The Custom of the Trade

by Shaun Lewis

  ‘Thirteen in all, sir. Plus myself and the Second Captain.’

  ‘A quaint title.’ Turning to Richard, the Mayor asked, ‘But is it not now the fashion to address you as the First Lieutenant?’

  ‘It is, sir,’ Richard replied. ‘The Submarine Service has caught up with the surface fleet. Although I am certain I am called many other things behind my back. To my face I am sometimes addressed as, “Number One”, “Jimmy the One” or, plainly, “The Jimmy”.’

  ‘And why is that, Lieutenant?’ the Lady Mayoress asked.

  ‘I’m not too sure myself, madam. It might be a corruption of James the First. I’ve never thought it a good idea to enquire into the origins of naval slang in case it should turn out to be quite rude.’

  ‘And do tell me, Captain, do your men sleep in the depot ship at sea?’

  Mullan seemed taken aback by the Lady Mayoress’s question. ‘I’m sorry, madam?’

  ‘I mean, do you come to the surface at the end of the day and spend the night in the depot ship, before returning the next day to continue your patrols?’

  Richard tensed. He could see that Mullan’s unusually calm temper might be under strain.

  ‘No, madam. The depot ship stays in harbour and we go out to sea for three to four days on our own. We wouldn’t want the presence of a depot ship to alert the enemy to our presence, would we?’

  ‘Oh, silly me. But where do you sleep and eat? I haven’t seen any cabins or the galley yet. Is there another deck below?’

  ‘No, madam. Beneath us lie the battery cells only. We sleep wherever we can find a space and generally eat cold, tinned food at sea.’

  ‘But how dreadful. I mean, what about- ..?’

  ‘I think it time we were going, Marjorie,’ the Mayor interrupted his wife and gently took her arm. ‘We’ve already taken up enough of the crew’s time. They’re only here for a short while.’

  The two councillors climbed the ladder through the hatch to the casing and waited for the Mayor and his Lady, but a delay ensued. The Lady Mayoress was struggling to squeeze her bulk back through the hatch. After much huffing and puffing it became clear that she was stuck. The councillors took her arms and tried pulling her. The Mayor tried encouraging her. Some of the duty watch below started to smirk with amusement. Richard suggested to the Mayor that he should rearrange the folds of her dress to ease her passage but, after three minutes of pulling and cajoling, the lady remained stuck fast. It was left to Mullan to solve the problem. Impatiently he pushed the Mayor to one side and, despite the impropriety of looking up a ladder into a woman’s skirts, climbed up part way and balanced on the rungs with his hands free. Simultaneously, he grasped the lady’s buttocks with both hands and shouted, ‘Madam.. – shift.. – yer.. – great.. – fat.. – arse…’ and, with a last heave the unfortunate Lady Mayoress passed through the hatch like a cork from a wine bottle.

  *

  To spare embarrassment, Richard decided it would be imprudent for him and Elizabeth to join the Mayor’s party on the boat ashore. Instead, he opted to wait for the next liberty boat. He half wondered if news of Mullan’s action might make its way to the Commodore (S) and if this might serve as a means for him to be rid of Mullan. Although cold and grey, it was a dry day and he waited with Elizabeth on the quarterdeck of HMS Venus, watching the comings and goings in the harbour. A7, a boat eight months older than B3, was berthed outboard of B3 and preparing to slip. The duty Petty Officer in the depot ship was overseeing the arrangements. In the distance Richard noted the imminent arrival of a destroyer, one of Venus’s more usual charges.

  ‘So, Lizzy, now you’ve met him, what did you think of my CO?’

  ‘Not at all the ogre you painted him to be, dear Dick. He had obviously had a drink and was a little rough, but he behaved towards me in a most charming manner.’

  ‘He probably fancied you.’

  ‘Well, a lady enjoys a little attention from men once in a while. You’re going to have to remember that in future.’ Elizabeth drew closer to Richard and pecked him on the cheek. ‘I certainly admired his style in ejecting that silly woman. I cannot imagine more gallant officers taking such spirited action. No, he’s not the one that worries me. That ERA needs watching.’

  ‘Who? Thompson? The one with whom you were so engrossed in the engine room?’

  ‘If that’s his name, yes. You must have noticed that he’s cracking up.’

  ‘Actually, I hadn’t. He seems perfectly competent to me. Although I’ve had a report that he might drink too much at sea. But I haven’t seen it for myself.’

  Richard leaned over the guardrail to wave goodbye to the CO of A7 as the little black boat increased speed and headed out to sea in the direction of the destroyer.

  ‘You’ve clearly not worked in a shipyard. The really serious drinker is a master at disguising it, and by serious I am talking of a scale well past that of your captain. It’s the eyes that give it away. Smells can be disguised and, quite frankly I’m surprised you smell anything in those foul boats. And another thing, Dick. Are you sure he’s totally competent?’

  ‘Absolutely. These B-boats aren’t as reliable as the new D-boats and he’s worked marvels in keeping her fit for sea.’

  ‘Really?’ Elizabeth responded suspiciously. Across the harbour they both heard the shrill pipe of a boatswain’s call as A7 paid her respects to the more senior captain of the destroyer. ‘I see you are taking on fuel.’

  She gestured to the fifty-gallon drums being hoisted onto the after casing of B3. A crowd of on-lookers were collecting. Fuelling with petrol always presented an opportunity for some hilarious inebriation at the king’s expense. For this reason the change to diesel was not being universally welcomed in the submarine service.

  ‘Yes. We need a top-up for the return to Portsmouth. What of it?’ Richard asked archly.

  ‘Only that, as we were leaving, I noticed one of the electricians lifting the plates to the batteries.’

  ‘Yes, he will be checking the pilot cells before we recharge the batteries tomorrow.’

  ‘I am well aware of the reason, Dick. My point is that you in turn will be aware the batteries emit hydrogen.’

  ‘Naturally, Lizzy. We aren’t imbeciles. The last thing we want in a petrol-driven boat is a spark igniting either gas or fuel. That’s why we keep the batteries well ventilated with fans and having both the forward and after hatches open will assist.’

  ‘Alright, but I don’t think it good practice to lift the deck plates when fuelling. You know as well as I that hydrogen and petrol fumes are an explosive combination. Why increase the risk?’

  ‘I dare say you’re right, Lizzy. I’ll bear it in mind next time. In any case, Mullan doesn’t seem to be bothered about it. Look, he’s just coming onto the casing.’

  Mullan had indeed come up through the forward hatch and started to ascend the accommodation ladder up the side of Venus.

  ‘Hark, look at her,’ Richard suddenly exclaimed. ‘That CO’s keen to arrive in style.’

  Richard and Elizabeth’s attention was diverted to the approaching destroyer. Instead of cutting his speed to slow, the CO was approaching at half speed, as evinced by the impressive bow wave and stern wash. The ship passed down the starboard side of Venus and B3 in a mighty curve, smoke flaring from her twin funnels like that from a dragon’s nostrils. As the destroyer passed the stern of Venus, the CO saluted Elizabeth. He struck Richard as awfully young to be in command. The CO then immediately ordered the helm full over to starboard and, using the enormous power of the destroyer’s engines, took the way off the ship such that it gently glided along the Venus’s port side. The shrill of the boatswain’s call rang out once again and the ship’s company on the upper deck and bridge came to attention as one, to salute the captain of the Venus.

  Richard was secretly impressed. The manoeuvre had been smartly executed. ‘What a shameless piece of swashbuckling seamanship. Hang on. What’s going on?’

  He swung round to the source of t
he commotion. It was coming from the casing of B3. The party of spectators observing the fuelling were roaring with laughter. The fuelling party had clearly been soaked to the knees by the wash of the destroyer and they were not laughing. They were desperately trying to shut the two hatches to prevent further water flooding into B3. Suddenly, Richard recognised the immediate peril facing his submarine. The weight of the petrol drums on the after casing had depressed the boat further into the water. Under normal conditions the freeboard aft was only a couple of feet anyway and the destroyer’s wash had flowed over the casing and poured down the after hatch. With so little reserve of buoyancy, the boat had sunk even deeper and any moment the water would cascade down the forward hatch, too. If that happened the boat would surely sink. Richard sprinted forward towards the accommodation ladder leading to the submarine. Ahead he saw Mullan running just as quickly and heard him roaring orders.

  ‘Ditch the fuel overboard, you fuckers. If seawater touches it, that battery might jest explode.’

  The idlers on the starboard waist and accommodation ladder stopped seeing the joke and started to scatter. Those on the ladder started to climb upwards but, sadly for them, Mullan was already on his way down.

  ‘Get out o’ me fucking way,’ he shouted and threw himself on those beneath him, flailing his fists as he went. Some swung out of his way, others decided it prudent to jump overboard. Mullan was like a rogue steam train. Richard noted no apparent hesitation in jettisoning the fuel drums. He silently thanked the Lord that fuelling had not already commenced or else a hose might have fouled the hatch, preventing it being shut. Thankfully, somebody had managed to shut the forward hatch, too, and Richard could only pray that B3 had not already shipped enough water to sink her. The casing was awash with up to six inches of water. Mullan seemed to have another preoccupation, though. He climbed up the conning tower and descended into the boat through the upper hatch. Richard decided it would be best to follow him but, as he reached the casing, something stopped him dead in his tracks.

  It was the smell that first caught his attention. It was a pungent, irritating odour of bleach. He recognised its significance immediately and covered his mouth and nose. Looking up at the bridge of the submarine, he saw the start of a greenish-yellow cloud venting itself. It was obvious to any submariner that the seawater had hit the battery cells and, acting as an electrolyte, caused the lead-acid batteries to produce chlorine gas. Richard changed his mind about following Mullan. He thought he would be better placed on the casing to receive the inevitable casualties.

  ‘Send for the first aid parties and some breathing apparatus. We’ll also need stretchers and ropes. Hurry!’ he shouted frantically.

  The submariners nearby needed no second prompting. They constantly lived in dread of chlorine poisoning. Urgent commands were relayed up to the depot ship. Meanwhile, Richard refolded his handkerchief and tied it over his mouth and nose, in the same manner he had seen in illustrations of cowboys, and climbed up to the bridge. He was just in time to help one of the stokers through the hatch. He tried to remember how many men had been down below when he had left the boat. He thought it might be four, plus the CO now, of course. The unfortunate stoker was struggling to breathe. His eyes were sore and streaming with tears and he was coughing and spluttering. Other, gentle hands took hold of him and guided him down the side of the conning tower, but Richard would not let him go. ‘Jones, how many are down there?’

  The stoker was reluctant to answer and only seemed interested in getting off the submarine, but one of the men helping him cut in. ‘Come on, Jonesy, how many fellows were in there with you? Come on now. You know it’s important.’ Jones responded by raising three fingers of his right hand and gasping, ‘Three more… and the skipper.’

  The gas was becoming more pungent and Richard could now barely see. He started coughing himself. He heard, rather than saw, another shape emerging from the hatch and Mullan’s command, ‘Get the fuck up there, you wimps.’ It was the electrician, dragging behind him one of the seamen. Richard was surprised to find he had been joined by Goddard, similarly strangely masked. He couldn’t raise the wind to ask Goddard how he came to be here, but he was grateful for his strength. Together they managed to pull the two survivors through the hatch to safety and pass them onto the forming first aid party.

  In his peripheral vision Richard noted a medical officer rapidly descending the accommodation ladder. Three down, one to go, he thought. He realised it must be ERA Thompson still down there. Surely he couldn’t still be alive. And what of Mullan? He had been down there too long already.

  ‘Sir, let me go down there. I hear the skipper’s gone down already.’ Goddard gripped Richard by the arm tightly.

  ‘No, Goddard. It’s foolhardy. You’re better off here.’ Secretly, Richard had been wondering the same thing and only Goddard’s prompt had dissuaded him from ignoring common sense and sliding down the hatch.

  Seconds later, he heard a movement below, but could see nothing through the noxious cloud. Then a weak and rasping, but no less familiar voice cut through the fog, ‘Lend a hand, you lazy bastards!’

  Before Richard could stop him, Goddard leapt down the hatch, but his feet met an obstruction part way. Reaching down with both hands, he grabbed by its overalls the prone body below and heaved with all his considerable might. Slowly, he managed one rung of the ladder at a time until the last survivor was within reach of Richard. With Richard’s help they dragged the unconscious Thompson to safety and Goddard collapsed to one side, gasping for breath.

  This time Richard had no hesitation. He leapt down the hatch and hit the deck below with a solid thud. Lying nearby was Mullan, unconscious and breathing only shallowly. Richard knew he didn’t have Goddard’s strength and could not lift Mullan unaided. He shouted up the hatch for a rope with a bowline knot already tied in it. He didn’t trust his judgement in the poisonous air to tie the loop himself. Within seconds some forward thinking hand threw down exactly what he needed and another rope similarly prepared. Richard looped one rope beneath Mullan’s armpits and positioned him beneath the hatch, before taking the other loop beneath his own armpits. He called up to his fellow rescuers to begin heaving.

  Inch by inch he climbed the tower, supporting Mullan all the way with his shoulder, and anxious hands took up the slack of both ropes. Looking past Mullan, he could see the grey, round window to another world, broken up by the blurred faces of those guiding the rope. The climb was infinitesimally long and he knew he would not make it before he passed out. He shouldn’t have worn those lead boots for this task, he thought. The weakness in his left side now prevented him hauling his weary body up another rung. If only he could float to the surface like last time. Mutti had been so cross with him for serving in submarines. What would she say now? Up above he could see two dazzling lights. Gradually his addled brain recognised them as belonging to Lizzy. He thought of those dazzling-blue eyes that had sparkled up at him as he had kissed her. She was waiting for him. He had to fight. He had to climb this ladder just a few more feet. His heart was pounding, his lungs were bursting, but he moved his legs painfully and when he next looked up, the dazzling-blue eyes had turned into flashlights and somebody was grabbing him by the shoulders.

  Chapter 12

  December 1912

  Richard made the short crossing from Gun Wharf to Fort Blockhouse with some trepidation. It was a grey, cold December morning and he was one of several passengers on the Admiralty Yard Craft Service boat. He was feeling much refreshed after a month of convalescence at home in London, but his leave had been interspersed with regular visits to the Royal Naval Hospital at Haslar near Gosport. Today, however, the objective of his crossing to Gosport was not to visit Haslar, but HMS Dolphin, the alma mater of the Submarine Service and the office of Commodore (S). He had been summoned to attend by telegram two days earlier and he felt sure he knew the purpose of the meeting. It would be the end of his career in submarines and that could hardly come as a surprise. It had been mad
e clear to him that he needed Mullan’s recommendation for command and that evening in Gosport just two months earlier, Mullan had been emphatic that no such recommendation would be forthcoming. He supposed that since the events in Torquay were no fault of his own, there was a faint chance that he might be reappointed to B3 with a new CO and thereby have one last chance to prove himself. Then again, was he considered blameless for the accident in Torquay? The Board of Inquiry had exonerated both him and Mullan, but it might not take much for the submarine fraternity to spot the common factor in the sinking of D2 and the near disaster in B3.

  It was a flood tide and the Admiralty boat stemmed it as it made its approach to the jetty at Fort Blockhouse, giving Richard and the other officers looking over the stern, a full view of the dockyard on the Portsmouth side. Several ships were in, the biggest of which was HMS Queen Elizabeth, the first of the Royal Navy’s super Dreadnought battleships and due to be commissioned in just a few days. The ship was alive with sailors and dockyard workers cleaning the ship, ready for the big day. Richard wondered if within a few days he might be serving as a junior officer in such a ship, although he still hoped he might have a chance at an appointment to a destroyer.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was shown into the office of the Commodore Submarines. Richard noted that Roger Keyes appeared tired and strained, but as was his usual custom, he received Richard affably.

  ‘Please take a seat, Miller. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Much better now, thank you, sir. I still have a bit of a hacking cough that drives my parents up the wall, but as you can see, the blisters have gone.’

  ‘You were lucky to get off so lightly. It’s nasty stuff that chlorine gas, or more accurately hydro-chlorine gas. According to the docs, it mixes with the body’s natural fluids and forms hydrochloric acid. Thank God we only lost ERA Thompson. But for Mullan, and then you, it would have been far worse.’

  ‘How is Lieutenant Mullan, sir? I haven’t seen him since my discharge from Haslar.’