THE NEW NAVY--TRAINING AN ANTI-SUBMARINE FORCE
HAVING described the _raison d'etre_ of the new navy, and how it became
a fleet in being, with its own admirals, captains, staffs, bases and all
the paraphernalia of war, I can pass on to a more intimate description
of the training of the officers and men, preparatory to their being
drafted to the scattered units of this great anti-submarine force.
Lying in the spacious docks at Southampton was the old 4000-ton cruiser
_Hermione_, which had been brought round from her natural base in
Portsmouth dockyard to act as the depot ship and training establishment
for a large section of this new force. Not all the officers and men of
the auxiliary fleet were, however, destined to pass across its decks.
This vessel was reserved for the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, from
which a very considerable proportion of the entire personnel of the new
fleet was drawn. Nor was H.M.S. _Hermione_ the first depot ship of the
war-time R.N.V.R. at Southampton, for the Admiralty yacht _Resource II._
had been used for the first few drafts, but was unfortunately burned to
the water's edge. There were also other vessels and establishments at
Portsmouth, Devonport and Chatham. These were, however, mainly for the
reception and brief training of the more experienced Merchant Service
officers, entered in the Royal Naval Reserve for the duration of the
war, and for the surgeons and accountants.
The men of the new force were mostly trained in the naval barracks and
depot ships situated at the big naval centres, such as Portsmouth and
Chatham. After a few weeks all these establishments were drafting, in a
constant stream, the trained human element to the vessels awaiting full
complements at the different war bases, or being constructed in the
hundreds of shipyards of the Empire.
About H.M.S. _Hermione_, which has been selected as being representative
of the training depots of a large section of the auxiliary service,
little need be said, beyond the fact that she was commanded, first, by a
distinguished officer from the Dardanelles, and subsequently by an
equally capable officer, who, by the irony of fate, had in pre-war times
been a member of the British Naval Mission to the Turkish navy--both of
them men whose experience and unfailing tact contributed largely to the
success of the thousands of embryo officers trained under their command.
The ship herself was a rambling old cruiser, but very little of the
actual training was carried out on board. Spacious buildings on the
quayside provided the training grounds for gunnery, drill, signalling,
engineering and all the complicated curricula, of which more anon.
Lying in the still waters of the dock, alongside the comparatively big
grey cruiser, were the trim little hulls of a numerous flotilla of
20-knot motor launches, newly arrived from Canada, with wicked-looking
13-pounder high-angle guns, stumpy torpedo-boat masts and brand-new
White Ensigns and brass-bound decks. These were the advance guard of a
fleet of over 500 similar craft, to the command of which many of the
officers being trained would, after a period of practical experience at
sea, eventually succeed.
There were besides numerous other mosquito craft, which throbbed in and
out of the dock from that vast sheltered arm of the sea called
_Southampton Water_ on mysterious errands, soon to be solved by new
recruits in the chilly winds of winter nights and early mornings.
This, then, was the mother ship and her children. When once the aft
gangway leading up from the dockside to the clean-scrubbed decks had
been crossed, and the sentry's challenge answered, the embryo officer
left civilian life behind and commenced his training for the stern work
of war.
It may not be out of place to give here a closer description of the
training of the officers and men of the new navy, drawn from personal
experience. To do this without the irritating egoism of the personal
narrative it will be necessary, as often in future pages, to adopt the
convenient "third person."
* * * * *
The night was fine, but a keen March wind blew from off the sea. The
dock lights were reflected in the still waters of the harbour. Tall
cranes stood out black and clearly defined against the cold night sky.
The shadows were deep around the warehouses, stores and other buildings
of the busy dockside.
Lying in the south-western basin was the big grey hull of the cruiser,
newly painted, and looking very formidable, with its tall masts and
fighting-tops towering into the blue void, and its massive bow rising
high above the dock wall.
Coming from the darkness on board were the tinkling notes of a banjo and
the subdued hum of voices. Then the loud call of the quartermaster and
the ringing of eight bells.
A group of newly appointed officers picked their way carefully among the
tangled mooring ropes on the quayside and as they approached the warship
were duly challenged by the sentries. Two of them had only just arrived
from distant New Zealand. They were all "for training," and on mounting
the quarterdeck gangway were politely requested by the smiling
quartermaster to report at the ship's office.
In order to get from the deck to this abode of paymasters and writers,
except by the tabooed "captain's hatchway," there had to be negotiated a
long passage leading past the wardroom and the gunroom. In normal times
at such an hour this passage would probably have been almost deserted,
with the exception of a sentry, but the training was being speeded up to
meet the demands of war, and with nearly 200 officers, many of whom
fortunately lived ashore, constantly moving to and fro, it became either
a semi-dark, congested thoroughfare, in which everyone was curtly
apologising for knocking against someone else, or else it contained the
steady pressure of a gunroom overflow meeting, with a tobacco-scented
atmosphere peculiarly its own.
When the formality of reporting arrival had been completed, the embryo
officers were taken in tow by the "Officer of the Day," whose duty it
was to introduce them to the gunroom and make them familiar in a general
way with the routine of the ship. The officer who performed this
ceremony on the night in question has since held a highly responsible
post at the Admiralty--such is the fortune of war.
The first shock came when the work for the following day was explained.
It commenced with physical drill on the quayside at 7 A.M. and ended
with instruction in signalling at 6 P.M.!
. . . . . . . .
The early morning was bitterly cold but fine. Physical "jerks" was not a
dress parade; in fact, some of the early risers on the surrounding
transports and ocean mail boats must have wondered what particular form
of mania the crowd of running, leaping and arm-swinging men, in all
stages of undress on the quayside, really suffered from.
Breakfast and Divisions were the next items on the programme, and the
new-comers looked forward to the day's work with the keen interest of
freshness.
_Morning Divisions_ and _Evening Quarters_ are events of some importance
in the daily routine of his Majesty's ships. They are parades of the
entire ship's company, with the exception of those on important duty,
marking the beginning and end of the day's work. The crew, or men under
training, are mustered in "Watches," under their respective officers,
and stand to attention at the bugle call. The senior officer taking
divisions then enters, a roll is called and the names of those absent
reported. The chaplain stands between the lines of men; the order "Off
caps!" is given and prayers commence. When these are finished certain
orders of the day are read out to the assembled ship's company and the
parade is over.
At evening quarters, on certain days in the week, the names were read
out of the officers and men detailed for special duties or for draft to
a zone of war.
When morning divisions were over the day's work began. The embryo
officers were attached to the seamanship class, consisting of about
twenty men of all ages. Oilskins were donned, for the sky was overcast
and the wind keen. They climbed down the steel sides of the cruiser on
to the small deck of a tender, which was to convey them out on to the
broad but sheltered waters where much of the preliminary practical
training was to take place during the following weeks.
The instructor, an officer attached for the purpose, then divided his
class into two "watches," one being directed to work out the proposed
course of the ship on the charts in the cabin and to give the necessary
orders to the other watch on deck, who were to carry them into effect as
the ship steamed along, with the aid of sextant, compass, wheel,
engine-room telegraph, lead and log-line. As all possessed some
knowledge of the sea, and had experience in navigating, this work did
not prove as difficult as it undoubtedly would to anyone entirely devoid
of nautical knowledge.
Those in the cabin with the charts worked out the compass courses from
one point to another, making the necessary allowances for tide,
deviation, etc. Others of the same watch received reports from the
"bridge" and made the correct entries in the log-book. All elementary
work, but which needed practice to make perfect, and on the accuracy of
which men's lives would depend in the very near future.
The watch on deck was engaged in the more practical work of coastal
navigation and could see the effect of any mistake made theoretically by
their companions below. At midday the watches were reversed. Those
working at the charts and courses came on deck and the seamen of the
morning became the navigating officers of the afternoon.
On this particular day the second or port watch had the worst of it. A
squally wind and rain had set in, making the work on deck thoroughly wet
and uncomfortable. An hour or so later the small ship was rolling and
pitching and everyone was drenched. The lead was kept going by hands
numb with cold--a foretaste of the long and bitter days and nights to be
afterwards spent in wintry seas.
The training cruises were continued for many days and were interspersed
with lectures on the elements of good seamanship, the more advanced
theory and practice of navigation being left for a later course at the
Royal Naval College, Greenwich.
After seamanship came gunnery. Each of the different types of heavy but
finely made weapons had to be learned in detail--a feat of memory when
it came to the watch-like mechanism of the Maxim. Guns were disabled and
had to be put right. They missed fire and were made by the
instructors--old naval gunners--to play every dastardly trick
conceivable. The final test which had to be successfully passed was the
dismantling of each type of gun used in the auxiliary fleet and the
reassembling of it.
With gunnery came also the marks and uses of the different kinds of
ammunition, the systems of "spotting" and "range-finding." Every gun had
its officer crew and the rapidity of fire was recorded. Each man in turn
was chosen to give the necessary orders and to judge the ranges and
deflections. In this way not only was the practical work learned by
heart, but also the theory of naval gunnery, so far as it related to the
smaller types of weapon.
The use of the depth charge, both mechanically and tactically, was
expounded and practically demonstrated, together with that of the
torpedo, the mine, mine laying and sweeping, and the peculiarities of
various explosives. Rifle and revolver practice was encouraged, and
morse and semaphore signalling formed part of the daily routine.
The training was not entirely preparatory for work afloat. Squad and
company drill, rifle and bayonet exercise, and manoeuvring in extended
order formed a part of the comprehensive training. One day, not many
weeks after their arrival, the officers whose fortunes have been
followed found themselves shouting orders and directing by arm and
whistle lines of dusty _camarades_ advancing over a common in the most
approved military fashion.
The training was not all hard work. The gathering of so many men from
all quarters of the world, with a wealth of experience and adventure
behind them, was in itself a source of mutual interest--and incidentally
an education in modern British Imperialism. Scarcely any part of the
world went for long unrepresented in either the wardroom or gunroom of
the old cruiser _Hermione_ in those days of war, and many were the yarns
told of Alaska days, hunting in Africa, experiences in remote corners of
North America, pearling in the Pacific and life on the Indian frontier,
to say nothing of wild nights on the seven seas. Grey heads and round,
boyish faces, the university and the frontier, with a camaraderie seldom
equalled.
The period of training in the old cruiser was drawing to a close when
each officer was appointed to "Boat Duty." There were five launches on
duty at a time, and their crews had to be instantly ready day and night.
The most coveted were the two 21-knot boats, used almost exclusively for
the conveyance of pilots to and from the hospital ships and transports.
Then came the patrol boat, a slow old tub with a comfortable cabin, and
work out on Southampton Water at night. The three "duty boats" were for
emergency use and were held at the disposal of the naval transport
officer.
The duties on each boat varied and were in the nature of training. The
pilot boat was required to lie alongside the cutter, out beyond the
harbour, and to convey the pilots at high speed to and from the stream
of shipping. It was a pleasant duty which entailed alternate nights in
the generous, breezy company of the old sea-dogs of the cutter, with
occasional races at half-a-mile a minute through the darkness and spray
to the moving leviathans of the ocean.
The patrol ambled up and down the sheltered waterways during the day and
night, examining the "permits" of fishermen and preventing the movement
of small craft during the hours of darkness, when the long lines of
troop-ships were leaving for France.
The work of the duty boats varied from day to day, but there was always
the morning and evening mail to be collected from and delivered to the
ships of the auxiliary fleet lying out in the fair-way.
When this spell of water-police work was over there came a few days'
practice in the handling of the fast sea-going patrol launches, or
"M.L.'s," about which so much has since been written in the daily
papers.
After the cramming received in the lecture-rooms, the arduous drill and
the somewhat monotonous work on the slow-moving tenders, the runs
seaward on these new and trim little vessels, the manoeuvring at
nineteen knots, the breeze of passage and the feeling of controlled
power acted as an elixir on both mind and body. Then came firing
practice in the open sea. The sharp crack of cordite, the tongues of
livid flame, the scream of the shells, the white splashes of the
ricochet and the salt sea breezes.
Two days later the preliminary training was over and there loomed ahead
a period of hard study at the Royal Naval College.