All very sordid, really. Hard wooden chairs; a teleject machine; poor quality films and a large number of ‘ladies’ offering to take you upstairs to do, rather than watch. A low-budget cat-house, really. Plus I got the loony. One gentleman sat beside me and talked about planting trees on the moon, burying people up there under them, how he was a friend of Buck Rogers, and about, of all things, Rorschach tests. I think he was just a simple fruitcake, but I wasn’t prepared to take any chances, and we left as soon as possible into the relative sanity of 42nd Street. Nasty.
A cab back to the ship delivered us in time for dinner. That was New York, that was. I don’t really think I’d miss it if I never went back there again.
Thursday 9th February 1984
We sailed at about 1000 and slipped gently south towards the coast of Virginia. The gentle motion of the ship ceased in later afternoon when we carried out a full-power trial, followed by a crash stop. Despite the very great amount of vibration, we were informed that all bits of machinery had worked as they were supposed to, which, I gather, is a Good Thing.
We had a small Flyex this afternoon, simply as a rehearsal for the VIP Sea Day which will happen tomorrow, when a vast herd of senior officers and civil servants will descend upon the ship by helicopter – ostensibly to witness operations at sea, but actually, in my experience, to drink as much of our pop as they can. We’ll see.
Friday 10th February 1984
A bright, sunny and warm morning saw me taking the air on the quarterdeck, just like Nelson in Victory (using a certain amount of dramatic licence), with Don Sigournay, one of the 800 NAS Sea Harrier pilots. While there we observed the fact that a splash target had been streamed, for the Sea Harriers to shoot at during the air display later, and a short time later we observed that it was no longer there, although the bit of wire attaching it to the back of this boat was still taut. We watched with greatly increased interest as the wire twitched, and then, with a noise like a rifle shot, the wire (or the shackle, to be absolutely accurate) parted.
What we think happened is that the target took a dive to the bottom, which it can do if it flips over, and from there, of course, the only way to get it back is to stop the ship and haul it in again, otherwise the wire will simply snap, as we observed. Requests that they do it again, so we could photograph the entire evolution, were not well received.
The VIP helicopters duly arrived at around 0930, with me up in Flyco doing my bit, as Mickey Brock had whisked away to the briefing for the flying demonstration. There were three helicopters in all, two Chinooks, which are the vast great twin-rotor jobs used by the RAF a good deal, and a VIP Sea King. As deck space was rather cramped, due to the aircraft which were going to be doing their thing in the display, it was probably fortunate that we were only going to land one of the Chinooks on deck, along with the Sea King, the other Chinook being along for the ride for SAR purposes. As it was, the Chinook was plonked neatly on 4 spot, well forward, followed by the Sea King to 8 spot. A painless evolution.
The display itself I didn’t see, as the Bridge, Flyco and those available bits of deck were knee-deep in Admirals, and I thought it best (and most tactful) to make myself scarce as soon as Mickey Brock had returned. By all accounts, though, it was a success, despite the obvious absence of a splash target – I understand they dropped smoke floats over the stern and blasted the hell out of them instead. They have the double advantage of being both cheap and unattached by bits of string.
We entered the vast US Navy base at Norfolk at about 1500 this afternoon. We are moored at Pier 20, which is as far from the rest of the world as it’s possible to get without actually being at anchor beyond the breakwater. Maybe we’ve offended someone here. As usual, we had an official reception (cocktail party in simple terms) for the usual bunch of freeloaders this evening, but in my case (and for Paul Harvey too) it was very considerably brightened up by one of the guests; a man called Don (his surname has gone; temporarily), who is an engineer on board the RFA Bayleaf, moored down on Pier 2. I knew him from my days on board the old RFA Tidepool in 1977–78 (that ship, sadly, is now owned by Chile), and Paul knew him from his time on RFA Engadine, just before he joined Illustrious.
We had quite a prolonged chat, as a result, and we will be going on board the Bayleaf on Monday for drinks at lunchtime. Made the time pass very quickly indeed, which was a relief in view of the way it usually seems to drag at these blasted receptions.
Saturday 11th February 1984
There was the usual number of ‘fragile’ faces in the Wardroom this morning, but the general consensus of opinion seemed to be that the do last night had been one of this ship’s most successful. A faithful four of us saw none of the party in the Wardroom which caused the sore heads, as we had retired to the Guest Room immediately after the reception for a hard evening slaving away over a bridge table.
A quiet day, with the ship more or less empty. I was, however, kept in full employment in doing a major amendment to Air Department Standing Orders – rapidly becoming my bête noire – which is another of Commander Air’s little jobs he wants out of the way by yesterday at the latest. On a slightly irreverent note, the officers of 800 NAS have now taken to calling He Who Must Be Obeyed the Kipper Fillet or just the Kipper. No, I couldn’t see the connection either, until it was explained to me – it means he’s two-faced, with no brains, guts or backbone. Cutting, very cutting.
Sunday 12th February 1984
A rather less quiet day, as I got out and about to some extent. After a swift lunch, Paul, the doc and I headed off to the Norfolk PX, there to peruse the goods on display. It proved to be quite a walk, past dozens of US Navy ships in their peculiar (and rather nasty) dark grey paint – we passed at least four carriers, every one substantially larger, though not as pretty, than the Illustrious. And, of course, there were auxiliaries, frigates, destroyers and so on. It really is a vast yard, and the PX was a good twenty to thirty minute walk, and by the time we reached it we were no more than a third of the way to the main gates of the yard.
The PX proved a little disappointing, in fact, with prices that were no cheaper, and sometimes a lot more expensive, than those in the United Kingdom. And some of the goods were things which I could quite happily have done without on a permanent basis. Paul, with a brand-new brat at home, dived straight into the baby-clothes section, and spent what seemed to me to be a vast amount of money for remarkably little in the way of goods, but he seemed happy enough with what he had purchased. Doc and I wandered about (I bought a book – he didn’t) and looked. Really it was just like a huge Woolworths, and only very slightly up-market; not up to the standards of Marks and Spencer, for instance. Interesting, but not
stunning.
Back on the ship, I had planned a quiet evening in, but this plan was very quickly changed when I had the opportunity to go and have a look over the British nuclear submarine Valiant, which is also taking part in the forthcoming exercise. With the single exception of about fifteen minutes which I spent on either an ‘O’ or ‘P’ boat when I was at Dartmouth, I had never been anywhere near a submarine, so the opportunity seemed rather too good to miss. I went with Mark Mordue, one of our Fighter Controllers, who knows one of the submarine’s junior officers, and we even managed to commandeer a Land Rover to take us there, which was just as well, bearing in mind that it was a hell of a long walk and a very foggy night as well.
The first problem about looking round a submarine is that there is almost exactly nothing to see outside, so you have to get inside. And this simple-sounding evolution is in fact fraught with difficulty, as the hatches are extremely small and the ladders extremely steep. We entered through a hatch midway between the forward end of the fin (or sail, as the Americans call it) and the science-fiction protuberance of the Active Intercept Sonar set (the Valiant is a nuclear-powered hunter-killer submarine), down below the casing, then through the pressure hull and into the interior. And, very conveniently, straight into the Wardroom.
This was just
a little bigger than my cabin on the Illustrious, and is where all fifteen officers eat, and where most of them sleep, in three tiny cabins adjoining (one with eight bunks, and two with two bunks). In the cabins there is virtually no storage space at all, and it all really is very cramped. The remaining officers sleep anywhere they can find a vaguely horizontal surface – our host was sleeping in the torpedo room forward.
We sat and had a few drinks and generally chatted about the life in one of Her Majesty’s submarines, and I decided that whatever they get paid, it really isn’t enough. Typically, Valiant will make three three-month patrols each year, and spend the remaining three months alongside, having maintenance periods and so on, while the crew take leave, so each member of the crew can expect to be at sea, or rather under sea, for nine months of every year. And while away they will not see daylight: the Valiant will submerge very shortly after leaving her home base in Scotland, and will not then surface until three months later, at about the same location.
Foreign runs ashore are virtually unknown, but when they are able to, they do tend to have a good time, as the living conditions on the submarine are so cramped that all bar a skeleton crew immediately vanish ashore into the nearest decent hotel, with Her Majesty’s Government picking up the tab. And, bearing in mind what submariners can drink, that can be quite a large tab.
The Wardroom was quite cosy, I suppose, though cramped, and with very hard chairs and settees, and the pronounced curve of the deckhead above reminded you of where you were. Our tour of the boat (all submarines are called ‘boats’ rather than ships) started late and finished early, as we had our lift back arranged, and was made rather more difficult because the senior rates were holding a party in the Control Room, but was very interesting for all that.
Leaving the Wardroom, and going aft, you walk straight into the Control Room itself, where the periscopes, hydroplane controls, and all the other bits and pieces are located – just like the bridge of a surface ship, in fact. The depth to which the submarine can dive, and the speed at which it can travel, are both classified, the official response to the questions being ‘deeper than 400 feet and faster than twenty knots’, but the fact that the depth gauge has a maximum reading of 1,000 feet and the log speed reads up to forty knots at least provide some indication of its likely performance, though the figures given in Jane’s (which is freely available in almost any library in Britain) gives the information in considerably greater detail. Like the rest of the submarine, the Control Room is very cramped – made more so, of course, by the party raging about our ears – and obviously a submarine is no place for anyone suffering from claustrophobia.
The periscopes were interesting, especially the normal, rather than attack, periscope, as you actually sit on that, in a kind of saddle, and rotate the ‘scope by pressing on foot pedals – right to rotate anti-clockwise, and left for clockwise – and turn the right hand grip to increase or decrease the magnification. The whole room is a mass of complex instrumentation and pipes, something that I don’t suppose has changed over-much with the coming of nuclear propulsion.
We then continued aft, and into the space above the nuclear reactor itself. The space occupied by the reactor is really quite small, but is protected by two of the most massive doors I have ever seen – not large, but very thick, and with about twenty hydraulically-driven clips to keep them shut. The idea is that the doors and the massive steel section housing the reactor will contain a worst-case accident, when the reactor decides to go critical and turn itself into a bomb. Not something I would want to be around to check out, I think. The Valiant also has diesel propulsion, and can ‘snort’ in just the same way that any conventional submarine can, the snort masts occasionally being used just to get some fresh air into the boat.
Down to the third deck (there are three decks altogether) and right forward to the torpedo room, which in fact occupies two complete decks in the very bow of the boat. There are six tubes, and the boat can carry both torpedoes of various sorts and the Sub-harpoon type of submarine-launched guided missile, and a substantial number of reloads. The after end of the torpedo room was occupied by bunks – or simply mattresses, to be accurate – one of which belonged to our host. His clothes storage space consisted of, literally, one pipe upon which two suits hung, and the space under the mattress, and not in a drawer either – just under the mattress.
Clearly submariners travel light. And sleep on lumpy mattresses. It was quite a relief to get back to the sheer palatial luxury of the Illustrious.
Monday 15th February 1984
Paul Harvey and I accepted Don Evans’ invitation to go over to the RFA Bayleaf at lunchtime today. Quite interesting. The ship was a lot more comfortable than the old Tidepool that I remembered so well, with carpets, double beds and all the comforts of home. Don is a Second Officer (more or less equivalent to me), and his cabin is about four times the size of mine, with its own refrigerator, shower, toilet and so on. Really comfortable. The ship itself is a fairly typical fleet tanker, but without a flight deck (unlike the Tidepool), staffed by a mere fifty-odd crew, eighteen only of whom are officers. An interesting trip, and it was nice to talk to someone about our time in Australia again, and to catch up on the news of mutual acquaintances.
After our look round the Bayleaf, all three of us went to the PX, as Paul wanted to get his hair cut and Don wanted to buy some cigars (they are very cheap, with fifty King Edwards coming to a mere £4-50). I had another quick look round, then walked back to the ship.
Tuesday 14th February 1984
In brief, I was Air Officer of the Day. It rained; I stayed in my cabin all day, typing. You can’t get much briefer, or more boring, than that.
Wednesday 15th February 1984
On this, our last full day in Norfolk, and in America, the ship was very nearly deserted after secure at lunchtime, as people vanished ashore to buy last-minute ‘rabbits’ and also obtain last-minute haircuts. The purchasers of the latter items are quite easily recognisable, as the barber, using the word in its loosest possible sense, was used to doing US Marine Corps-style haircuts. These eliminate all hair below a point one inch above the top of the ears, and leave only what amounts to stubble above that point. The good news, I suppose, is that this is quite a long exercise, meaning that there will be plenty of time for it to grow again.
Thursday 16th February 1984
We sailed at 0800 this morning, and went straight into a full flying programme, embarking the Sea Harriers from NAS Oceana and the Sea Kings from NAS Norfolk, where they have been getting in a bit of flying practice while we’ve been alongside. That, at any rate, was the theory. The reality was rather different, as the ship sailed straight into a large fog bank almost as soon as the embarkation was supposed to take place. In fact, we only managed to recover two of the Sea Harriers and none of the Sea Kings before we were clamped. I returned to my cabin to retire to bed immediately after lunch, as we are flying throughout the night, and when I did so, we still had the two Sea Harriers and five Sea Kings stuck somewhere on shore.
I got up again at about 1830, to find that the recovery of the aircraft had been only partially successful, and we still had two Sea Harriers and one Sea King (carrying the 800 NAS maintainers) ashore, despite the fact that the weather was greatly improved. After a swift meal, I went up to Flyco to relieve Mickey Brock, and there I stayed until 0730 the following morning. The Casex serials being flown were frankly boring, from our point of view in Flyco, as nothing went wrong, apart from a few very minor unserviceabilities, but, given a choice between Pan calls and boredom, I’ll take boredom every time, thank you.
Friday 17th February 1984
Due entirely to pressure of work, and principally to the weight of signals in my ‘In’ tray, I went down to the office for about three hours after breakfast, in an attempt to clear most of the garbage out before going to bed. I was only partially successful, but I did at least manage to get the signals kicked into touch, as it were.
I slept well, not t
oo surprisingly, and then went up to Flyco at 1930, to discover that we had two Sea Kings flying until 2359, and then nothing at all after that. That pleased me, as it gave a good opportunity to get a few hours of uninterrupted work done in the office. The flying was quite uneventful, and it was a beautifully clear night, with a full moon and a flat calm sea, so it really was quite pleasant sitting up there in Flyco.
Saturday 18th February 1984
Any day spent in bed on this ship has to be regarded as a successful way of passing the time, I suppose, but today was rather less successful than I would have liked, as for some reason I found it very difficult to get to sleep. Finally I did, and slept through until 1800 or so. Once up, I had a little job to do before eating and then returning to the rarefied heights of Flyco, and while I was thus engaged we had a Thimblehunt.
Not, as you might expect, because a Head of Department had dropped his sewing, but a full and complete roll-call of everyone on board, by departments, as a wave had apparently broken over the starboard side of the ship, and the life-buoy sentry had spotted something in the wake immediately afterwards. It could have been a sack of gash, or it could have been someone’s head. Fortunately, it turned out to be a sack of gash, and we all relaxed.
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