife or had dirty shoes, for Mr A B or C to
find himself bending over the Sub's armchair that evening for his reward
of 6 strokes with a stick of cordite (like a malacca cane) used for chastisement.
My worst moment was lighting a cigarette on a guest night before the port
decanter was passed round to fill our glasses for the Royal Toast. The
verdict: six every evening for a week. Sitting down was not my favourite
attitude for quite a time after that. But, it seemed that the treatment
of the junior "snotties" in "Colossus" was no worse
than in other ships. In "Hercules" for example (our flagship),
a midshipman in my term and member of a noble Scotch family, when told
by the sub lieutenant that he was about to be chastised for some triviality,
nipped out of his gunroom and siezed a marine's bayonet stowed in racks
outside the gunroom. Instead of bending over when ordered by the Sub,
he drew the bayonet and stabbed him several times. The midshipman was
removed from the Royal Navy without trace; I can't remember what happened
to the Sub.
We fought no fleet action during my time in the old
Slosher as "Colossus" was called
but we took part in many excursions to sea, more than most of the
other battleships, for we were "old and expendable". At sea,
every midshipman was up on the bridge, exposed to the weather every alternate
watch. You either had the First (8 p.m. to midnight) and morning (4 a.m.
to 8 a.m.) or the middle (midnight to 4 a.m.) and the forenoon (8 a.m.
to noon). On return to harbour after 5 or 6 days at sea, we midshipmen
were ready for our hammocks as none of us had cabins. But no! As soon
as we dropped anchor we all, the old coalburning ships,
secured a dirty collier alongside. Coal ship was a "Clear
Lower Deck" affair; that is to say it included everyone who could
be reasonably spared. We midshipmen climbed into the overalls we hadn't
washed properly after the last coal ship, and divided ourselves between
shovelling coal into bags in the colliers' holds, helping to manipulate
the hoists inboard, (about a dozen bags a hoist) or trundling the bags
from the "dump" inboard and tipping them down the hatches to
our ship's coal bunkers. Tired out as we were, the competitive spirit
crept in, generally instilled by the ship's commander (Executive Officer)
going round holding a stop watch, getting blacker and blacker, telling
us all, through his megaphone, that we would have to work harder and move
faster if we were going to beat the other ships. A cheer invariably broke
out from the first ship to cast off her collier's lines for it meant that
ship ”had finished first.
Our gunroom only possessed two baths, which were the
most popular in existence when we, clad in nothing but layers of black
coal dust, were able to get into them. If I have made all this sound unbearable,
I have failed. We might have felt a bit apprehensive in our ignorance
sometimes, but this life was new. We were in a different world from Osborne
and Dartmouth. We were learning very gradually, to take responsibility
instead of leaning on others. We were growing up and almost men. Sometimes
we got a pat on the back and my, oh my, how wonderful it felt!
Easily the best job a snotty could have, was running a picket boat or
pinnace. These were part of the battleship's equipment and, therefore,
the responsibility of the ship's Executive Commander. Most Commanders,
once they had decided to let a snotty run one of their picket boats, turned
the boat over to him completely. He expected the snotty to find out how
it worked, expected him to report defects, keep it and it's crew looking
smart. Up till then one had been soft, pliable like clay in a sculptor's
hands. The sculptor knew what he was aiming at, but the message took time
to get through to the clay. Suddenly, there was no one to answer questions.
Away in your steam picket, boat or motor launch, often out of sight of
your own ship, sometimes at night in a choppy sea, towing a cutter full
of noisy ratings who had gone ashore to get drunk, and who had achieved
their object admirably. Sometimes decisions had to be made concerning
the safety of the uncooperative passengers. You would be foolish not to
listen to the advice of the experienced Petty Officer, who was the coxswain
of your boat, but decisions still had to be made and this was the first
time you had to make them.
The
Navy, then and now
Later, two contradictory portraits of the sailors have
persisted: at one extreme, the Jolly Jack Tars, brave, patriotic and devil-may-care;
and at the other, the victims of a cruel system, press ganged, starved,
flogged and ill-treated to the verge of mutiny. Some were sent to ships
as a punishment by magistrates. Warships of sailing ship days were operated
by human muscle. The lives of the ship's company were divided between
scrubbing decks, furling sails, tending rigging, firing guns. Gun decks
were painted red to diminish the contrast of human blood. The relaxations? ... Getting drunk and deserting. The punishment?
... flogging. I note one character, John Walsh, between January and May
1804, received 144 lashes for theft and/or getting drunk. I am glad to
say that the "Colossus" in which I served, was a great deal
happier and more civilised that that, although the barrier between the
officers and their crews had not entirely disappeared. But when I went
to sea, the relationship between officers and crews had altered considerably.
Flogging had been suspended in 1890, and from the beginning of the next
century, officers and men had organised leave, played organised games.
The Royal Navy became a dedicated profession above and below decks. Selected
entry, professional training with specialisation available in various
technical branches, carrying extra pay for those who qualified. But, men
on the lower deck were still limited in intelligence, inarticulate in
speech.
Divided by a common language
There was one word, which did, and still does unite
them all. The supreme four letter word, beginning with an "f"
and ending with a "k". Not to be found in a dictionary but in
my day, used by the lower deck between themselves more than any other
word that ”is• in the dictionary. For a long period, the inarticulate
sailor leant entirely on that word to express himself on any subject.
He did not use it in the presence of officers or women, but among his
messmates, it had little rest. It is not used so much today because he
is better educated, his vocabulary is not so restricted. In fact, that
meaningless word just seemed to fill the gap between the uneducated and
the educated. I'm sure officers of my generation remember hearing the
almost continuous use of this overworked word, often adding to the humour
of the situation.
I can contribute two examples I am never likely to forget.
Between the wars, when there seemed to be more battleships in Grand Harbour,
Valletta (Malta) than seawater, the obsession of a certain CommanderinChief
was the smartness and cleanliness of his Fleet, above and between decks.
To nourish this quirk, he inspected his ships personally. I was serving
in a battleship he picked on without warning. The seamen's portions in
battleships of those days were divided into Fo'c's'le, Midships and Quarterdeck
divisions. In my ship, I was officer of the Fo'c's'le division. The CommanderinChief
only gave us about half an hour's notice. That half hour was a panic of
scrubbing, tidying and polishing brightwork. The CinC's custom was to
start below, inspecting the mess decks. He would start aft, the starboard
side on the quarterdeck division's starboard mess deck, walk for'd (accompanied
by his staff of experts). The ship's superstructure amidships in those
days was divided longitudinally, each division's mess decks were on both
sides of the ship, so when the Admiral got to the for'd end of the Fo'c's'le
mess deck, he would turn left, round the superstructure, and walk aft
through the other mess decks, then continue his inspection of the rest
of the ship. Each divisional officer met him as he came on to their mess
deck, and again when he inspected their mess deck on the other side of
the ship. I met him at the starboard after bulkhead door of my Fo'c's'le
mess deck. The cortege proceeded for'd. He stopped to examine some piece
of mechanism. If he stopped to examine anything it was a bad sign, and,
generally, meant that something did not meet with his approval. Out of
sight, the other side of the ship, was a sailor, a mess deck sweeper,
adding a finishing touch to whatever he had been cleaning. The CinC was
still examining, the sailor opposite him was still finishing cleaning.
For a matter of seconds, there was complete silence. Then, the sailor's
voice, loud and clear, "Oos got my fing bucket, f it?" The alliteration
and timing were perfect. The CinC was only human, he raised his eyebrows,
and smiled. The procession moved on.
The other occasion was in the same ship. In those days,
divisional officers were expected to be present at "Hands fall in"
at 0600 and to accompany the Commander as he walked round their part of
the ship. We had a splendid Commander at that time. A great big man, an
ex-heavyweight boxing champion of the Royal Navy, who was subsequently
promoted to Captain but, alas, WW2 came and he was lost in command of
his first ship. On the occasion in mind, he was walking round "my"
Fo'c's'le, and stopped to watch two squatting sailors busily trying to
join up two ends of heavy cable. It was wet and cold, and they didn't
seem to be having much luck. The towering Commander stood behind them
and watched. Their conversation was monotonous and they were getting nowhere.
"'Ere, take the weight of this fing link, can't you fing well see
it's on my fing thumb." "Well you fing well got it there, keep
your fing thumb out of the fing way. 'Ow do you fing well expect me
.." This was enough for the Commander; he never shouted but
he said, quietly and distinctly "Shut up, or I'll f the pair of you".
The expression on the faces of those two men when they turned round and
saw that giant addressing them in their own tongue, was worth getting
up early to behold! To my mind, this threadbare word, which came so easily
to the primitive mind of the uneducated seaman, linked him in some remote
way to his more civilised successor. In my thirty years at sea, with twenty
years interested retirement, how can I tell how the change in the Royal
Navy compares with the change in any other half century? But, I did watch
the men and the weapons they use, change considerably.
As I write, today, 21st of October 1982, is the 177th
Anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar. In those days, as many men as
possible, were packed tight into as many wooden sailing ships as we could
build, because there was no other means of manipulating heavy sails and
rigging, or firing all those guns, than by man power. One can almost imagine
an admiral tomorrow extinguishing an enemy fleet by pressing buttons in
his underwater control room or even in his bath. So much for the advance
in our economic skill of killing one another at sea.
Achieved
rank of Sub Lieutenant
Shortly after that memorable spectacle of the German
High Seas Fleet surrendering, to hide their shame, they sank themselves
at their moorings at Scapa Flow. Peace relieved our older battleships
of their efforts to survive and some, including HMS Colossus were soon
destined for the Knacker's Yard. I moved on to HMS Malaya, far more comfortable
and modern. After a short spell, I achieved Acting Sub Lieutenant, followed
shortly by "courses". These were visits to the gunnery, navigation
and torpedo establishments in succession, at Portsmouth (with a qualifying
exam at each) to gain our Commissions and to become genuine Sub Lieutenants.
My only two recollections of those courses were, firstly, the torture
inflicted by inhuman gunners' mates on the parade ground at the Gunnery
School, and an incident performed by a brother officer at the Navigation
School.
At the main gates at the Portsmouth Dockyard, strict
regard is paid to the prevention of duty-free wine or spirits from H.M.
Ships, being taken out of that gate. Being caught, meant a Court Martial
for admiral or seaman; it wasn't worth trying. This brother officer was
to be Best Man to another brother officer and he stopped one day, at the
gates in his car and told the Senior Policeman he was to be a Best Man
at a wedding the following day. Could he take some duty-free champagne
out of the Dockyard in the car he was driving which would be exclusively
for the wedding reception? The Head Policeman was noncommittal. The next
day, the same car appeared at the arranged time. It was stopped and searched
by the Police. No wine was found. The champagne had been taken out the
previous day when the Senior Policeman's permission was being requested.
I scraped through the various exams and became a Commissioned
Sub Lieutenant. Not conspicuous in a service festooned in gold braid but,
nevertheless, that single gold stripe was the "coming of age"
and authority. My Mother had settled in a small cottage in Surrey; my
Father, an acting Colonel in the Sappers (with an M.B.E. from Field Marshall
Allenby), might have been anywhere. I went to a destroyer. The destroyer
went to Copenhagen. The Danes were almost too charming. Their hospitality
was unrelenting every day and all night. They had endured a pretty miserable
war under German domination. When we arrived there, they were saying "Now
that's over, let's have a party”. My ship was alongside the wall which
propped up the lovely, clean town of Copenhagen and we were in sight of
that charming memorial to Hans Anderson; the bronze mermaid sitting on
a rock, delightfully relaxed, gazing out to sea. One morning, I had struggled
out of my two hour's sleep and was taking in a gulp or two of fresh air
on the upper deck, when a powerful looking car drew alongside the gangway
and out stepped my Father. After the war, instead of letting him resign,
they kept him on for some Intelligence work, based in Berlin. He had pounced
on the car which once belonged to Kaiser Wilhelm's son ("Little Willie")
and commandeered this superlative Benz and
its chauffeur. He had telephoned our Admiralty and tracked me down.
Father was, immediately, given a cabin on board my ship for the rest of
our visit. And during those few days, all of us visited and enjoyed most
of Denmark, by courtesy of the late Kaiser Wilhelm.
HMS Clematis
My short time in that destroyer was followed by my being
appointed to HMS Clematis, one of the two sloops patrolling the Red Sea.
It was a hot unhealthy station, not exactly reserved for the "cream"
of the Royal Navy. I have no doubt whatever, my appointment was influenced,
if not arranged by a certain retired Admiral who preferred to have the
rather wild, impecunious me as far away as possible from one of his attractive
young daughters. Now, I am grateful to HMS Clematis for the milestone
that she provided. Soon after I joined her, came a spate of fierce rioting
in Cairo, which spread to the banks of the Suez Canal. The centre figure
was an Egyptian, Zaghloul Pasha, who was to have represented Egypt at
the signing of the Treaty of Versailles after World War I. When he got
to Malta, he was arrested for some reason, and bundled back to Egypt.
This brought his vast native following to the boil, and blood flowed.
Finally, he was rearrested, ushered on board and away we sailed
for the Seychelles Islands, with this charming old political prisoner
as our guest. I was briefed to look after him. All day long he drank for
medicinal purposes champagne, and repeated his only English sentence;
"I 'ate Loi George". It struck me he had good reason to dislike
our Prime Minister. I was sorry for the Pasha and grateful to him for
causing our visit to Seychelles and a brief stay in such breathless tropical
beauty. What a setting, even for exile.
On the night of my twenty-first birthday, I was back
at Aden, dining at the Club. Later that evening, in an effort to make
a speech from the gallery to members playing bridge in the cool stone
courtyard far below, I fell off the banisters into their midst. Here my
luck was in and out. In, because I fell on to a bridge table which broke
my fall and, probably, saved my life. Out, because it was my Captain's
bridge table! Aden Club was out of bounds for six months. A lot more incidents
made up that first venture abroad since my commission. Galloping into
the desert sunset at Port Sudan on a camel; my gun too hot to hold after
dawn Sand grouse shooting at Kamaran; the stench in that gun running how
we captured off Massawa; the frothing, gibbering, murdering, Greek lighthouse
keeper we removed from "The Brothers", having buried his mutilated
mate.
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