by John Winton
Another memorable day for The Bodger was the Sailing Regatta. The River Dart became for that day a scene of seething nautical activity, with much bending on of lines, hoisting of sails, dipping of lugs and casting off of painters to a running accompaniment of shouts of ‘Luff up!’ ‘Check that sheet!’, ‘Lee-oh!’ and even ‘Fore!’ David Bowie and Tom Bowles carried off the dinghy races between them, Peter Cleghorn showed an unsuspected--and unrepeated--talent for sailing in winning the whaler race, while Mr Froud won the Officers and Masters Race with a crew of Beattys.
Mr Froud’s crew included Michael and Paul who normally went to the river only when forced but who, finding themselves temporarily in the House of Rimmon, philosophically hauled on lines and shifted their weights forward or aft as directed by the Cadet Gunner. They found that Mr Froud, out of uniform and into a boat, suffered a sea-change and became one of the most kindly and charming of men.
Mr Froud was not a sailing enthusiast. He sailed a boat once a year, at the Regatta. His boat was always a cutter and his crew always six Beattys whom he had singled out as being unlikely to become Gunnery Officers. Mr Froud cared nothing for the subtleties of sailing. One starting gun was very like another and Mr Froud watched with almost oriental detachment whilst other boats, manned by officers, masters and cadets who were conscious that the eye of the world was upon them, made a sliding, drifting melee at the starting line. Meanwhile Mr Froud concentrated on the cold chicken and bottled beer which his wife had provided and ordered his crew to do likewise.
When his race started and Mr Froud looked about him at the blue water, the curve of the sail and the green combes of Devon on either side he said: ‘I wish my small daughter was here,’ and his crew understood him.
It was Mr Froud’s custom to sing as the end of the race came near, and when he crossed the finishing line with the tiller in one hand and a bottle of Pale Ale in the other, chanting the opening staves of ‘The Harlot of Jerusalem,’ the Beattys in his boat felt that for an afternoon they had shared the company of a great and good man.
The Beattys’ own private sporting events also made The Bodger hug his sides. There was the Obstacle Race in the gymnasium when Spink, who had never before mastered the science of climbing a rope, amazed the P.T.I, by swarming with galvanic speed using his hands only to the top of the rope and sticking there, petrified with fright. When the P.T.I, exhorted him to-- ‘Come down, lad. Come down ‘and over ‘and like I showed you’ Spink slid to the bottom and was led away to the Sick Bay with rope burns.
Spink was not the only casualty. The Beattys’ success had not been achieved without cost. In the Sick Bay Spink joined Maconochie who had lain spreadeagled in bed since the day of the cricket match; the india-rubber Cartwright whom Nemesis had overtaken and thrown from the high bar, with a broken collar-bone; and the Burmese Starboard Tak, who had nearly drowned at the Swimming Regatta. Starboard Tak had been carried to the Sick Bay after the P.T.I, had forced from his lungs a quantity of liquid which resembled muddy Irrawaddy river water.
The last landmarks of the summer term were the Passing Out Divisions and the Prizegiving after it. The Beattys were not eligible for most of the prizes and watched unmoved while diminutive cadets from other terms doubled up to receive prizes for the winning Prize Essay on ‘Nelson in Naples’ and the award for the Fastest-Tied Reef Knot of the term. The prizegiving Admiral’s speech afterwards, however, affected everybody.
The visiting Admiral was one of that handful of naval officers who have been in the public eye for as long as the public can remember. His exploits about Town as a young lieutenant, his Victoria Cross, his eye-patch and his aquiline shaving cream advertisement type of features had made for him a place in the public affection seldom equalled by any officer. At the time of speaking he was the nearest thing to Beatty since Beatty himself. Privately, inside the service, he was known as the man who was determined, when the time came, to shake the base of the old saw that First Sea Lords may come and First Sea Lords may go, but civil servants go on for ever.
This was the man who faced the cadets from his dais, looking quizzically at the rows of faces, as though he were already casting them for the film of his life story.
The cadets were just as interested in looking at the Admiral. They all knew that this man was above the common run of Admirals, an international celebrity whose personality commanded a place not only in the headlines of the Daily Disaster but also in the more exclusive captions of The Tatler and Bystander. The cadets were keen to hear what this magnificent man, who bore the palm before the majestic world, would have to say to such insignificant dross as themselves; they were curious to know upon what meat had this Caesar fed that he had grown so great.
The Admiral distributed the last prizes, shot his cuffs, glanced at the clock and prepared to speak.
‘Very soon, gentlemen,’ said the Admiral, ‘you will be serving as midshipmen in the fleet. I don’t think any of you realise at the moment just what an important part you have to play in the fleet. When I was Captain of my own ship I paid very close attention to my midshipmen, closer than they welcomed. When you’re a midshipman you’re nearer to the sailors than you will ever be again in your service career. If there’s any trouble in the ship, the midshipmen will know about it. If there is anything wrong in a ship which the officers don’t know about, then it’s the midshipmen’s fault for not knowing.
‘That position brings its responsibilities. Nobody expects a midshipman to know very much. I didn’t expect mine to know anything. I was very pleased when they showed that they did. They were young and they made plenty of mistakes. That didn’t matter. I’ve made plenty myself.’
The senior officers, masters and other important people who were seated behind the Admiral like subsidiary gods ranged behind Jove on Olympus, looked incredulous, as though they had just heard Jove admit that his thunderbolts sometimes missed.
‘I didn’t mind them making mistakes. But what I did mind and what did annoy me very much was them failing to try to do their duty as leaders. All of you are going to be leaders in the Navy. Your duty will be to lead men by your personal example and your own officer-like qualities. And don’t think you’re home and dry already and you know it all. You’ve only got the uniform so far and you’re only here through the efforts of your parents. From here on, it’s up to you and nobody else. Your men will never follow you if they don’t respect you. If my midshipmen had the courage to do their best all the time, to stick to their principles and to speak out when the time came, then I backed them up. I’ll give you an example of what I mean.’
The subsidiary gods showed interest. A ripple of preparation ran through them. As clearly as though the words had been spoken, the message ran--’Funny story coming up!’
‘Early in the war when we were at action stations in the Channel I wanted to speak to my ship’s company over the main broadcast. I began to speak and I was surprised that I couldn’t hear my voice coming over the bridge repeater. I tried again and still nothing happened. Just as I was giving up in disgust and deciding to send for my Electrical Officer, a young midshipman, I think he was Navigating Officer’s Tanky, stepped up and said: “If you took the microphone cover off, sir, and switched on the transmitter, I think it would work, sir.” And so it was. I’d forgotten in the heat of the moment. I didn’t say anything to that midshipman myself but afterwards I overheard my Navigating Officer take that midshipman aside and say: “I know you’re new to this and don’t know the form, old man, but let me tell you that it’s an old service custom that Captains are not given bottles by midshipmen!” ‘
The cadets rocked with laughter. The lesser gods howled, rolled in their seats, hooting, holding their sides and wiping tears from their eyes. When the Admiral laughs, all laugh.
‘Now I expect you’re all saying that it’s all very well for me to talk, but how does one become a leader? There are no hard and fast rules, I’m afraid. It’s not a thing you can teach by correspondence course. You learn by ex
perience, and I can’t give you that experience and I don’t think I would even if I could. But I can give you some hints.
‘First of all, you must know what you’re doing. You must know your job. It’s no good leading men if you don’t know where you’re leading them. You’ll be like the grand old Duke of York who marched his men to the top of the hill and then marched them down again.
‘You must know your men. You must try and understand that you’re not dealing with machines but with people who feel and react and behave in different ways in different circumstances.
Unless you take the trouble to get to know them, you’re wasting your time. I don’t mean just a chap’s name and official number and whether he’s G or T. I mean what sort of a person is he, what is his background, and what’s he thinking about the ship and his job and his mess.
‘You must look after your men. There are no bad ratings, only bad officers. You must make it your business to see to their welfare. Never be too tired to speak to a chap when he wants your advice, never dismiss a complaint without investigating it, and never neglect an opportunity for advancing a rating or helping him in his job. And don’t try to be popular. It’s the curse of the Navy. There are too many nice officers in the Navy as it is.
‘Above all, keep your sense of humour. This is really vital. Given two men of the same ability, the man with the sense of humour will go furthest. By that I don’t mean a nasty, vicious, carping sense of humour. You must still be loyal to your men and to those above you. What I mean is the ability to recover from setbacks, the ability to take each day as it comes, and the ability to see the funny side whatever happens. It’s a priceless asset. Value it above gold. I well remember when my ship was torpedoed, I found myself floating about in the water next to my Sergeant-Major of Royal Marines, my Regulating Chief Stoker, and one of my Lieutenants. The Chief Stoker wiped the oil out of his eyes, looked around him, saw the Lieutenant and me, grinned and said to the Sergeant-Major: “Gawd, ain’t it amazin’ how all the scum comes to the top!” ‘
Again a concerted paroxysm of laughter swept down and across the hall and back. Once more the senior officers turned and looked wonderingly at each other, their faces crinkled with laughter.
‘Now I know that on these occasions the best moment of all comes when the Admiral gets what he’s got to say off his chest and goes. Gentlemen, that great moment is now at hand. Good luck to you all, and thank you.’
Afterwards, the Admiral circulated with a drink in his hand among the College officers.
‘Let me see now. Badger, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you remember that microphone cover?’
‘Very well indeed, sir. I shake when I think back on it.’
‘Never mind. It was a perfect example of the kind of thing I was trying to put across. Do they still call you The Bodger?’
‘I’m afraid they do, sir.’
‘Must be something in it. What are you doing here?’
‘I’m in charge of the Beattys, sir.’
‘How do you find them?’
‘Great fun, sir. Quite a promising lot. They can be infuriating, of course, but on the whole I find them very rewarding, sir.’
‘Do you like training jobs?’
‘It’s a very great responsibility, sir. More than almost any job. I’m very fond of it.’
‘I’m glad you find it so. I think you’re quite right, too. We need officers with a sense of vocation to fill these jobs. Well, I’m glad to have met you again, Badger.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The Admiral moved on.
Others closed round The Bodger.
‘Well, I don’t know what you’re all getting on about,’ said The Bodger indignantly. ‘What was I to say? The man asks me if I enjoy it. I do. So I tell him so. That’s not to say I want another job like this one. It would kill me. Anyway, they’re a bloody good crowd. Beat your lot at tennis last Sunday, anyway.’
‘Oh well, if you’re going to bring that up.’
The night before the Beattys left Dartmouth, The Bodger intimated that he and his staff would be in ‘The Floating Bridge’ and there would be beer for anyone who cared to come. Lieutenant Mathewson sang a song about lunatic asylums which had the refrain: ‘Come inside you silly bastards, come inside.’ Lieutenant Chipperd sang a song with the refrain: ‘And the pig got up and slowly walked away.’ Lieutenant Brakeherst recited a version of ‘The Boy on the Burning Deck,’ with gestures. Mr Fraud sang ‘The Harlot of Jerusalem.’
The Bodger made a speech. Mr Froud was the toast-master.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen, pray silence for Lieutenant-Commander Robert Bollinger Badger, Royal Navy, otherwise known as The Bodger!’
There was a tempest of clapping and shouts of ‘Bodger for king!’ as The Bodger climbed laboriously on to a table-and waved his tankard.
‘Gentlemen, this is for me a sad, sad moment. When I think of this splendid College of ours, the amount of taxpayers’ money lavished upon it, the equipment it has for turning reasonable officer material out of the raw natural state, when I consider that I am now looking round at the survivors of the worst that College can do, when I realise that I see before me the Navy’s future officers and leaders, the sifted and graded results of three months’ work, the cream of a proud mother country, then I think to myself--”God help us!”‘
The Bodger took a huge swallow from his tankard.
‘But do not be dismayed. Worse men than you have reached flag rank. The path to the top is lined with stinkers. The game is to outstink the next bastard, to out-Herod the er--next bastard. People will tell you the Navy’s going to the dogs. And so it is. It’s been going to the dogs ever since I can remember, certainly since I joined. My father was a naval officer and the Navy was going to the dogs in his day. My grandfather was a naval officer and he left the Navy because it was going to the dogs. They were thinking of introducing steam or something. My great-grandfather--now what the hell did my great-grandfather do?--oh, yes, he refused to join the Navy in spite of all my great-great-grandfather could do because he thought the Navy had gone to the dogs. He didn’t approve of Lady Hamilton. My great-great-grandfather ... so don’t be alarmed when people tell you the Navy’s going to the dogs. It’s always going to the dogs. It’s when people stop saying it’s going to the dogs and start telling you what a splendid service it is and how much better and better it’s going to be in the future, that’s when you start worrying. As long as everybody is saying the Navy is going to the dogs then you’ve nothing to worry about. All is well.
‘Having said that, I will now give you a toast. I want you to drink with me to the future. The future’s in your hands and may you have as good a time making as big a mess of it as your fathers and grandfathers before you. Good luck to you all in the future and particularly in the Training Cruiser where you’ll need it, believe me. I don’t know who will be in charge of you in the Training Cruiser but I wish him luck as well!’
The Beattys made a strange picture on the station platform. They had been issued with one trunk and enough kit to fill three. Those cadets who had not taken the advice of the pensioners who cleaned out the chest flats and sent home for extra luggage found themselves in difficulties. Maconochie travelled up to London looking as though he had been evicted by the bailiffs with his trunk, a canvas hold-all, three laundry bags full of shoes, five paper parcels and a pair of boots hung over his arm by their laces.
Michael went up to London with three trunks and no very clear idea of what he had learnt at Dartmouth or even why he had been sent there.
‘Never mind, Mike,’ said Paul. ‘All things come to those who wait. Think what you know now that you didn’t know before. I can’t think of anything offhand but there must be something. I know! You’re a leader, boy! You’ve got the uniform to prove it!’
6
H.M.S. Barsetshire, the Cadet Training Cruiser, was a comfortable ship, at least in the opinion of her officers and her
ship’s company. The cadets’ opinion of her was not known, nor was it consulted. She had been built in the spacious days before Hitler, when it was not unusual for a naval officer to have a private income and when recruiting for the Navy was not a subject of party recrimination in Parliament but depended on more mundane influences, such as the end of the hop-picking and harvesting seasons and the decline of local industries. Her high speed and four funnels made her ideal for service on the China Station where the one enabled her to return from Wei Hai Wei in record time for the Hong Kong Races and the other four impressed the Chinese. Her peacetime service in the tropics evidently demonstrated her admirable qualities for wartime service in the Arctic, for she never steamed south of the British Isles throughout the war except after D-Day when she was attacked off the Normandy coast by a group of Messerschmitts who, it was assumed, mistook her for the newly constructed Mulberry Harbour. After the war, most of Barsetshire’s armament was removed and extra superstructure built in its place. The re-distribution of weights gave her plenty of living and class-room space and a capacity for rolling immoderately in quite moderate seas. She was therefore re-classified and re-commissioned as a Cadet Training Cruiser.
It was raining, gently but steadily, when the new cadets first saw Barsetshire lying alongside the dockyard wall. She was a depressing sight and her grey bulk in the rain, the dreary jetty littered with the bones and intestines of other ships, and the concealed fear of an unknown life ahead of them combined to chill the hearts of the newly-joining cadets.
If the cadets were not glad to see Barsetshire, Barsetshire was not glad to see them. The Junior Cadets were met by the Cadet of the Watch and the Bosun’s Mate standing, sodden and dripping, at the salute.