DEEP DOWN IT MAKES SENSE

Looking back, it seems that although I never actually served in a submarine, my life has been connected to the Silent Service for quite a number of years, in the Senior Service and also civilian life. 

Leaving my parental home in Whitley Bay, I joined the Royal Navy on 18 October, 1965, after taking a long train journey (about 14 hours) from Newcastle upon Tyne mainline station via London to Torpoint, Cornwall. I was reading the science fiction novel Childhood’s End by Arthur C Clarke). I was inducted in HMS Raleigh, one of several RN training establishments, where I learned to march, tie knots, tackle obstacle courses, pass the swimming test wearing overalls, and many other nautical things that comprised Part I Training. From here the ratings were dispersed to a variety of establishments for specialist training, depending on their allocated branch. My branch was Supply and Secretariat (S&S): I was a Writer, which seemed appropriate since I’d written a novel when I was sixteen.

After specialist training in Chatham (Part II Training) I was drafted to the brick ship HMS St Vincent, Gosport, Hants, working in the Captain’s office. [This establishment has since been converted into a school]. My Service Certificate attests that I volunteered for the Submarine Service – though there were not many billets for writers; the branch only served on the larger submarines, not the conventional diesel vessels.

My first seagoing ship was the tribal-class frigate HMS Zulu (F124) which I joined on 27 April 1967 at Rosyth. Our office comprised a staff of two writers and a petty officer writer. Unfortunately in May, while the ship was exercising off Scotland, I developed a resistant cough which alarmed the Sick Berth medic so I had to be landed at HMS Neptune, Faslane – the Clyde Submarine Base. I was diagnosed with urti (upper respiratory tract infection). The shore-based sick bay was my first encounter with submariners.

I was fortunate to have a room to myself – the coughing was quite horrendous and disturbing to anyone else in the vicinity; for me, it was just painful. On the left-hand side of the bed was a bookcase crammed with books. Hitherto, my reading material at the time was spy novels and thrillers, science fiction, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Conan Doyle and Wilbur Smith adventures. In the bookcase, however, I found a good number of books by Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, and Georges Simenon, which I read voraciously.

A couple of hospitalised old salts popped in to see me – they’d heard my coughing, no doubt, since it was quite alarming and pronounced – and introduced themselves and asked me if I was on a boat. I said, ‘Yes. HMS Zulu.’

‘That’s not a boat,’ I was told most firmly, ‘it’s a ship. A boat is a submarine.’

‘Oh.’ Well, you live and learn.

When I finished my first seagoing deployment on Zulu – flying from Singapore to UK – I was drafted to the brick ship HMS Dolphin on the staff of Flag Officer Submarines (FOSM) in Gosport on 1 December 1969. Dolphin was the base for the First SM Squadron, comprising conventional submarines and here also was sited the distinctive Tower for training submariners, the SETT – Submarine Escape Training Tank. The SETT was commissioned in 1954 and continued pressurised submarine escape training until 2009.

I worked in the Drafting Office for submariners, an office above Alecto Colonnade. The whole office was transferred to a new building, HMS Centurion, Gosport in May 1970; other drafting office personnel (responsible for surface ship postings) – Commodore Naval Drafting – joined us from Haslemere, Lythe Hill, Surrey. Centurion was ‘commissioned’ 16 October 1970 as the RN pay and records establishment; its computers then were ICL machines.

While there I drafted Supply & Secretariat and Medical personnel to Nuclear, Polaris and conventional submarines. At that time, the squadrons consisted of: First – conventional based at Dolphin; Second – conventional and also Valiant-class submarines based at Devonport; Third – conventional based at Faslane; Seventh – conventional, based at Singapore, though disbanded in 1971; Tenth – the Polaris ‘bombers’ also based at Faslane.

Better to appreciate the living conditions I was assigning the men to endure, I requested a trip on a submarine. Happily, I identified the conventional submarine HMS Artemis which was scheduled for exercise off the Bay of Biscay followed by a brief visit to Newcastle upon Tyne. I joined Artemis alongside at Dolphin and sailed with her for a week or so. As it was a conventional boat, space was limited, the crew hot-bunking – one man on duty, the off-duty man in his bunk, and then vice versa. My bunk was different; it was in the fore-ends, among the torpedoes, with a polythene sheet stretched above me to catch the odd drip from the pipes that snaked along the deck-head. Lying there, I could hear the water rushing against the boat’s hull. For a brief watch period I steered the craft, used the periscope, and later climbed up into the conning tower, where the fresh air was most welcome; while up there, I participated in the excitement of ‘dive, dive, dive’, shutting the hatch on the way down. Needless to say, the rough seas of Biscay did not bother us. At the end of the exercise I thanked the crew and disembarked when the boat moored at the Tyne quayside; and I went home to Whitley Bay to see my parents for the weekend! Then I rejoined the office, greatly appreciative of the confined conditions the submariners lived and worked in.

Out of this experience I wrote my first short story sale, ‘Hover-Jack’ for the weekly magazine, Parade published in 1971: a spy story featuring a Soviet submarine and the Isle of Wight hovercraft!

The Navy News published two of my articles on the mechanics of drafting to submarines: ‘Giving deep thought to submarines’ and ‘How they filled Cornucopia’.  I created the fictional HMS Cornucopia for illustration purposes. At the time – I cannot speak for the present – there were never enough volunteers for submarines. Naturally, drafting officers would accept those who volunteered – providing they passed what was termed Part III Training, which entailed classes in the Submarine School in Dolphin, which included safety procedures and undergoing the Escape Training in the SETT. To fill the SM quota, certain personnel would be drafted into submarines who had not volunteered; their initial draft was for five years, after which they would be returned to the surface fleet. However, when the five years were due to expire the vast majority of those non-volunteers elected to remain in boats – around 90% –  partly due to the additional pay but also by then they were well-versed in the ethos of the Silent Service, which was essentially a small navy within the Royal Navy.

Every RN rating completed a drafting preference card (DPC), asking for a preferred base – in those days there were a lot more bases than nowadays. Every individual’s personal card showing current draft and previous billets, together with his DPC and was held in a whirligig (see photo below; I'm at the end of the office, with beard).

  

The idea was to balance sea-time with a certain amount of shore-time; this would vary depending on the particular branch. Submarine squadrons also had a ‘spare crew’, men drafted here who still might have more sea-time to clock up before being sent for a longer stay in a shore base. This spare crew was available at short notice to plug gaps due to illnesses and other absences; it was popular for some who preferred going to sea, but not for everyone, as they found it unsettling.

Several of the FOSM staff visited Barrow-in-Furness to give talks about the process of determining who to draft. While there we descended into the dry dock of HMS Conqueror. The words iceberg and surface sprang to mind; the screws were huge, gleaming, almost like gold, like something out of science fiction.

My time with submarine drafting ended in 1974 when I was drafted to RNH Mtarfa, a RN hospital in Malta near Rabat three months after marriage. On return in 1975 I underwent the Leadership Course at HMS Royal Arthur, Wiltshire, and then joined HMS Mermaid (F76) in March 1976, a few days after our daughter was born.  

In June 1977 I was reacquainted with submariners, being drafted to HMS Neptune, the Clyde Submarine Base; it was the day before my birthday, great timing! This was the home of four Resolution-class Ballistic missile Polaris submarines – below is a photo of one in the 1970s.

I was in charge of the Central Records Office, staff comprising seven naval personnel (male and female) and I also had the responsibility for several civilians, such as messengers, the typing pool, and the print room. The Head Messenger was a mine of information, since he’d been there a long time; he was due to retire and join his family in Canada so was not averse to apprising me of certain civil service goings-on.

For example: Every civilian was entitled to a certain number of days per year sick leave without the requirement of a doctor’s note; they made sure they took their ‘sickies’ – effectively looking on them as additional leave entitlement.

Before my time there, during a mail strike, two Glaswegian messengers were tasked with taking the RN van into the nearby town of Helensburgh and picking up the mail – and regularly popping into the local hostelry for a couple of bevvies before returning to the base with the mail sacks. No problem. However, after the strike ended, they continued doing this for well over a year.

Thus apprised, I pointed out to the pair that there was no longer any need for them to make the journey and taxpayers’ money was being wasted. They objected and brought in their union representative. The Commodore was not best pleased as this business was about to be blown out of all proportion, with a strike being threatened. I was told to sort it out, and arranged for a meeting with the union representative and the two messengers. That weekend at home I didn’t sleep too well. Fortunately, on the Monday, after I put my reasoned argument, the union man admitted that the two guys in question had enjoyed a good run but it must come to an end; we agreed on a compromise, giving them until the end of the month to desist.    

I left Neptune 9 October 1979, and returned to HMS Centurion until my draft to the Leander-class frigate HMS Diomede (F16) and had no further involvement with submarines whilst serving in the RN.

During our fifteen years living in Spain, Jen and I visited Cartagena a few times and saw the submarine Peral on display in the harbour. The craft was the first successful full electric battery-powered submarine. It was built by the Spanish engineer Isaac Peral for the Spanish Navy and launched in 1888. She was armed with two torpedoes. Yet, after two years of successful tests, the project was terminated.

Near our home in Spain is the town of Torrevieja. Here, in the harbour, is a submarine tourist attraction – S61 Delfín – Spanish for Dolphin.

Returning from our family’s lengthy sojourn in Spain, we moved to Blyth, Northumberland, which had been a submarine training base over many years.  During the First World War Blyth was the base for the depot ship Titania and submarines of the Eleventh Flotilla that were to support the Grand Fleet. Apparently, at the battle of Jutland, a Blyth-based submarine took part in the engagement and was credited with sinking a German warship.

At the time of the Second World War the Blyth base was named HMS Elfin and became a training base for about 200 officers. There is now a blue plaque signifying the position of the submarine base (see photo below); near the Blyth Boathouse and Caboose restaurant.

The S-class submarine HMS Seahorse was a member of the 2nd Submarine Flotilla whose wartime base was Dundee. After a number of unsuccessful patrols in the north-sea, the boat would often stop at Blyth, as the base was nearer its patrol area. On the night of 25 December 1939, before Seahorse would depart for her sixth war patrol off Heligoland Bight, seven submariners visited the Astley Arms, Seaton Sluice. Tickets for a raffle were being sold for a bottle of Johnny Walker Whisky. By the time of the draw, the submarine was at sea. As luck would have it, the submariners had won the bottle, but it was not collected. Seahorse’s orders were to initially patrol off Heligoland and then move to the mouth of the Elbe on 30 December. She was expected to return to Blyth on 9 January 1940. It was assumed that she was struck by a mine but after examining German records at the end of hostilities it was considered possible that she could have been sunk by the German First Minesweeper Flotilla which reported carrying out a prolonged depth charge attack on an unknown submarine on 7 January. Another possibility is that she was rammed and sunk by the German Sperrbrecher IV/Oakland southeast of Heligoland on 29 December. Seahorse was the first British submarine lost to enemy action. The whisky bottle remained untouched at the Astley Arms for many years until it was eventually transferred for display at the RN Submarine Museum in Gosport, Hants.

On display in the Blyth Community Hospital is the name-plate of HMS Onslaught. (I used to draft personnel to this Oberon-class boat). On the boat’s visit to Blyth in 1979 the officers and crew were given the Freedom of the Borough of Blyth. Onslaught was decommissioned in 1990, having served for twenty-eight years, and eventually scrapped at Aliga, Turkey in 1991.

Not far from the hospital, outside St Mary’s Church alongside Blyth’s regenerated town square, is a memorial and an anchor. The anchor (seen below through the silhouette) belonged to the T-class submarine HMS Tiptoe. She was named by Winston Churchill, implying that the boat could approach the enemy silently as if on tiptoe. The Royal Navy naming committee was against the name, arguing that ‘it was derogatory to one of His Majesty's ships’, but the Prime Minister had his way. The vessel had links with the Royal Ballet and Moira Shearer; its crest features a ballet dancer.

So far, that seems to be my involvement with submarines and submariners. I think it is quite apt that I should settle in a town that honours the Silent Service.

***

Jargon:

Boat: Submarine

Branch: Specialisation, such as Seaman, Communications, Medical, S&S, and Weapons.

Draft: Soldiers and airmen are posted but naval personnel are drafted.

Deck-head: ceiling in a ship or submarine

Fore-ends: the front of a submarine

Target: any enemy surface vessel

Reminiscenses - The Navy Lark up the Khyber

THE NAVY LARK UP THE KHYBER

 

Nik Morton

 

Our dilapidated bus trundled along at five in the morning. Sleep stubbornly clung to my eyes. We were leaving our ship HMS Zulu behind, alongside at Karachi. The ship was only in for the weekend. Eight of us were fortunate enough to be invited up-country by the Diplomatic Corps.

            A few fears were voiced over the wisdom of our heading for the airport. This concern had grown from the alarming incidents reported in the press. It was Friday, June 20, 1969 – not long after the cricket uprisings. And airport shootings were still going on. Jokes seemed to dispel our fears. I didn’t fancy getting shot when only ten days away from my twenty-first birthday.

            We passed new houses, mansions compared with others, many old shacks still in evidence, and the roads and pathways were quite primitive. Everywhere had the flavour of a newly colonised place, barring the odd twentieth century intrusion of advertisement hoardings. Oxen and rickety old carts rumbled past, men and youths pedalled bicycles with bare feet. Out of another world, office blocks gleamed glassy-eyed.

            The pervasive aroma, compounded of sickly-sweet spices and body effluent, hovered even that early in the day; but I soon became inured to it.

            Arrived at the airport, we were pleased to see no machine-gun posts and no mobsters. It seemed like a normal medium-sized air terminal.

            For the short time in the lounge, we supped over-sweet coffee. A cleaner swept the linoleum floor with a brush made of leaves, depositing more leaves than collecting dust. A monstrous woman entered, her sari half-concealing an airport uniform adorned with badges or medals: I had doubts as to her flying abilities. One of the pilots sauntered in with an unmistakable bottle of brandy in his hip pocket: I hoped he wasn’t flying high with us onboard. And lastly, an ashtray that was simply that – a massive brass circular tray full of ash with a couple of fag ends dotted about its black-speckled grey surface.

            Then the tannoy system broadcast, “Flight 300Y” with an exquisite oriental accent.

            “That’s us!”

            It was my first time in an airplane. The experience of boarding was new, to be captured, but also disappointing in a way. I’d always fancied flying in a smaller craft than this. It was a Trident 1-E, capable of seating eighty-six. The PIA air stewardess wore the airline’s modern semi-traditional uniform. She dutifully issued everyone with the inevitable boiled sweet and ensured all passengers were comfortable. One anomaly was the life jacket under my seat: the only water this plane was likely to cross was the Indus.

            Then, at 7.20am, the jets heated up and went through their reverberating paces, rose to a roar then a banshee wail. The great bulk strained at its leash, the rear of the aircraft seemed to tug on acceleration and we were suddenly speeding down the runway.

            One second, earth hammered beneath us and the next, it was dropping away at an incredible dizzying rate. Hedges shrank into snakes of grass; trees became miniscule bushes, houses collapsed into matchboxes. Everywhere I looked – yellow muddy brown waste with odd interspersions of un-English green.

            The slight queasiness in my stomach was more through anticipation than with climbing into the clouds. It was transient, anyway, and I was pleased that at least I wasn’t airsick.

            It was our first real glimpse of Pakistan. Most of us knew of its relatively recent history. An Islamic Republic and self-governing member of the Commonwealth since August 5, 1947, it was created from those parts of the Indian sub-continent that had a predominantly Moslem population. “Both East and West Pakistan each constitute a province under a governor,” intoned the airhostess throatily. (However, from July 1, 1970 this single province of West Pakistan was dismembered into the four provinces that it originally comprised: Sind, Baluchistan, Punjab and North West Frontier Province.)

            Apparently the name “Pakistan” was invented in 1933 by Rahmat Ali for the northwestern Moslem areas and was taken from Punjab, Afghan (North West Frontier Province), Kashmir and Baluchistan.

            Karachi squats and overflows on the north of the Indus delta, and stands shyly on a backwater opening south on the east-west stretch of coastline that marks a sharp change in the shoreline’s direction between Cape Monze and the delta. To the west it is screened from the sea by the rocky point at Manora, cemented to the mainland by a sandspit. The Manora headland provides the city with a natural barrier as protection from monsoon storms. Toward the land – desert. And to the north, a hilly thirsty landscape, the limestone spurs of the Kirthar Range breaking down southwards into sandy wastes. Now we were passing over these monotonous expanses of recent alluvium riddled by creeks. To the seaward, we were told, lay mangrove swamps; the land below seemed largely incapable of supporting life.

            Wraithlike, only the air-conditioning humming in our ears, the Trident penetrated the cloud-layer and settled at 25,000 feet.

            A mild lurch or two, signifying turbulence, was our first indication that we were passing over high land. The Sulaiman Hills – known as Takht-I-Suliman, or Solomon’s Throne. The legend of the mountains began when Solomon visited Hindostan to marry Balkis. As they were returning through the air, on a throne supported by genii, the bride implored the bridegroom to let her look back for a few moments on her beloved land. Solomon directed the genii to scoop out a hollow for the throne on the summit of the mountain. The hollow is a cavity some thirty feet square, cut out of the solid rock at the southern extremity of the mountain, and is now a place of pilgrimage for both Hindus and Mohammedans. The shrine is about two miles south of the highest peak. The whole mountain culminates in two points, both over 11,000 feet high.

            We crossed over the Thal desert, for the most part absolutely without vegetation. Also the salt flats of the Indus. Hereabouts, an irrigation project progressed, to colonise the desert.

            The whole area is frequented by hurricane, diseases are numerous and commonplace, the population is far too large, and inevitably famines kill millions.

            The plane’s landing at Chaklala airport was as unimpressive as its take-off – a compliment to the pilot, I guess. We hardly felt a thing, only the sudden thud, slight screech and then constant rumble as we coasted along the runway, vivid hedges leaping by. My first flight was over.

            On leaving the plane, most of us were instantly repelled: the air was unbelievably hot, stifling. It was almost like walking into a solid wall of musty scorching dry heat. And the sun was high, even though only 8.45am. To add to the morning’s brilliance, the white runway glared, reflecting light and heat. I was glad I’d brought my trilby hat.

            We were met at the barrier by one of our hosts, Bernie, accompanied by an official native DS driver. Bernie was deeply tanned, thinning on top. His eyes sparkled and his big teeth shone white: very friendly, sardonically humorous. We loaded up and were driven off in a mini-bus.

            The heat was unbearable, the car seats sticky; with no reasonable shade in the vehicle. Dust from the roads didn’t help, either. We headed for the town centre of Rawalpindi and ultimately Islamabad.

            Passing through Rawalpindi – or Pindi as the colonials called it – a more picaresque aspect of Pakistan life-in-the-street confronted us. The poverty, the urchins, the dilapidation were there. But the colours seemed more gay, the air partly fresher, and the people more mobile. Turning one corner, I was surprised and amused to observe a general store and chemist advertising its drugs and elixirs, capable of healing ten score of diseases and afflictions, from the common cold up to and, amazingly just falling short of, death.

            The bonnet veered up and we motored up a concrete ramp, towards a steadily climbing row of houses. Islamabad New Site – an unromantic name for the place. And at first glance the buildings appeared quite unsightly. Vaguely reminiscent of children’s building blocks, all painted white and browned and mellowed in the oven. Spindly trees tried in vain to either break up or improve the wide concrete pavements. The houses were mostly obscured from the road by large walls where a few plants hung forlornly. The mountain range facing the New Site and rising back of and beyond the near lowlands turned out to be the Hindu Kush.

            Somewhat awkwardly, we trouped in to the house Bernie indicated. We had no idea what to expect and I for one entered with some trepidation.

            Inside, it was simple luxury. Fitted carpets, new spotless blonde wood furniture, variable air-conditioning, every facility and, most pleasantly, a lived-in atmosphere.

            Introductions were soon made. Apart from the presence of Bernie, those already there to meet us were women. Their intentions were quickly made clear. We were to be “farmed” out to those present. Everything was informal and even jocular. The sour-tasting tea and chinwag cleared the air and the ice had cracked if not completely broken for most of us.

            Without any preamble whatsoever, I was “claimed” by Mrs Mary Guest.

            “Surely, though, you’re the host?” I said.

            “Very droll.” She smiled. Her blue eyes shone, cheeks mottled red and healthy.

***

This is the first excerpt from a piece published in Under the Queen's Colours (Voices from the Forces 1952-2012) by Penny Legg (2012) - kindle version here.