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London: William Heinemann
FROM SNOTTY
TO SUB.
BY
THE AUTHORS OF "FROM DARTMOUTH
TO THE DARDANELLES"
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
_London: William Heinemann, 1918_
TO
"FREDDIE"
FOREWORD
In the writing of this little book so many difficulties have arisen
that, but for the repeated requests of a generous public for further
news of the Midshipman whose earlier adventures are recorded in "From
Dartmouth to the Dardanelles," we had been tempted to defer publication
until the advent of that longed-for time which "Tommy" speaks of as
"Good old après la guerre!"
Naval officers on active service are not allowed to keep diaries,
and this narrative has been compiled solely from rough notes of
conversations with my son, hurriedly set down on the rare occasions
during the last two and a half years when we have had the good fortune
to be together. Much of the material eventually available we have
omitted from motives of discretion. Still more has been eliminated
by drastic but absolutely necessary censorship. What remains makes
but a slender volume. Nevertheless I trust it will prove not wholly
uninteresting to all those unknown friends in England, Australia,
India, New Zealand, and last, but by no means least, the United States
of America, who have taken the trouble to write me such exceedingly
kind letters in respect of the former book. Let me here gratefully
assure them that their sympathy and the generous impulse which prompted
its expression has done _much_ to help me through years naturally
heavy-laden with anxiety and suspense.
Thanks, above all, to my American correspondents: theirs was a
difficult and delicate position in view of the loyalty they owed to
their country's neutrality; but while yet certain issues were in doubt
their letters seemed to whisper: "Only wait—trust us—we shall yet be
with you in deed as we are with you in heart."
To-day that prophecy is gloriously fulfilled. Sacrifice and sacrament
are consummated: the Stars and Stripes are unfurled in the cause of
true liberty, and Old Glory waves side by side with the banners of the
Allies! Who dares doubt the end?
A word of explanation as to the title of the book may be desired by
readers unacquainted with naval slang. "Snotty" is a dreadful word of,
I am sure, libellous origin! But it is pure navalese. "Middy" is not a
Service term at all, and the curly-haired "Middy" so dear to writers of
fiction and comic opera has no existence in fact—he is a regular "Mrs.
Harris"!
For all their youth, our Snotties are men in the best sense of the
word, and right loyally do they cling to every tradition—written or
unwritten—of that splendid Service to which it is their pride and
privilege to belong.
His Mother
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. Of a Picnic and a Tragedy 1
II. Of a Hospital Ship and Sick Leave 12
III. Fog 21
IV. Naval Theatricals 30
V. The Battle of Jutland 44
VI. "And Afterwards ... What Then?" 66
VII. Of Various Incidents 70
VIII. Submarines 80
IX. Of Examinations 89
X. Of Shadow and Sunshine 110
XI. Of My First Experiences as a Sub. 120
CHAPTER I
OF A PICNIC AND A TRAGEDY
On August 26, 1915, I went up to the Admiralty for medical survey,
was passed fit for active service, and on September 1 I received
my appointment to H.M.S. _C——_, a super-Dreadnought in the Grand
Fleet. Although I knew her to be a very fine ship, I was nevertheless
disappointed, as I had been hoping to again see service in a T.B.D.—the
few weeks I had spent in one of those craft in the Dardanelles after my
last ship was sunk having convinced me that the life was far freer and
more exciting than that in a big ship.
However, the Powers had decreed otherwise, and so on September 2 I left
home and the same night went straight through from King's Cross to
Inverness. Arrived in that town I duly reported myself to the Senior
Naval Officer at the Admiralty Office, and was told to return at 9
A.M. the next morning. I thereupon took the first train I could catch
to Dingwall, and went up to call upon some friends at Tulloch. I had
the good luck to find them at home, and they very kindly invited me to
stay the night and so saved me from a dull evening alone at an hotel.
I spent a very cheery time with Mr. and Mrs. D——, and the next morning
got up at 7 A.M., had an early breakfast, and motored down to the
station and caught the 7.35 train back to Inverness. On my reporting at
9 o'clock to the S.N.O. he gave me a railway pass to ——, and told me to
proceed thither by the 11.15. The name of my destination it would not,
at this time, be permissible for me to mention. Enough that in company
with some other N.O.'s with whom I had travelled I eventually reached
it, and the mail steamer took us alongside H.M.S. ——, the Fleet mail
ship, where we waited until one by one my fellow-travellers were taken
off by various odd craft—varying from drifters to picket-boats—which
conveyed them to their respective ships. I was the last left aboard
the —— and lunched there—and a very nasty lunch it was too! At about
2.39 a drifter came alongside to fetch the mails for the First Battle
Squadron, and having transferred myself and gear to her she took me
to H.M.S. ——, alongside which ship she remained for a good half-hour
before a picket-boat from my new ship turned up, called for her mail,
and conveyed me to my final destination.
On my arrival I found coaling just finished and washing down still
in progress. On my way forward to report to the officer of the watch
I met some Snotties just going ashore, and among their number I
was glad to recognize several of my old term mates at Osborne and
Dartmouth, with whom I exchanged greetings. After I had duly reported
myself, the Snotty of the watch showed me the way down to the gunroom,
where he left me to make the acquaintance of some half-dozen of my
new messmates, who, not being on duty, were variously occupied in
"caulking" (a naval slang term for dozing), reading, writing letters,
etc.
_The —— boasts a fairly large and roomy gunroom. Down one side of it
is the long narrow mess-table covered with a red and black cloth,
and on the left centre a stove with an open fireplace, before which
is placed a settee sacred to the use of the senior members of the
mess, and woe betide the presumptuous junior who ventures to make use
of it without express permission. True, it is a battered piece of
furniture, having suffered severely in many a guest-night "rag," and
its springs recall the story of the British matron who, after seating
herself majestically in a Paris fiacre, jumped up with the agonized
cry: "Cochon! Cochon! Arrêté! Arrêté! Sortez-moi! Vos printemps sont
cassé!" Nevertheless it is symbolical of the privileges of seniority,
and as such to be regarded and treated with respect. Almost equally
sacrosanct are the two deep arm-chairs flanking the fireplace; the
remainder of the furniture consists of a motley collection of other
chairs, a sideboard in which the Mids keep their private stores of
jam, potted meat, etc., some hanging bookcases, and a funny little old
piano. The whole is lighted by three large scuttles or port-holes._
Presently, his watch over, the Senior Midshipman came down again and I
went with him to see the Commander—commonly known as "The Bloke." After
asking me a few questions about my previous experiences, he took me to
see the Captain, who received me very kindly and also inquired about
my active service adventures. These interviews over, I returned to the
gunroom, where I was told the name of my servant, and how to get hold
of him when wanted. I was given the usual twenty-four hours in which to
"sling my hammock," or, in other words, settle down to the customary
routine, and I was not expected to enter on my new duties until the
following day. So I sent for the bandsman who had been told off to
valet me and arranged with him where my gear, etc., should be stowed.
Tea in the gunroom followed, after which the Senior Snotty showed me
round the ship.
That night I slept with five others in the Chief of Staff's cabin,
which, not being in use at the moment, had been allotted to us as a
school place and sleeping apartment.
The next morning dawned calm and misty. The others went up at 6.45
to turret drill in accordance with usual routine, but as I was still
"slinging my hammock" I was not required to turn out until 7, when I
repaired to the bathroom, had a bath, dressed, and subsequently joined
my messmates at breakfast. I may here admit that I felt a bit "out of
it" at first, as most of the mess had been working together for the
best part of a year, and the position of a newly joined Snotty is not
unlike that of a new boy at school. However, I soon settled down and
adapted myself to the rigid discipline prevailing.
After breakfast we got under way and steamed over to the northern shore
to carry out some gunnery tests.
In the afternoon I went ashore with some of the others and visited the
little town of ——, which is the only approach to civilization of which
this wild and remote spot can boast.
An account of the following weeks' routine would be of little
interest to any but Service readers, and the majority of these will
be already but too intimately acquainted with the same. The monotony
was pleasantly broken on the fourteenth, on which day the Captain gave
a picnic to the gunroom. We all, with the exception of the Acting
Sub-Lieutenant, who had to keep the afternoon watch, "cleaned" into
picnic rig, which consisted of sea-boots, flannel trousers, sweaters,
and various forms of weird and unorthodox headgear. ("Cleaning" is
naval phraseology for shifting and is always used even when the said
shift is into coaling rig.) Having supplied ourselves with large
quantities of cigarettes and tobacco, as well as pistols and shot-guns,
fishing tackle, etc., we embarked in the cutter, in which the hampers
provided by the Captain had already been placed, and so, at about 1
P.M., set sail for a point on the shore previously decided upon. As
soon as we were well clear of the ship, those who had fishing tackle
put out their lines, while the rest settled down in the bottom of
the boat, and pipes and cigarettes were soon in full blast. Several
mackerel were caught on the way over, and half an hour after leaving
the ship we grounded. Then every one jumped out, and we anchored the
cutter in the shallow water by the shore.
Scattering in various directions we ragged about until tea-time. Some
tried their hand at tickling trout in a small stream; some bathed;
others set up targets of bottles and practised shooting. When the time
came to open the hampers it was found that Captain ——'s hospitality
knew no bounds. They proved to contain sandwiches of every sort
and description, also cakes, sardines, chocolates, and an unending
variety of other delicacies, as well as some tins of superlatively
good cigarettes such as rarely fall to the lot of the notoriously
impecunious midshipman.... Such a blow-out was not conducive to any
more active exercise, and most of us relapsed into the slumber of
repletion.
At 4.30 we began to pack up, and by 5 had collected all our gear into
the cutter, weighed anchor, and set sail for the ship. More mackerel
were caught on the way back, and we eventually drew alongside just as
the Acting Sub. was setting off in the picket-boat with confidential
papers for sundry ships in the Fleet.
We gave him a commiserating hail, for the wind had shifted to an evilly
inspired quarter, and it looked like being rather a dirty night, and
then we went light-heartedly below to have our baths and shift into
proper uniform.... How little we dreamed then that the joyous memory of
the Captain's picnic was destined to be linked for ever in our minds
with the saddest of tragedies.... We never saw poor De B. again....
While he was away a heavy sea got up, and when the boat drew alongside
again he was found to be missing. All the coxswain could tell was
that half-way through the return trip and when about a mile and a half
from our ship, he had come up to speak to him for a few minutes, and
then, as he (the coxswain) supposed, returned to the stern-sheets.
It can only be assumed that a sudden lurch of the boat caused him to
miss his footing and so fall overboard. Of course in heavy sea-boots
and overcoat he would have little chance in a roughish sea. It was
pitch-dark, and no cry was heard, and the crew never even suspected
that anything was wrong until the boat came alongside and it was found
that he had disappeared.
All our searchlights were immediately switched on, and we made a signal
to the neighbouring cruisers, telling them to switch on theirs and
sweep the sea all around. All boats were called away, and a minute
search was instituted, but it was of no avail, and at midnight had to
be reluctantly abandoned as hopeless. Next morning boats were sent out
to sweep for his body and search the neighbouring shores; but no trace
was discovered until a week later, when H.M.S. —— picked up his cap.
_The picket-boats, in which so much essential work is done, have
neither stanchions nor rails, and the space between the top of the
cabin and the side is so narrow that if there is a bit of a sea on the
chance of such an accident as happened to poor De B. is obvious—though
naturally the Service never gives it a thought—it is all in the day's
or the night's work. But should these lines ever be read by his
people, let them for their comfort remember that he died for England
as surely as if he had passed in the crash and roar of battle ...
and his shipmates hold him for all time in honoured and regretful
memory...._
"On him be the Peace and the Blessing; for he was great-hearted."
CHAPTER II
OF A HOSPITAL SHIP AND SICK LEAVE
Three days after that picnic and its sad ending we weighed and returned
to the winter anchorage. Of the weeks that followed there is little
to tell, as of the few incidents which broke the monotony of ordinary
routine discretion forbids mention.
Some time in November we proceeded to ——, which same, although a very
one-horse place in ordinary circumstances, was a step beyond the more
northerly district in point of civilization. But we had only been
there about two weeks when I was knocked out by a chill which refused
to yield to ordinary remedies. My previous winter, spent mainly in
tropical climes, had rather unfitted me for the semi-arctic conditions
obtaining in the North Sea.
After a couple of days spent in the dignified seclusion of a cabin,
the Fleet Surgeon packed me off to the hospital ship _China_. This was
real jam, for I was not so ill but that I was able to highly appreciate
the comfort and luxury provided by a paternal Government for the sick
N.O. Moreover, the Captain of the hospital ship proved to be an old
acquaintance who had often entertained me and my former messmates on
his ship when she and the _Goliath_ were lying together at Mombasa a
year before. I was put into the officers' ward, which was empty at
this time, and the nurses were most awfully kind and attentive. One
does appreciate feminine ministrations after living for so long in the
exclusive society of the mere man.
It was with great glee that from my luxurious idleness I watched the
Fleet depart once more for the northern base, hugging the knowledge
that the medical powers had decreed that I was to go south in a few
days' time.
On December 2 I said "good-bye" to the staff of the _China_ and
embarked in a drifter for the beach. On arrival I walked to the station
and there waited for the ambulance with the doctor and the other
patients. When they turned up, I strolled up and down with Dr. —— for
about three-quarters of an hour until the hospital train came in.
This train was magnificently appointed, with big coaches—rather like
Pullman-cars, fitted up with swinging cots. The officers' sleeping
compartment consisted of one of these cars divided by a curtain
from the men's half, and containing about six cots. For some four
hours—except when the two medical officers attached to the train staff
came in to bear me company—I had this compartment to myself. When the
train stopped at Queensferry I was joined by a Sub-Lieutenant R.N. and
a Sub. of the R.N.R.—both "sitting cases," i.e. not very seriously ill.
As soon as we got under way again, dinner was served, and about 9 P.M.
we all turned in. Personally I slept very soundly, only waking up once
at some station—York, I think—where a gunner who was a "stretcher case"
was put aboard.
At eight next morning we arrived in London, where we stopped
for some hours, and from whence we proceeded to Chatham. Here a
Lieut.-Commander—also a "sitting case"—was added to our party, and at
four o'clock in the afternoon we started back to London again, and
there we once more spent a long time waiting for—Heaven knows what! On
the following day we arrived at Devonport, where the Lieut.-Commander
left us. By this time the journey had begun to assume the vague
irresponsibility of a dream, and, as in a dream, there seemed to be
no reason why it should ever come to an end. We seemed destined to
just go on—and on—and on—wandering around the various railway systems
of England and Scotland, and stopping aimlessly for an indefinite
period at whatever spot caught the engine-driver's errant fancy! But
it really did not matter, for it was very warm and comfortable in the
train, so—let the dream go on!
However, it ended at Portsmouth at 6.30 P.M. on the third day of my
journeying. Portsmouth was my final destination as well as that of all
the other cases in the train. Large ambulance cars were in waiting, and
these eventually deposited us at Haslar Hospital about seven o'clock.
Here our first interview was with the matron, then we proceeded to the
doctor on duty for the day, who took down particulars of our respective
maladies. Dinner in the officers' mess followed, after which we again
saw the matron, who then told us in which cabins we were billeted.
Mine was situated in B Block, and a long way from the officers' mess,
and so, as the R.N.R. Sub. who had been one of my fellow-travellers
was also located in that block, as soon as I had settled my gear in my
cabin I went along to his and smoked and chatted with him for about
half an hour before turning in.
Next morning I had my breakfast in bed, and had to remain there until
I had been visited by the doctor, after which I got up. By the time I
was dressed my spirits had drooped to a very low ebb. The cabin was
a most comfortless apartment, sparsely furnished and with its only
window giving on to a gloomy enclosed courtyard where the rain pattered
dismally down from a leaden square of sky. I felt as though I was in
prison "doing time" for some sordid and wholly uninteresting crime.
However, about four o'clock came a joyful surprise in the shape of a
telegram from my mother, saying that she was coming over to see me
and would arrive next day. On the moment depression vanished, for I
felt certain that she would devise some means to relieve the tedium of
my confinement. Sure enough, as soon as she arrived she interviewed
the doctor and soon persuaded him that I was quite well enough to go
home, and after she had signed the requisite form undertaking to be
responsible for any further medical treatment I might require, she
returned to Portsmouth, where I joined her on the following day.
That night, December 8, we crossed over to our island, and I
recollect a rather funny episode on that journey. Some swollen-headed
Jack-in-office in the passport department at Southampton said he
could not pass me because I had no document from the hospital
authorities showing that I was on sick leave. The Lord only knows if
the fool thought I was a deserter, or if he was merely a confirmed
obstructionist making trouble for the fun of the thing. Anyway he
was sullenly obstinate, entrenched in his "little brief authority,"
and declared that he could not and would not pass me! It looked like
being a pretty muddle, for it was 10 P.M. and raining cats and dogs.
Then mother came to the rescue with a perfectly gorgeous piece of
"bluff." Declaring that she had not the smallest intention of remaining
indefinitely at Southampton, or of going on without me, she calmly
requested him to ring up the _Admiralty_, when she would get him orders
from headquarters. He could not have looked more amazed if she had
demanded a trunk call to Heaven. But she was as firm as if she knew
she held a royal flush to his pair of knaves, and so he hurriedly
climbed down, and said he would take the responsibility of passing me,
and we proceeded in triumph aboard the L.S.W.R.'s steamer which was
lying alongside the quay, and so reached home the next morning without
further incident.
_I may here remark that I was perfectly certain that the man was
wrong, for if any such document had been really required, the hospital
authorities would have provided it. The Navy does not neglect detail._
I had been granted sick leave to extend over Christmas, which was a
tremendous stroke of luck, but the time passed all too quickly, and on
January 4, 1916, we went to London for my medical survey. I was passed
fit on the 5th, and expected to have to rejoin at once. However, to my
intense surprise and delight, I ran into one of our Snotties in Bond
Street that afternoon, and he told me that our ship was in dock and
they had all been granted ten days' leave, so I had that extra time in
London, where we did some theatres and enjoyed ourselves royally.
CHAPTER III
FOG
When the water's countenance
Blurs 'twixt glance and second glance;
When our tattered smokes forerun,
Ashen 'neath a silvered sun;
When the curtain of the haze
Shuts upon our helpless ways—
Hear the Channel Fleet at sea;
_Libera nos Dominie_.
. . . . . .
When the treble thickness spread
Swallows up our next ahead;
When her siren's frightened whine
Shows her sheering out of line;
When, her passage undiscerned
We must turn where she has turned,
Hear the Channel Fleet at sea:
_Libera nos Dominie_.
KIPLING
It was on January 15, 1916, that I finally rejoined my ship. She was
then in floating dock at ——. That night the dock was flooded, and next
morning we warped out and proceeded to our billet in the harbour.
About a week later we left ——, and once more the northern mists closed
down upon us.
The deadly monotony of the work of the Grand Fleet will probably never
be fully realized by any but those whose fate it was to wait day after
day, and week after week, for the longed-for encounter with the enemy.
Only that ever-present hope carried us through that dreary second
winter of war. An occasional interval at sea for manœuvres was the
sole relief, and such was our cussedness that even these were greeted
by most of us with moans and groans, for we were reduced to a state of
irritability and boredom which only the prospect of "action" or "leave"
could mitigate. Perhaps, however, to the non-Service reader, an account
of one of these periodical trips may not be too uninteresting.
After a period of swinging at anchor at the northern base, we received
the customary signals preparatory to going to sea, and about 6 P.M.
on the same day we weighed and proceeded in the wake of the Second
Battle Squadron. That particular month I had been detailed for a course
of engineering instruction and consequently did not have to take any
night watches—a stroke of luck since night watch in mid-winter in the
North Sea is not a job to be coveted by even the most enthusiastic.
The weather was quite calm and no change seemed imminent, although
it is not really possible to tell in these latitudes what conditions
may obtain from hour to hour. As a proof whereof, the next morning
showed a rapidly falling barometer, accompanied by a rising sea, which
increased to such an extent that it was not possible to carry out any
exercises with the Fleet in the forenoon. However, we held on our
course in hopes that the weather would mend, but by lunch-time the sea
was running so high that we were forced to turn for home. The main deck
was already six inches deep in water, in which floated the usual medley
of debris: the gunroom skylight was leaking like a sieve; and even the
engine-rooms and boiler-rooms held their unwelcome quota of sea water,
which poured down the ventilating shafts.
At one time the Flagship made a signal for all destroyers to close in
on her, and of course a rumour started—as rumours will—that she had
been mined or torpedoed. But it was happily a totally false alarm, and
her signal was only a precautionary measure to enable the C.-in-C. to
keep an eye on the small craft, which were making very heavy weather of
it indeed. Even our 20,000-ton Dreadnought was creaking and groaning
under the impact of the waves, and fenders and life-buoys had broken
loose and were sweeping back and forth across the decks, and crashing
against the turrets and superstructures.
Suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon, a destroyer sighted a mine
and hoisted Numeral I flag. (It must be understood that when signals
such as these are mentioned, the numbers given are fictitious, as
for obvious reasons we cannot give the correct hoists.) Now Numeral
I pendant denotes a mine in sight, but Numeral I flag denotes "Flag
officers have time for the next meal." ... Of course the signalman in
his haste had muddled his flags, and had intended hoisting Numeral I
pendant, but "Flags" (the Flag Lieutenant), seeing in the incident a
momentary chance of lightening the prevailing boredom and gloom, at
once asked the Admiral's permission to inquire sarcastically by signal
whether the meal referred to was lunch or tea, and the destroyer's
signalman, in obvious confusion, hauled down his signal and substituted
the correct hoist. The C.-in-C. then detailed the light cruiser —— to
go and sink the mine. It being now some distance astern, she turned
16 points to starboard and steamed towards it. We all watched for the
explosion, and as time went on wondered why she had not opened fire.
She seemed to be circling round it; but the mystery was explained when
her searchlights flashed out the message: "Supposed mine is a Reindeer
buoy." She was then ordered to resume station.
Trivial enough, I admit! But oh, you readers who imagine the sailor's
life in war-time as one continuous round of blood-curdling excitement,
try to realize something of its almost unmitigated dullness—a dullness
so overwhelming that even such an incident as the above is welcomed as
a slight relief.
In the evening the violence of the storm abated, and when I woke the
next morning there was scarcely any motion on the ship at all. When I
went up on deck I found that there was a thick haze on the water which
almost hid the ships on either side of us. By ten o'clock this fog had
so increased in density that it completely blotted out our next ahead,
and, to his great disgust, the Snotty of the watch was ordered forward
to the fo'c'sle head to keep lookout. The fog continued to thicken
until the bridge was scarcely visible from the eyes of the ship. (The
eyes of the ship means right forward in the bow.) On all sides the
sirens kept up a dismal wail of warning. Presently the Snotty of the
watch noticed that we were passing along the bubbling wake of another
ship which must have been perilously close, and shortly afterwards the
stern of a destroyer loomed ahead and scarcely a hundred yards away.
Through his megaphone the lookout reported: "Destroyer right ahead."
We instantly slowed down and at the same moment the T.B.D., seeing her
danger, put her helm hard over and rapidly drew away into the mist to
starboard.
The fog did not clear away until the afternoon, but we anchored at our
base late that evening, and coaling was soon in progress.
Of all the dangers and inconveniences with which sailors have to
contend, fog is perhaps the most trying and exasperating. I remember
an occasion when Campbell and I were bidden to dine in H.M.S. ——, and
as "Torps" happened also to be dining out, though in another ship, we
managed to get a steamboat to convey us to our respective destinations,
but "The Bloke" could not give us one to bring us back. We therefore
arranged with various other Snotties that a gunroom whaler's crew
should come and pick us all up about 9.30. As we were the junior
officers they called first at the ship where we had been dining,
and came inboard for a few minutes for a drink and a cigarette. We
eventually shoved off about 9.40, arriving alongside the ship which was
entertaining "Torps" some five minutes later. As he was not quite ready
we went inboard for more drinks and smokes. When we finally embarked
for our own ship we found that a thick fog had come down. The inference
that will here be drawn by the evil-minded, if logical, is incorrect!
The fog in question was _not_ in our heads, but very much upon the
water! In a very few seconds H.M.S. —— had vanished from our sight and
we found ourselves shut in by a dense white wall, with nothing but
the fog-bells to guide us. After pulling hard for what seemed like a
considerable time we sighted a ship dimly outlined upon our starboard
bow, but she proved to be not, as we had fondly expected, our happy
home, but the hospitable vessel we had left ten minutes before. So we
turned our boat round, carefully took our bearings, and set out anew.
After another quarter of an hour or so we sighted H.M.S. ——, but she
was not our objective either; and so the game of blind man's buff went
on until there really seemed no reason to suppose that we should ever
succeed in finding our own ship. Finally, however, by dint of strenuous
effort, sheer pertinacity, and a blind clutching to the skirts of happy
chance, we made her at last, after more than an hour of heavy pulling.
"Torps," in common gratitude, invited the weary crew into the wardroom
and administered refreshment in various forms, after which we repaired
to our own quarters and thankfully turned in.
CHAPTER IV
NAVAL THEATRICALS
His Majesty's ship ——, suddenly seized with the hospitable desire to
entertain her sister ships, decided forthwith on theatricals. Nothing
so banal as any already familiar piece by a "pukka" playwright was
contemplated.... A combination of fertile naval brains produced the
book of the words crammed with topical and cryptic allusions; the
music was borrowed from the latest comic operas and revues, and the
actors were recruited mainly from the ranks of junior officers. Then
in due course the following signal appeared in our gunroom: "Captain
and Officers of H.M.S. —— request the pleasure of the company of Flag
Officers, Captains, and Officers of the 4th B.S. at their Theatricals
on board _Gourko_ at 2000 (8 P.M.) to-night. Boats to be alongside at
2130 (11.30)."
_Gourko_ was the ship in which all such entertainments were held, and
the above was the usual form of invitation issued to the Grand Fleet.
Accordingly at 7.45 that evening two "G's" sounded, indicating that our
boat was ready alongside to take such of us as were off duty to the
show in question. About a dozen were able to avail themselves of the
invite. The night was cloudy and a stiff breeze was blowing when we
embarked. It was not at all the sort of evening when dwellers on the
"beach" would be tempted to set out in open picket-boats to witness an
amateur theatrical performance, but from long experience the Navy is
inured to climatic conditions which would prove decidedly damping to
the enthusiasm of their brethren ashore. As Hamlet says: "The play's
the thing"—and Gott strafe the weather!
In about five minutes we drew alongside the gangway of H.M.S. ——, and
having boarded her with due ceremony we were escorted down to her
gunroom and there hospitably entertained with cigarettes and liquid
refreshment until the time appointed for the fun to commence. Then we
were piloted across to the _Gourko_, which was lying alongside. The
forward hold of this ship serves as a theatre for the Fleet. A stage is
erected at its after end, immediately in front of which are placed the
arm-chairs sacred to Flag Officers and Captains. On the left is a small
dais occupied by the band, and behind the arm-chairs are several tiers
of very hard benches on which the less exalted ranks are accommodated.
When we arrived, the auditorium was already more than half filled with
N.O.'s of varied ranks, and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco
smoke. The band was playing selections from a well-known revue, and a
confused buzz and drone of conversation greeted our entrance.
As soon as the Admirals and four-stripers (Captains) had taken their
seats, the band stopped playing and the curtain went up revealing the
stage occupied by an agitated Lieutenant (he was a Midshipman in real
life) pacing up and down what apparently represented the smoking-room
of a very second-rate hotel, and anathematizing the exploits of a
German spy, who, it would seem, laboured under the appalling cognomen
of Stinkenstein!
Presently the Lieutenant was joined by his sweetheart—a lady designed
to be beautiful—but the illusion was somewhat marred by the deep
bass voice and blue shaven chin of the Snotty who had been cast for
the part—presumably with more regard for his histrionic ability than
for his physical fitness. In the best traditional stage manner the
distracted lover confides his troubles to the sympathetic ear of the
beauteous (?) maiden, with the additional information that he must
shortly leave her and vanish once more behind the northern mists.
Thereupon she informs him of her fixed determination to follow him, if
needs be to the world's end—and in the meantime to obtain a position as
V.A.D. in the officers' tea pavilion situated on one of the islands at
the northern base! He greets this heroic resolve with a singular lack
of enthusiasm, but the lady is not to be turned from her purpose, so
they proceed to sing a highly sentimental duet, after which they leave
the stage with arms lovingly intertwined.
Enter from the wings a smartly dressed marine, who informs the audience
that he is on ten days' leave—and then from the left centre advances
a lady's maid. They, too, prove to be lovers and promptly fall into
each other's embrace. More sentimental business follows, until they are
driven from the stage by a number of sandwichmen, who sing an amusing
part-song about "Jenks's Vegetable Compound." Enter their foreman,
who bustles them off to work, and the marine and lady's maid reappear
and resume their amatory intercourse. They are soon again disturbed,
this time by the Lieutenant's fiancée, who is also the lady's maid's
mistress. Covered with confusion, the marine endeavours to hide under
a quite inadequate arm-chair, while the maid mendaciously explains
that he is merely a man come to hang pictures. Seizing this clue, he
proceeds to remove all the pictures from the walls with much zeal and
clatter, and then exit.
Now the lady confides to her maid her plan for keeping in touch
with her lover, and invites her co-operation. The maid jumps at the
idea, for is not the marine—by happy chance—in charge of those same
ridiculous and preposterous tea-rooms! And the curtain falls on the
first act.
After a short interval the stage is once more revealed, and now shows
the aforesaid island at dawn. The tea-house is on the left, and in the
foreground a group of pirates of the good old-fashioned melodramatic
kind are lying noisily asleep. Their sentry goes around waking them
by vigorous kicks. Then they breakfast on rum, and a heated argument
takes place over the question of calling their formidable Chief. He, it
appears, is afflicted in the morning hours with a shortness of temper
highly dangerous to the health of any one to whose lot it falls to
arouse him. Eventually one of them undertakes the job, and, having
carefully removed a gigantic knobkerrie to a safe distance from his
Chief's side, deals him a resounding smack on the most prominent part
of his person. The pirate springs to his feet with a volley of strange
oaths, kicks every one within reach, and shouts for his breakfast of
rum. Refreshed and soothed thereby he calls for his Chief of Staff,
Cuthbert Cut-throat, a lanky, pasty-faced villain, and together they
go through a list of booty captured that month. This comprises many
weird items, and its recital invokes roars of laughter from the
audience. Then the pirate calls for his children, and there enter from
the wings a Marine Lieutenant fearfully and wonderfully arrayed in a
short, light blue pinafore, revealing bare and unmistakably masculine
legs. This vision wears a tow-coloured wig and has its face heavily
painted in imitation of a cheap doll. It is followed by an exceedingly
small boy in a sailor suit, and also with bare legs, and we are
given to understand that this is "her" twin brother. The Pirate Chief
greets them with loud smacking kisses, but soon becoming bored with
his prodigious offspring, he once more summons Cuthbert Cut-throat,
and to him discourses in maudlin sentimentality of the virtues and
graces of his last wife, whom he apparently murdered about a month
before! Life without a wife he declares to be impossible, and announces
his intention of filling the vacancy with the first likely looking
"little bit of skirt" he comes across. Then the pirates strike camp,
and disappear into a cave on the right of the stage. (No explanation
forthcoming!)
(Isn't it silly! But it amuses us vastly all the same!)
ACT III. _Same Scene_
Two naval Captains (Midshipmen in real life) are discovered seated at
a table in front of the tea-house. From their conversation we gather
that four important personages have arrived on a visit of inspection
to the Fleet. They are the Rev. Reuben Reubenstein, and three Eastern
Potentates—namely, the Jam of Butteria, the Nabob of Nowhere, and the
Maharajah of Marmaladia!
Now enter two golf maniacs, in one of whom we recognize the Lieutenant
of the first act. After the maddening manner of their kind they proceed
to play their game over again, stroke for stroke, in conversation,
to the infinite disgust and boredom of the naval Captains. Presently
they shout for tea, and are served, to the utter dismay of her lover,
by the beauteous fiancée. On recognizing her he completely loses his
head, upsets the tea-table, reproaches her in agitated whispers, refers
to the Captains as "silly old fools," and commits various other stage
indiscretions. She wisely retires—and he continues to walk around
soliloquizing, and apparently appealing to the audience for help and
advice in the awkward predicament in which the too ardent lady has
placed him! Finally he goes out, after having several times saluted the
Captains first with one hand and then with the other.
Enter the Eminent Divine—a lanky, meek-looking person in spectacles. He
is closely followed by the Eastern Potentates in flowing white robes.
One of them wears a head-dress of bastard Turkish design; another
has his face blackened and surmounted by a pointed black hat, rather
like a witch's; and the third is crowned by a Parisian (?) confection
profusely adorned with feathers. They greet the Captains with weird
salutations, presumably Oriental in origin, and jabber to them in
unintelligible tongues, and finally with them retire, apparently in
complete agreement.
The stage is left to the Rev. Reuben Reubenstein, whose soliloquy soon
reveals him as the Spy Stinkenstein. After indulging in a "Gott strafe"
against England he yodels "Life in the Alps," and dances a breakdown in
fine style, finally in his frenzy smashing his umbrella and both the
tea-tables! Curtain.