by John Winton
“Yes,” said Derek, looking the Wavemaker, who appeared to be sceptical, defiantly in the eye. “Now, gentlemen, was there anything in particular you wished to see?”
One of the physicists had a special request.
“May we see the distiller, please? I’ve been designing a special gauge for them and I would love to see where it’s actually got to go.”
Derek showed them the distiller. The Physicist was thrilled.
“I’m so glad we saw that,” he said. “Do you know, I’ve been designing them, and writing letters about them, and giving advice about them for a long time and this is the first time I’ve actually seen one!”
Good God, Derek said to himself.
“How stable are these boats in rough weather?” the Wavemaker asked.
“Pretty good. The fin keeps them more or less dry, not like the older boats with low towers. The stability has to be pretty carefully worked out, of course. We do a trim dive in the dockyard basin after every refit. Occasionally they make a mistake. One boat I went to sea in very nearly capsized. We heeled over to about fifty degrees and stayed there. I thought we’d all had it.”
“Of course,” said the Wavemaker, “in a case like that we’ve got to differentiate between actual danger, and mere discomfort.”
Derek ground his teeth and repressed an almost overwhelming urge to howl out loud.
“Now, is there anything else, gentlemen?”
The Senior Scientist looked sheepish.
“I wonder. . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“I wonder. ... It seems silly but ... I wonder if you could explain something I’ve always been puzzled about. . . .”
“Yes, sir?”
“How exactly does a submarine dive?’’
“Well sir, all along the outside of the boat we’ve got a row of very large tanks, called main ballast tanks. They’re open to the sea at the bottom and closed at the top by very large valves, called main vents. When we open the main vents, the sea rushes in at the bottom and the air rushes out at the top, the submarine in effect shrinks in volume, displaces less water and therefore becomes heavier and therefore sinks. When we want to come up again we shut the main vents and blow the water out with compressed air. That makes the boat sort of swell again, displaces more water, become in effect lighter, and up she comes again. All done by Archimedes’ principle, sir.”
“Archimedes?”
“You remember the chap, sir,” said the Wavemaker. “He lived in a barrel.”
“Ah yes,” said the Senior Scientist.
In the control room, the Schools Liaison Officer was explaining technical matters to a crowd of schoolboys. Keep it simple, The Bodger had said. Dagwood began his address on first principles.
“These levers raise and lower the periscopes, and these open and shut the main vents. The main vents are. . . .”
“Solenoid-operated, I suppose?” said a treble voice, casually.
“Huh?” Dagwood was thrown out of his stride. “As a matter of fact, they are. This is the starter for the L.P. Blower. . .”
“It puts the final bit of air into the ballast tanks after surfacing,” said another treble voice confidently. “Naturally you wouldn’t use air from the bottles for all of it. You would use only enough to get you to the surface. H.P. Air is too precious in a submarine.”
Dagwood felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle with the first cold feeling of foreboding.
“Quite right,” he said. “Now this. . .”
“The Germans used to use the exhaust gases from the engine starting instead.”
“Did they?” said Dagwood.
“Yes.”
A very small boy whose face was almost entirely extinguished by hair and by an enormous blue school cap said: “What would you do if the submarine began to drop towards the bottom, sir?”
'Dagwood thought rapidly.
“I would go hard a port, or hard a starboard, and full astern. That would tend to bring the bows up.”
“And if that didn’t work, sir?”
“Blow the forrard main ballast tank.”
“And if that didn’t work?”
“Blow all main ballast tanks.”
“And if that didn’t work?”
Dagwood had by now the attention of everyone in the control room; there was a hush as they waited for his answer.
“That would work all right,” he said finally. But he did not feel that he had convinced anybody.
Far aft in the after torpedo space, Leading Seaman Miles, the torpedo rating in charge of the compartment, was being asked the same question by another schoolboy.
“What would you do,” the questioner’s voice was charged with drama, “if the submarine began to hurtle towards the bottom of the sea completely out of control?”
“Face aft and salute, lad,” said Leading Seaman Miles easily.
Just aft of the control room, Leading Seaman Gorbles was explaining a delicate point to two schoolmasters.
“These are heads. What you call lavatories. There’s one for the officers, one for the petty officers and one for the sailors. That’s democracy.”
One of the schoolmasters had a dim memory connected with submarine toilets.
“Are they easy to work?”
“Dead easy. You just flush ’em. In the old days it was a bit tricky, you had to blow ’em over the side. You had to ring up the control room and ask the awficer of the watch before you did it. We used to get fed up with that rigmarole after a bit so we used to ring up and say: ‘Shit?’ and they said: ‘Shoot! ’ “
In the fore ends, the Midshipman was explaining the escape system to Miss Elizabeth Warbeck, her niece Miss Sarah Warbeck, and the ten daughters of gentlewomen in reduced circumstances. Miss Elizabeth Warbeck was a tiny but staunch lady, with the perky air of a gamecock. Her eyes were sharp and interested in all she saw, her cheeks were rosy and her silver hair was drawn into a bun. The ten daughters of gentlewomen in reduced circumstances were uniformly dressed in grey tunics and berets.
But the Midshipman was chiefly interested in Miss Sarah Warbeck. He had first seen her, or rather a part of her, when she came down the fore hatch. The Midshipman had then discovered one of the least-publicised advantages of a submariner’s life. No matter how tight her skirt nor how circumspectly she lowered herself, a girl descending through the fore hatch of a submarine was forced to display her legs.
The Midshipman had tactfully averted his eyes but could not prevent himself seeing enough of Miss Warbeck to whet his interest.
“This is an escape hatch,” he said. “This is where you see John Mills and Co looking terribly brave on the movies. You let this trunking down and flood up the compartment until the pressure inside is equal to the sea pressure outside. Then you can open the hatch and duck under the trunking and go on up to the surface.”
The Midshipman paused and glanced quickly at his audience to see how they were taking it. He was gratified by Miss Sarah Warbeck’s solemn expression.
“Of course in wartime,” he went on, “all this would be removed to save weight and the hatches would be secured from the outside with clips.”
“But that’s not fair! “ said Sarah Warbeck indignantly.
The Midshipman gave a sad shrug, as though to say, That’s the way the ball bounces.
“They have to be secured otherwise depth charges might blow them open. And anyway there wouldn’t be anyone there to pick you up even if you did escape.”
“I think that’s a swindle!” said Sarah Warbeck hotly.
The Midshipman gave another shrug, as though to say, Ah well, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
“Shall we look at the rest of the submarine?”
On their way they passed Gavin and a party of prefects from a girls’ grammar school. The prefects were fully-developed wenches, under their school tunics. Gavin was having difficulty in keeping them to the point.
“This is the Petty Officers’ Mess,” he announced.
“No, I live in the wardroom. The Coxswain lives here, and the Chief Stoker and. . . .”
“Ooooh, do look at the beds, darling. . . .”
“Bunks, Maureen darling. . .
“Not very big, are they?”
“Not big enough for two, darling. . . .”
“. . . And the Stoker Petty Officer and the Second Coxswain. . .
“It’s a good job you’re all men! “
“Do you ever get kleptomania?”
“Claustrophobia, darling.”
“Barbara, you coarse thing!”
“. . . And the Electrical Artificer and the Radio Electrician and the Torpedo Instructor. . .
“Who was that gorgeous man in white tabs. . .
The gorgeous man in white tabs was enjoying the effect his remarks were having on Miss Elizabeth Warbeck and her niece. Their minds were now filled with pictures of black swirling water, explosions, feeble lights, and men struggling for breath. Miss Elizabeth Warbeck looked with compassion upon the Midshipman; he seemed so young to die.
They visited the galley next. The Chef was there in person, splendidly dressed for the occasion in a white apron and a tall white hat. The Midshipman was thankful that the Chef was not wearing his usual working rig of football shorts and bare chest, because the Chef was luridly and comprehensively tattooed. His tattoos included the words “Mild” and “Bitter”, one over each nipple, and a dotted line round his throat, inscribed “Cut here”. He also had an assortment of sailing ships, dragons, butterflies, crossed swords, naked women, and “Mother” in a halo of laurel leaves, on his arms.
“Where did you get all those tattoos?” asked Miss Elizabeth Warbeck.
“Hong Kong, ma’am, Singapore, Yokohama, all over the place, ma’am.”
“I think they’re terrific,” said Miss Elizabeth Warbeck warmly. The Chef was charmed. He showed them over his tiny galley.
“How many chefs do you have on board?”
“Only me, ma’am.”
“Only one Chef? For how many men?”
“Nearly seventy, ma’am.”
“Good gracious! “
All day long the noise of battle rolled in Seahorse’s passageways and living spaces. The general public tramped determinedly through, fingering, pointing, gazing through the periscopes, and exclaiming to each other at the marvels they saw. On the jetty, a queue a quarter of a mile long awaited their turn. Derek, who was duty officer, sat in the wardroom feeling like a goldfish in a bowl and trying to ignore the whispers and the shuffling feet behind him. At last he was driven to his bunk and he lay there with his curtain drawn. But the more curious members of the public ventured into the wardroom, pulled the curtain aside, and peered at him. Derek ignored them and concentrated on his book. It was a submarine story, just published, by a popular writer of novels.
“A submarine in harbour,” Derek read, “is a lifeless, dead thing. It lies quiet, waiting, but with the hidden menace of a sheathed sword. . .”
4
The first comedian was a bulky man in a pale blue suit which hung baggily from his shoulders.
“A funny thing happened to me on the way to the theatre tonight!”
The second comedian was a thin man in a pale green suit gathered very tightly at the waist.
“A funny thing happened to you on the way to the theatre tonight?”
“Yes. I met a man who had fourteen children! “
“You met a man who had fourteen children?”
“He said his wife was deaf! “
“He said his wife was deaf?”
“Yes. Every night he said to her, Shall we go to sleep, dear, or what?”
“Ha! Every night he said to her, Shall we go to sleep, dear, or what? Go on, Jimmy.”
“I’m goin’ on. And every night she said, What?”
“Ha ha! Every night she said, What? Ha! Smashin’ audiences you get here in Oozemouth, eh Jimmy? Smashin’ audi. . .”
“I fell out of my bloody cradle laughing at that one!” shouted a voice from the dress circle which Gavin, sitting in the front row of the stalls, recognized as that of Leading Stoker Drew, of H.M.S. Seahorse.
“Turn it up, mate,” said Jimmy. “I wouldn’t knock the broom out of your hands if you were working. Did I ever tell you the one about the old lady who saw an elephant eating cabbages in her front garden, ’Arry?”
“No, Jimmy, you never told me the one about the old lady who saw a hephalump eating cabbages in her front garden. . .”
The Intimate Theatre was an Edwardian relic. The gaslight had been superseded by electricity but the chandelier in the foyer, the red plush seats, the gilded scroll work along the rim of the dress circle and the engraved glass on the box office window still remained. The theatre was a period piece. As the “Empire Palace”, it had billed Marie Lloyd and had staged the provincial runs of Floradora and The Belle of New York to packed houses. But the visitor in search of nostalgia would have been disappointed. The glory had long since departed. The stage of the Intimate Theatre was now inhabited by bored girls who exhibited their bodies on revolving pedestals for twelve pounds a week and by comedians who ground out jokes about sexual perversion. The theatre was due to become a supermarket at the end of the year.
Jimmy and Harry finished their patter. The orchestra struck up. Jimmy and Harry shuffled to the centre of the stage, sang two choruses of “Underneath The Arches”, waited for applause and, disappointed, shuffled off. The orchestra struck up again. A line of chorus girls galloped on and began to swing their legs mechanically at the audience. Leading Stoker Drew gave an appreciative howl and was helped from the theatre by two large men in shirt-sleeves.
“What do you think, Rusty?” said Gavin.
“Pretty starved-looking lot. You can count the ribs on that end one.”
“I like the second one from the end, though. The small dark one.”
“What do you say then, shall we try back-stage?”
“We’ll see. Getting back-stage in one of these places is like trying to break into the Kremlin. We’ll have to play it off the cuff.”
Three hundred yards away from the Intimate Theatre, in the same street, The Bodger, Wilfred and Dagwood had disposed of the Mayor’s clear soup and grilled sole and were preparing to attack the Mayor’s roast duck.
The dinner for the Captain of H.M.S. Seahorse was a civic occasion. The City of Oozemouth had laid out its best dinner service, polished its best silver, chilled its best hock, warmed its best claret, and decanted its best port. The Mayor and Mayoress were there in person, supported by a goodly muster of aldermen and their ladies. The Bodger, for his part, had changed into mess dress with miniature medals and a clean white stiff shirt. He had also brought Wilfred and Dagwood as moral support.
“I’ve been to these things before,” he said to them, as they sat in the Mayoral limousine which was bearing them towards the Mayor’s parlour. “You’ll get a first-class dinner and vino, but the conversation will drive you up the wall if you don’t watch it. Do either of you know anything about boiling soap or smelting copper?”
“No, sir.”
“You will, by the end of this evening. That’s the sort of thing these characters are pretty hot on. By the way, I’ve been boning up on a little local colour. Oozemouth United got to the semi-final of the F.A. Cup last year. The Oozemouth Festival Orchestra is second only to the Liverpool Philharmonic amongst provincial orchestras, though you’d better say for the sake of argument tonight that it’s the best. Oozemouth makes the best electric light bulbs in the world and remained loyal to the Crown during the Civil War. That’s about all I’ve managed to pick up.”
“Thank you very much, sir,” said Wilfred and Dagwood gratefully.
After the initial commonplaces about the weather, the traffic, and the criminal financial policy of the government had been exchanged, it suddenly became clear that The Bodger had seriously misjudged the conversational range of his hosts. Wh
ile The Bodger was shyly admiring the delicate colouring of the Goldbeerenauslese in his glass, the conversation took an unexpected and vaguely hostile turn.
“Commander,” said the Mayor. “Tell me something I’ve always wanted to know about submarines.”
The Bodger composed himself to answer the usual chestnuts on claustrophobia and escape from sunken submarines.
“Why do men, like yourself for instance, go into submarines? What sort of man would do a thing like that?” The cue was taken up at once by an alderman sitting further down the table whom The Bodger later discovered was the city’s most prosperous undertaker.
“It is condemned in Holy Writ,” said the Undertaker stridently. “Thou didst blow with Thy wind, the sea covered them: they sank as lead in the mighty waters. Exodus, fifteen, ten. And again,” the Undertaker’s voice rose thrillingly, “And their persecutors Thou threwest into the deeps, as a stone into the mighty waters. Nehemiah, nine, eleven.”
A ripple of agreement ran down the table.
“. . . Hear hear, Jeb. . .”
“. . . Took the words out of my mouth. . . .”
“... Pure weapons of destruction, that’s what they are . . . “
“. . . Should be banned. . . .”
“Nasty underhand things,” said the Undertaker’s wife.
Wilfred, sitting next to her, thought it time to change the subject.
“That was a jolly good show in the F.A. Cup last year,” he said, brightly, “I mean, getting as far as the semifinals. . .”
Wilfred’s voice trailed away into silence when the Undertaker’s wife looked at him.
The Bodger had been taken off guard by the unexpected and spiritually well-documented attack. He felt his way cautiously towards an answer.
“I don’t know that it’s up to me to say whether we should have submarines or not,” he said. “The fact is, we’ve got them, everybody else who can afford them has got them, and lots of people who can’t afford them would very much like to have them. As to why people go into submarines, that’s very hard to answer. You might just as well ask why do people become missionaries or shoplifters. I suppose the extra money has something to do with it but I’m sure that basically it all comes down to the question of which would you rather do, run your own firm, however small, or help to run someone else’s, however big. Would you rather be a small cog in a big machine or a big cog in a small machine. Most of our ship’s company are big cogs in a small machine. They’re nearly all specialists. They have clearly defined jobs and in most cases they’re the only man for that job, although all of them can do the basic things in a submarine which everybody should be able to do. Take the chef as an example. His actual rate is Leading Cook. In a cruiser or an aircraft carrier he would probably be in charge of a watch of cooks, one cook in over a dozen. But in Seahorse he’s not just any chef, he’s the chef. He’s one of the ship’s personalities by reason of his job, if nothing else. Everyone in a submarine has a much greater identity, if you see what I mean, than his counterpart in general service. Everybody in a submarine has a much better idea of what’s happening. In an aircraft carrier I don’t suppose more than ten per cent of the men on board know what’s going on at any given time. But in a submarine news goes round in a matter of minutes. The chart is on the chart-table in the control room most of the time. Anyone passing by can see where we are and where we’re going.”