We Joined The Navy (18 page)

Inside the office, The Bodger stood behind a table with Mr Piles at his side to call out the names of the cadets as they were summoned into the presence of the Cadet Training Officer.

‘Cadet Cleghorn!’

‘Sir!’

Peter Cleghorn sprang to attention and doubled inside. At the door he caught his foot on the sill and fell in a praying attitude in front of The Bodger.

‘Get-off-of-your-knees-Cadet-Cleghorn! Cadet Cleghorn, sir, request to discontinue shaving.’

The Bodger beetled his eyebrows.

‘So you want to grow a set, Cleghorn?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Think you can manage it?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘How often do you have to shave?’

‘Once a day, sir.’

‘Quietly confident, eh?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Well I’m not! Furthermore, even if you did succeed in growing a set, which I doubt, I’m not going to have one of my cadets going about the place looking like a gingerbread Saint. Not granted. Get your hair cut.’

‘Not granted. Salute! A-bout turn, double march, get your hair cut!’

Peter Cleghorn doubled away. Mr Piles cleared his throat.

‘Cadet Vincent!’

‘Sir!’

‘Cadet Vincent, off--cap! Cadet Vincent, sir, first charge, did on the third of October, commit an act prejudicial to good order and naval discipline in that he did improperly paint the rectum of one male red setter dog, the property of Captain Sir Douglas Mainwaring Gregson, Royal Navy, Kennel Club Number 426692L. Second charge, did, on the third of October, improperly use one pot of Admiralty pattern grey paint.’

The Bodger studied the charge sheet.

‘Mr Piles?’

‘I investigated this case, sir. Cadet Vincent was sharing a stage with Cadet Maconochie sir, while painting ship. They were painting ship sir, when the dog made his appearance on the upper deck above them. On seeing the dog, Cadet Vincent reached up and painted the dog’s rectum, sir, with Admiralty paint. This action was witnessed by Petty Officer Moody, the Captain of Top. When I asked Cadet Vincent if he had anything to say he was in a very excited state, sir. Kept talking about someone called Oscar Wilde, sir. There is no cadet on board with that name, sir. I’ve checked.’

‘Thank you, Mr Piles. Have you anything to say
now
, Vincent?’

‘Well, no sir, except that it was purely in self-defence.’

‘Self-defence?’

‘The dog attacked me, sir.’

‘
Attacked
you? What,
arse
first?’

‘It was a most threatening attitude, sir.’

‘I never heard anything like it. If you go around like this, Vincent, you’re going to be a menace to society and I hope I never have to serve with you. Lieutenant du Pont, how does Cadet Vincent do his duty?’

Pontius the Pilot had hurried from the wardroom on hearing that one of his cadets was charged with committing an unnatural offence. He was baffled by the reference to Admiralty paint which he had heard as he came through the door.

‘Vincent is generally reliable, sir,’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’ve noticed any signs of aberration before.’

‘Hardly an aberration,’ said The Bodger. ‘I would call it more of a decoration. Though it was hard luck on the dog.’

‘Dog!’

‘The Captain’s dog.’

‘The
Captain’s
dog!’

‘Yes, yes, the Captain’s dog,’ The Bodger said impatiently. ‘Now look here, Vincent. You’d better remember this. You can do what you like with a senior officer’s wife but keep clear of his dog, his car and his yacht. Get it?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Five days Number Eleven punishment.’

‘Five days Number Eleven punishment! On-cap! A-bout turn, double march!’

Outside, Paul was met by a deputation.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Michael.

‘Five days number elevens.’

‘You were lucky,’ said Peter Cleghorn. ‘You know how the old man feels about his dog. I’m surprised he didn’t personally call for your head on a silver salver.’

‘Oh, The Bodger seemed to think it was jolly funny. He gave me a Bodgerism and five days number elevens,’

‘Tough luck.’

‘The only person I’m annoyed with is Maconochie. I reckon it was all his fault anyway.’

‘It normally is.’

Paul’s punishment was inconvenient rather than arduous. It curtailed his spare time but did not impose any undue hardship. It consisted mainly of extra work which normally devolved to picking cigarette ends and rubbish up from the upper deck. Paul was shaken a quarter of an hour earlier in the morning and spent the time picking up cigarette ends; during the dog watches he picked up cigarette ends for half an hour and did half an hour’s drill under the supervision of the Duty Regulating Petty Officer Cadet; and he mustered for evening rounds outside the Cadet Office, having picked up cigarette ends for the previous quarter of an hour.

After two days Paul became as expert as a truffle hound. He knew all the likely places for cigarette ends and visited them periodically, as a hunt draws likely coverts for fox. On the third day there were very few cigarette ends to pick up and Paul was forced to ask the other members of his gunroom to stub out their cigarette ends on the upper deck to give him some employment; even so he frequently found himself faced with endless stretches of deck barren of cigarette ends and he made an arrangement with the gunroom sweepers that they emptied their gunroom spit-kids on to the upper deck as soon as they heard the defaulters call sounded off. On the fifth and last day of his punishment Paul had a fellow defaulter to keep him company and, when he went, to assume his mantle. It was Maconochie, who was given three days Number Eleven punishment by The Bodger for emptying his spitkid on to the upper deck instead of down a gash-shute.

Paul’s punishment lasted until
Barsetshire
had finished painting ship and sailed to her next port, on the Cote d’Azur.

The bay where
Barsetshire
anchored was cupped in hills which were studded with villas and groves of trees. The small town was built of narrow, red and yellow houses which mounted the hillside to the Corniche above. The harbour was filled with yachts and
Barsetshire
was surrounded by tiny floats paddled by bronzed and near-naked Frenchmen. Monte Carlo lay a few miles to the east, Nice a few miles to the west and the Alpes Maritimes rose up in the blue background.

Michael’s first special duty was Main Signals Office Messenger. The duties of M.S.O. Messenger, as described by the Chief G.I., were to deliver signals to the officers addressed, make the tea for the watch, and keep out of the Chief Yeoman’s way.

When Michael reported, he found the office deserted but a murmur of voices led him out on to the Flag Deck where several signalmen were gathered round the largest telescope in the ship. Their attention was so close and unwinking that Michael thought that a signal of unusual interest was being passed. Perhaps England had declared war on France, or the Commander been promoted.

‘Coo!’ said the nearest signalman. ‘That’s what I want for Christmas, mother dear.’

‘Let’s have it over here a minute, Johno. I think I can see a good one.’

‘You go and get stuffed. This is all mine. Keep your filthy fingers off while I look at what makes the world go round.’

Michael picked up a pair of binoculars, followed the signalman’s line of sight, and saw a young woman sunbathing in the garden of a villa. She was wearing a very short bathing costume.

‘Left a bit’ said a voice at Michael’s elbow.

Michael shifted left and saw another young woman, wearing an even briefer costume; it seemed to Michael that she was not so much wearing it as lying near it.

‘Now look right and down a bit at five o’clock,’ said the voice.

Michael again obeyed and understood the signalmen’s absorption. For there lay a third young woman. There was no costume, merely the young woman. Michael had always thought that the Communications Branch led a dull and miserable existence, but he now saw that they, like everybody else, had their compensations.

‘Not bad at all,’ said the voice,

‘Would you like a look?’

‘Yes please.’

Michael took the binoculars from his eyes and handed them over.

‘Thank you’ said the Communications Officer.

Meanwhile, Ted Maconochie was having difficulty with his special duty. He was bowman of a motor boat.

When a boat approached the gangway, the bowman was required to climb on to the forepeak with his boat-hook and there perform a series of exercises known as boat-hook drill.

‘Thump your boat-hook twice on the deck’ said the Chief G.I. ‘to give your sternsheetsman the tip. Throw your boat-hook up, catch it at the point of balance, swing it horizontal, and then shift your grip to catch the boat-rope.’

It was not a series of movements which lent itself to grace; Maconochie, even after considerable practice, still looked like a drum-major on stilts.

The coxswain of the boat was an Indian named Rorari who was not a good coxswain.

‘The best thing you can do’ said Maconochie to Rorari, ‘is fall overboard and let someone else have a go who knows what he’s doing.’

Maconochie’s advice was apt when Rorari next brought his boat alongside the gangway. Rorari was lying off when the Officer of the Watch, the Gunnery Officer, came out on to the platform of the gangway to motion him with his telescope to come alongside.

Rorari’s boat leapt forward, struck the gangway, and bore up on it, goring it like a savage bull. The gangway swayed under the impact like a reed in a storm and a violent shiver passed up its length. The Gunnery Officer lost his balance and plummeted down into the sea. Rorari opened his throttle wide and accelerated so swiftly that the sternsheetsman, who had been gazing compassionately at the spot of bubbling sea where he had last seen the Gunnery Officer, was caught unawares and silently vanished away over the stern. Maconochie laughed scornfully.

Rorari, who was looking for a scapegoat, heard the laugh.

‘Mac’notchee!’ he screeched. ‘I see you! I see you! You say you are not doing anything while all the time you are doing something! All the time you are laughing, joking say “Fall overboard”! You ball me up I ditch you!’

Maconochie gave another scornful laugh. Rorari wrenched the wheel hard over. The boat tilted in a tight circle and Maconochie flew off at a tangent.

The third member of the crew, the stoker, a Sikh named Singh, realised that every man who sailed with Rorari was, like the men who sailed with Hawkins, doomed to a watery grave, kept his eyes down and studied his gauges and was still on board when Rorari came alongside again, which he did by driving the boat at the gangway and allowing the gangway to stop the boat. The Gunnery Officer was waiting on the step.

‘Rorari, Rorari, you’re an incompetent, dangerous, criminal, nitwitted, blockheaded, thick-skulled, homicidal, bloody idiot!’

‘Please sir, it was not my fault! It was not my fault, sir! The bowman balled me up, sir!’

‘Who was your bowman?’

‘Mac’notchee, sir!’

‘Ah yes.’

George Dewberry went ashore to Jimmy’s Bar and drank vin blanc. It seemed to him the only sensible thing to do.

Later in the evening The Bodger went ashore to Jimmy’s Bar with the Communications Officer. They drank Dubonnet and watched the passers-by.

‘Talent’s not bad here at all, eh Bodger?’

‘Not bad.’

‘Not a bad figure at all, that last one.’

‘Not bad. Bit shop-soiled.’

The Bodger looked gloomily into his glass.

‘Oh come, Bodger. Since when this looking of the gift-horse in the mouth?’

‘Gift-horse?’

‘My dear old Bodger, if you haven’t learnt the signals by now, you’ve no right to call yourself an officer in charge of cadets’ training. It’s the first thing you should teach them.’

‘What are you burbling about, Chris, for God’s sake?’

‘Forget it.’

The Communications Officer returned to his scrutiny of the local talent. The Bodger looked at his glass.

‘Bolshie lot of cadets this cruise, Bodger?’

‘Eh?’

‘Bolshie this cruise?’

‘Who?’

‘
Cadets
. Oh, for Pete’s sake Bodger, snap out of it! What’s troubling you?’

‘Sorry, I was just thinking of all those cadets we’ve got on board.’

‘What about them?’

‘There they all are, just out of the egg, mad keen, anxious to learn and do well. Most of them, anyway. We encourage them, all of us from Admirals downwards, to
be
keen. And for what? For why? What’s going to happen to them all?’

‘Well, they’ll all grow up and either be promoted and become admirals, or be passed over and grow onions.’

‘That’s not what I meant at all. We talk to them about officer-like qualities, we tell them all about word of command, lecture to them about leadership, fill them up with bull and they appear to believe it. Or if they don’t believe it, they’re polite enough to conceal it. Sometimes I think those cadets on board are laughing at us, humouring us as though we were a lot of fat uncles playing bears, and other times I think they believe every word and everything we do or say has the most frightful significance for the future. It’s the second alternative which scares me, because not only are we deluding them, we’re deluding ourselves.’

‘Oh, everybody knows the whole thing is a colossal confidence trick,’ the Communications Officer said. ‘No cadet could do all he’s expected to do in that vessel and come out alive, and any one of us who tried to watch all of them all of the time would go straight round the bend.’

‘I mean something much more serious than that. If we go on as we are now, in ten years’ time there won’t
be
any leaders or anyone whom we can draw on for officers. I don’t mean to be snobbish in the least little bit but there used to be a class of people in the country who could be relied on to lead. They may have been queers, they may have seduced all the village girls and barred themselves up in their houses for years. They may have been megalomaniacs, or mad, or obstinate, or eccentric, or downright scoundrels but at least they knew how to
lead
.’