by John Winton
The ship had been rebuilt and redesigned so often that there had grown up a popular notion in the Fleet that young constructors joining the Royal Corps were given Carousel to practise on, like a teething ring. Her armament changed from her original force of nine 6-inch guns, in triple turrets, to multiple batteries of anti-aircraft guns, by way of quick-firing radar-controlled 4-inch guns in double turrets. Her radar was modified at annual intervals. A helicopter landing platform was built on the quarterdeck and removed before it had ever known the beat of wings. Mine-laying rails were laid out along the main deck but laying ports were never cut in the ship’s side. There were sudden changes, steps, drops, and inclines on every deck. Many pipes disappeared into bulkheads, never to reappear. Compartments existed all over the ship whose original purpose had long been forgotten and every passageway contained anonymous fuse boxes, plugs and brackets which baffled the ship’s company. The ship’s external appearance had changed so often that at last even “Jane’s Fighting Ships” admitted defeat. Carousel was struck from the lift of the other 8,ooo-ton cruisers of her class and given a special half-page of her own, her photograph being headed by the curt and aggrieved notice--”The silhouette of this ship is liable to radical change without warning.”
Such a ship could be expected to be temperamental and Carousel was as unpredictable as a prima donna. Her steering gear was liable to inexplicable failures. She had a tendency to sheer to port when going astern and was skittish and playful coming to a buoy in a tideway. But Carousel was too old and wise a ship ever to allow herself to get into serious difficulties. She handled like a fast motor boat, accelerated like a hurdler, and turned as quickly as a barmaid. She had never been known to run aground or collide with another ship and she had never damaged a jetty. She knew her way into Devonport better than her officers and went up the Hamoaze as confidently as an old mare approaching her stable.
The ship’s temperament was reflected in her officers and ship’s company. She was reputed to have the same effect upon her officers as old Istanbul had upon the suleimans; according to superstition, sooner or later all Carousel’s officers became slightly, pleasantly, harmlessly, but definitely, insane.
“You’ll like it here, Bodger,” said Jimmy Forster-Jones, the Commander.
“I hope so, Jimmy.”
“Everyone here is slightly round the bend. The chap you were supposed to be relieving thought he was a poached egg. We made him a huge piece of toast and he sat on it all day quite happily.”
The Bodger, once more back in a seagoing wardroom with a glass in his hand, was completely at home.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Jimmy,” he said. “It’s really good to see you again.”
“And it’s good to see you, Bodger. Seriously, we need you badly, to get some sanity back into those damn mess-decks. We’ve only just commissioned and the troops are getting restless already. Don’t blame ’em. About fifty of them have to live in spaces which the R.S.P.C.A. would be on your backs for keeping a dog in.”
“The whole trouble,” The Bodger said, confidently, “is that constructors don’t have to go to sea in the ships they design. If they did, then we’d see a difference. Tell me, with all due respect and all that, Jimmy, I thought you were passed over?”
“I was, but almost immediately my Navigating Officer lost some C.B.s. It was partly my fault, because I didn’t keep a close enough eye on him. I lost six months, got back into the zone, and was promoted next shot. It’s a strange life. Now I must push off and introduce the rest of the trogs to the Captain.”
“He was very civil to me just now.”
“Oh, Richard’s calmed down a lot. He’s got a phobia against Chinamen. He hasn’t been ashore anywhere yet except for official calls. Just the man to send to command a ship in the Far East, don’t you think?”
Captain Richard St Clair Gilpin had not changed, except for the fourth stripe on his sleeve. He looked down his nose at Paul, who was being introduced by Commander (E), just as he had looked at him in Barsetshire years before. “We’ve met before, haven’t we, Vincent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that your best uniform?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Great heavens, boy, when a young Lieutenant meets his Captain for the first time he tries for once in his life to look smart and not like a walking scranbag!”
“I don’t think Vincent has had time to unpack yet, sir,” Commander (E) put in soothingly.
“Maybe. Maybe. What job are you giving him, Chief?”
“Outside machinery, sir. Taking over from Cardew, sir.”
“Ah. Well, Vincent, I don’t need to tell you that your part of the ship is vital, Steering gear, refrigerators and all that sort of thing can have a big effect on the morale of the ship’s company.”
“I realize that, sir,” said Paul, astonished that the Captain knew what machinery was in the Outside Department.
“We’ve had trouble from them in the past but now that you’re in the chair I expect everything to work properly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And never let yourself get the feeling that your efforts are going unnoticed.”
“No, sir.”
“Good. That’s all.”
Michael was waiting outside, with the Commander. “Lieutenant Hobbes, sir.”
“We’ve met before, haven’t we, Hobbes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that your best uniform?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need a new one.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“What job is Hobbes getting, Commander?”
“Boats and laundry, sir. For the first few months.”
“Well, Hobbes, I don’t need to tell you how important those two particular departments are to the morale of the ship’s company.”
“No, sir.”
“A ship is judged by her boats and by the appearance of her libertymen, Hobbes. If the boats are dirty and late, and the libertymen are scruffy, the ship gets a bad name. We have a lot to do in this commission to give the ship a good name. I give you that thought to take away with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That’s all, Hobbes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
On his way along the passageway from the cuddy, Michael suddenly stopped. He had seen what he thought was a ghost. A midshipman was walking towards him.
“Hoy! “ Michael shouted. “Your face is bloody familiar?” The midshipman grinned. “You probably knew my eldest brother, sir.”
“Tom Bowles?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And you’re his youngest brother?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Andrew Bowles, sir. My other brother’s name is Simon, sir. He’s a sub-lieutenant.”
Michael walked on, with a sense of shock. Tom Bowles’s youngest brother in a midshipman’s uniform somehow made Michael feel about ninety years old. He went up to the quarter-deck and into the wardroom feeling as though he ought to be on crutches.
Carousel's wardroom was a long room just off the quarterdeck, panelled in wood upon which hung photographs of the Royal Family and the inevitable wardroom Van Gogh prints. Michael caught sight of Tubby Rowlands, whom he was relieving, by the bar.
“I’m jolly glad you’ve come,” said Tubby.
“Flow long have you been here, then?” Michael asked. “Too bloody long. I was here all through last commission. I’ve been here two years and eight months.”
“That is a long time.”
“You can say that again, boy.”
“Do you know what your next job is?”
“Haven’t the remotest idea. Looney bin, I expect. That’s where most people go after this outfit. I can’t think why you didn’t relieve me while we were still in the Med. I’ve just got out here and now I’ve got to go all the way back. Not that I mind, though.”
“The ship’s only just got out here?
”
“Christ, yes. We’ve only just got worked up. We’re only just out of the egg.”
“What was the work up like?”
“It was hell, boy, hell. We came scooting out of the dockyard with dockyard maties leaping ashore like rats leaving a sinking ship. I expect you’ll find a few still on board if you like to look around a bit. Then we went to sea for a shakedown cruise and boy, was that a shakedown! It shook us all right! We had all our trials, noise ranging, degaussing, measured mile, turning and manoeuvring, full power trial, radar calibration, the lot. . .”
“But what kind of refit was this? It couldn’t have been a full-scale one.”
“God no, they just put that Thing on B gun-deck. Nobody’s seen it yet. It’s been covered with a tarpaulin ever since it’s been on board. The boffins insisted that the ship go through all her party tricks. Of course we had them on board as well, crawling all over the place, most of them looking for the heads. I’ve never known anyone like boffins for looking for the heads, they must all have bladders like paper bags.”
“You must have had quite a time. . .
“But wait. Behold, the half has not been told you. We repelled aircraft attacks, surface attacks, frogmen attacks and submarine attacks. We replenished a destroyer and a tanker replenished us. We’ve taken in oil fuel, fresh water, ammunition, potatoes. . .”
“Potatoes. . .”
“Vital, boy, vital. Must have potatoes. As I was saying, we took in stuff and gave out stuff at every point of the compass. We defended ourselves from attacks from above, below, right, left, north, south and up the chuff. We had ourselves a whale of a time.”
“Sounds like it,” said Michael admiringly. He knew that Tubby Rowlands was being anything but enthusiastic but, in spite of that, Michael found himself looking forward to Carousel. She sounded the sort of ship where at least something was happening all the time.
Michael looked around him. It was past twelve o’clock and the wardroom was filling up. It occurred to Michael that, though the actors were different, this same scene was being enacted at that time of day in every ship throughout the Navy. Just beside Michael a stout Gunner was reaching for his first gin of the day as eagerly as Tantalus grasping for the wine. Beyond him, two doctors were throwing dice for the first round and in the corner three lieutenant-commanders, one fat, one thin, and one with red hair, were staring bitterly into their glasses; occasionally one would direct on the others a stare of extreme loathing. Commander (S) was writing painfully in the mess suggestion book, sucking a stub of pencil and gaping at the deckhead for inspiration. The stewards were servings drinks as hostilely as though they hoped that they were arsenic. The Chief Steward was watching the chit book as closely as though it were drawn from his own bank account. A burst of laughter rose from a group which included The Bodger. The general level of talk began to rise.
“We’ve got a good crowd here on the whole,” Tubby Rowlands said. “The Commander’s quite a bright spark. The two and a halfs are a bit promotion-conscious but they’re not a bad shower really. The new Jimmy’s got quite a reputation as a player. . . .”
“The Bodger, you mean?”
“Yes. This is the first time I’ve met him. I left Dartmouth before he arrived. I think he’s an old chum of the Commander’s.”
“He’s certainly a player,” Michael said.
“We can’t have too many of them. Well, let’s go and eat and then I’ll show you the whole works. The laundry shouldn’t worry you too much. All you’ve go to do is humour Number One Boy. He does all the work. Just see that the bloody Chinese don’t start knocking each other off one dark night.”
On the way out Michael saw Paul talking to a bunch of officers whom he guessed were engineers.
“I hope you’ve got all the usual vices, Vincent?” Ginger Piggant, the Senior Engineer, was saying.
“I think so, sir.”
“Good. I must go and talk to The Bodger.”
“What’s he like as Senior?” Paul asked.
“Bloody good,” said Cardew. “Doesn’t mess you about. He has a hard time of it sometimes, explaining things to Commander (E) in words of one syllable. Chief’s not a bad old stick but they didn’t have most of the stuff we’ve got in this vessel in the Victory or the Ark, or wherever he got his ticket. Chief’s one of the people commonly referred to as ‘the old school’. I sometimes think he lost faith in the service when they dropped coal. He and Pilgrim get on like twin souls. . .
“Mr Pilgrim? Is he here?”
“Oh, yes. He and Commander (E) were boy artificers together. On guest nights they get drunk and tell each other what Jackie Fisher said to Nelson the day they introduced steam into the Navy. Let’s go and see what enormity the Messman has perpetrated on us today and then I’ll show you around. Everything’s going like a box of birds at the moment so you shouldn’t have too much trouble.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to give me a pretty good run through,” Paul said. “I’m not exactly an expert on steering gear and things like that.”
“Oh, you’ll learn, boy, you’ll learn.”
5
Top Flat (Back),
1003A Gloucester Road,
Hong Kong.
Dear Commander Royal Navy,
There is much happy joy with me in writing to you. Myself and fourteen nieces have many happy customers (navy officers special) in years gone by. Always I have tried to make satisfaction for my customers. For the rubbish of your ship myself and fourteen nieces clean your bottom. This is very special offer for navy ships for in normal times we take money for rubbish as well as bottom.
We make bottoms specially clean than all other for Royal Navy ship.
Myself and fourteen nieces,
Joan
(Mrs J. Ah Loo Tuck).
The Commander put down the letter and went next door to Commander (S)’s cabin.
“Cyril,” he said, “how many nieces did Joan have when you were last out here?”
Commander (S) thought back to the high and palmy days when he had been a young lieutenant on the China Station. Life had been more leisurely, the girls had been prettier, and money had gone farther.
“I couldn’t say off-hand,” he said. “But I rather think it was about a dozen. Perhaps a few more. Why, how many has she got now?”
“Fourteen.”
“These Chinese live a long time you know, Jimmy.” “Obviously. Joan’s nieces last as long as Number One Boy’s nephews.”
The Commander went back to his cabin and found The Bodger waiting.
“What can I do for you, Bodger?”
“I had a compassionate requestman this morning. I wondered if you had any back history.”
The Commander took out a massive file from a drawer and laid it on his desk. “Let’s have a look at my Domesday Book,” he said.
“God, that’s some tome you’ve got there, Jimmy!”
“It’s got everyone in the ship’s company in it.”
“What are the numbers for, by some of the names?”
“Aha, that’s their code rating in the Forster-Jones Scale for compassionate leave. It works like the Beaufort Scale. It’s a quick way of letting the Old Man and me know what we’re in for. Care to have a copy?”
“Surely.” The Bodger picked up the sheet and studied it. It was headed “The Forster-Jones Scale for the Assessment of Nervousness in Wives. Why be in doubt, when you can know the worst?” The sheet was ruled off in columns, with a number and a corresponding explanation.
1. Married for years. No illusions left; likes the money but no use for hubby who can go abroad for as long as he likes, as often as he likes, and the best of British luck to him, provided he keeps up his allotment.
2. Happy on her own; can manage house and children herself. All relatives healthy and self-supporting. Realizes her husband is in the Navy and does not object to him doing his share of foreign service.
“To give ’em credit,” said the Commander, “most of them are like
that.”
3. Can’t manage the children but otherwise O.K. Needs husband to bash the brats periodically.
4. All right by day, but definitely misses something at night. Wants husband kept in easy bus distance with no night duty. Will suffer from the vapours unless this is done.
5. Lonely, hysterical and maladjusted; pregnant for Nth time (where N tends to infinity). Friendless in heart of overcrowded industrial town. Cancellation of foreign draft and immediate posting home recommended by a Dr Yehudi.
“Now you’re getting warmer,” said the Commander.
6. Going to end it all. Hears burglars in the house every night. No neighbours closer than next door. Requires husband (a key rating) flown home at once.
7. Knows what she married for and it was not for her husband to go gallivanting about with unmentionable Chinese girls. Wants him back the day before yesterday. (Doctor certifies return will be “most advisable and beneficial.”) Will write to MP if not accommodated.
“Wait for it,” said the Commander.
8. Has been going round with a Pole. Husband has anonymous letter. Horrible language, hard lying, divorce. Husband to be kept at home for court case.
9. Very naughty girl but has turned over new leaf. Husband has promised to accept and grow to love little blessing now on way. However, must be flown home now and stopped draft for five years to “cement” relationship.
“Then,” said the Commander sadly, “will I strip my sleeve and show my scars and say, ‘These wounds had I from compassionate cases’.”
10. Psycho-neurotic, suicidal, nymphomaniac. Husband required day and night. No time for naval duties but must have pay. Constituent of Labour M.P.
“Jimmy, this is a masterpiece! “ cried The Bodger. “Every divisional officer should have one. You should put it up for the old Herbert Lott Fund. You might get an award. Can I keep this?”
“By all means. Who is this bloke you’re enquiring about?”