Dagwood’s own department was making faster progress than any. The main batteries had been removed, the wireless office and the sonar room were unrecognisable: consoles had been ripped out piecemeal, ranks of valve panels had been dismantled and hundreds of cables hung in tangles like abandoned nerve ganglia. In what had once been the radar office Dagwood came across a workman stripping wiring leads. The man was tearing out lengths of wire and tossing them into a bucket. Dagwood stood and watched him for some time.
‘Is there anything wrong with those leads?’ he asked at last.
‘Couldn’t tell you, sir,’ said the man, shortly.
‘Are those circuits going to be rewired?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir.’
‘But if there’s nothing wrong with them couldn’t they be taped off and left where they are?’
‘I’m only doing what the gaffer tells me, sir,’ said the man resentfully.
‘But surely ...’
‘I only work here, sir.’
Dagwood went to see Mr Swales. He did not expect a great deal of co-operation from Mr Swales but he was not prepared for the rock-hard stubbornness, the mulish obstinacy, which Mr Swales displayed. Mr Swales flatly refused to take any action whatsoever.
‘This is an Admiralty contract,’ Mr Swales said, ‘and it’s going to be carried out according to Admiralty instructions. The Admiralty want those leads taken out. They’re taken out. If you want it done any differently you’ve got to show me the Admiralty letter authorising it. Show me the letter reference, that’s all I say . . .’
‘I see your point about the Admiralty reference, Mr Swales...’
‘Just show me the reference ...’
‘Yes, yes, I
quite
see that, but if there’s nothing wrong with those leads and if nothing’s going to be done to them while they’re out, then why not just leave them in? They’re not in anybody’s way . . .’
‘The Admiralty has laid down that those leads are to be taken out,’ Mr Swales said in a taut, restrained voice, ‘and they always are taken out. And they always will be, unless you can show me some authorisation . . .’
‘I know this is only a small point, Mr Swales, but it’s a matter of
principle
. Enough of these small points can delay our completion date ...’
‘I am not interested in your completion date, Lieutenant.’ That was final. That was what The Bodger would have called the Knock-Down Answer. Once that had been said, there could be no further discussion.
Dagwood left Mr Swales’s office without another word and, bubbling over with rage, went to see Mr Tybalt. This was a drastic step to take (and Dagwood was not at all sure he was entitled to take it) but his argument with Mr Swales was so fundamental that Dagwood felt that he must have his own position clarified. This issue went far beyond the mere question of whether or not several hundred three-foot lengths of co-axial cable should be removed from H.M.S.
Seahorse
. It was a point on which the whole basis of the refit rested.
Mr Tybalt heard Dagwood out. Then he got up from his desk and went over to the window.
‘Come over here a minute, Dagwood,’ he said.
Dagwood joined Mr Tybalt at the window.
‘What do you see?’
Mr Tybalt’s office looked out upon a kind of canyon, cut through the shipyard. The Admiralty offices formed one side of the canyon and the boilermakers’ shop formed the other. Through the floor of the canyon ran a narrow road and a single track railway line. A corrugated iron roof jutted out just below Mr Tybalt’s window, sheltering rows of racks in which scores of Harvey McNichol & Drummond workmen stabled their bicycles during the working day.
‘It’s not very inspiring,’ Dagwood admitted.
‘Mr Swales’s office is directly below this one,’ said Mr Tybalt. ‘He hasn’t even got this view, such as it is. His office has a prospect of the back of that bicycle shed. Do you know how long Cyril Swales has been there?’
‘I’ve no idea, sir.’
‘Eleven years. Eleven years of trying to make this shipyard build things that will stand up to Admiralty specifications. Nobody who hasn’t had intimate dealings with a British shipbuilding firm can really understand what that means. Those people down there are wrangling, and arguing, and striking, and gradually pricing themselves out of their own bread and butter. We’re fast getting to the stage where the Royal Navy will be the only people who can
afford
to send work to British shipyards. Mr Swales and I and people like us live in this bedlam and try and produce what the Admiralty want out at the end of it all.’
‘But Mr Swales didn’t even
listen
...’
‘You may or may not be right in this particular case. It’s not Mr Swales’s job to decide that and it’s not mine. Mr Swales does his job, you can be quite sure of that. Not only does he do it today, he’ll do it tomorrow and next week and next year. He’s been doing it for eleven years in this shipyard and is quite capable of doing it for another eleven.’
Mr Tybalt returned to his desk and clasped his hands in front of his chin.
‘Every now and then we get actual naval officers working with us. They’re interested in what they call the operational side of things. I use the word advisedly. They want to make their ship live and work and fight efficiently. At the same time they want it to be comfortable to live in. They want an armoured glove which fits them like silk. Commander Badger made this point quite convincingly at the refit conference. It’s an admirable objective. But it’s not
our
objective.
Our
objective is to see that when the Admiralty specify steel of a certain kind, then that steel is used, and when they specify a test pressure of so many pounds to the square inch, that test is applied and sustained, or when they specify an insulation of so many megohms, that value is achieved. I’m sorry to talk so pompously, I can see by your face that I haven’t succeeded in making my point. Just take my word for it, Dagwood, we are trying to get the best refit we can for you out of this firm. And if you don’t like Cyril Swales’s attitude,’ said Mr Tybalt, grinning, ‘why, you’ll just have to lump it. Won’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Dagwood, not believing a word of it. Later, when he mentioned the Great Swales Controversy to The Bodger, expecting sympathy, he did not receive it. On the contrary, The Bodger was horrified.
‘It’s my own fault,’ said The Bodger. ‘I should have warned you. Dagwood, you, as a ship’s officer, mustn’t have anything to do with the workmen. I don’t say you won’t get to know them, because of course you will, and a bit of chiyacking about what a bloody awful team Oozemouth United have got is probably a good thing. But if you see a workman doing something wrong or even if he just looks as though he’s loafing, you must never, never,
never
interfere. If you’re unhappy about what’s going on you must go and see the Admiralty Overseers about it. They deal with the firm. Not you. No ship’s officer carries the least bit of weight in a private yard. You’re only there in an advisory capacity. It’s the Overseer’s responsibility to see that everything is up to scratch. Not yours.’
‘Why do they call themselves ‘Overseers,’ sir? They sound like Simon Legree or someone.’
‘Anyone less like Simon Legree than the average Admiralty Overseer would be hard to imagine, as you know,’ The Bodger replied. ‘They’re normally funny-looking little men in scruffy suits. They have a civil servant’s attitude to life and they fuss around and get in your way. At least, that’s how everyone in the Navy tends to think of them. But you’ve got to see these fellows’ point of view, Dagwood. They’re being pushed from three directions all the time. On one side they’ve got the Admiralty pestering them for reports, raising hell when a ship is delayed and blaming them when things go wrong. Then they’ve got the firm telling them that unless the Admiralty stop changing their minds about what they want fitted in the ship and, furthermore, unless they
send
the stuff once they have made up their minds, the ship will never make its completion date. And on top of all that they’ve got the laughing, chaffing ship’s officers, who wait until everything’s finally in place and buttoned up and then come along and point out that nobody will be able to get in and work it if it’s left where it is and while they’re on the subject could they have the ship panelled out in green and not blue. So it’s not easy for the Overseers and you’ve got to see their point of view. They’re worth cultivating, these chappies. It’s just as important to get on well with them as with the firm. More important, in fact. Tact, Dagwood. Tact is the thing. Tactfulness is more than godliness in a shipyard.’
‘I don’t see why we need Overseers anyway, sir. We’re quite capable of looking after the refit ourselves.’
‘Quite right,’ said The Bodger, ‘but this is not the only place where stuff for the Admiralty is being made nor are you the only Admiralty contract even here. You forget that the Admiralty are a suspicious bunch. There probably hasn’t been a more suspicious bunch of coves since the Court of the Star Chamber. They think everyone’s trying to see them off, and nine times out of ten they’re dead right. So they have a great team of men all over the country whose job it is to look after the Admiralty’s interests. I don’t think you’ve any idea of the sheer scale of the thing, Dagwood. There isn’t anything, no matter how small nor how cheap, bought or made for the Admiralty where a little man doesn’t come along first and inspect it and put his chop on it to show that it’s been passed for Admiralty consumption. They have quite a difficult job too. It’s not easy to come along to a firm that’s been beavering away for years and tell them that what they’re doing is no good. Tact again, you see. Tact makes the world go round, Dagwood. The business world anyway. By the way, I hear you’ve been lashing yourself up to a little love-nest in the country?’
Dagwood flushed. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it that, sir.’ ‘What would you call it then?’
‘Well, it’s a flat really. It’s actually a converted Tithe Barn.’
‘Sounds just the job. Can you cook?’
‘Sort of.’
‘The next thing is, you’ll be giving discreet little dinners. For two.’
‘Oh, I doubt that sir.’
‘Don’t be too sure. You’ll meet some girl or other, I can guarantee,’ said The Bodger, casually.
The Bodger’s words were prophetic. Hurrying round the corner of the main Harvey McNichol & Drummond office block the next morning, Dagwood did indeed meet a girl. He met her in the classic manner - head on.
The girl spun round with the impact and fell to the ground. ‘You clumsy great oaf!’ she said to Dagwood.
‘I’m most terribly sorry. I really am. Let me help you up.’ The girl’s eyes snapped at him. ‘That’s the least you can do, you great elephant! ‘
The girl took Dagwood’s hand and pulled herself up. Dagwood recognised her as Sir Rollo’s private secretary. Without her spectacles and in the plain light of day Dagwood could see that she was a very pretty girl. Dagwood felt a sudden urge of panic that he might have injured her.
‘God, look at that stocking! And the heel of my shoe’s come off! Oh
you
… ,’ The girl gritted her teeth.
‘Let me . . . Let me help you into the hall porter’s office?’ ‘Thank you,’ the girl said coldly.
She held Dagwood’s arm and hopped and limped into the hall. Her grip was firm and light. Dagwood felt a strange but pleasurable prickling between his shoulder blades.
‘Thank you. Now please go.’
‘But can’t I do anything? Fetch something?’
‘I shall be quite all right, thank you.’
‘Hadn’t we better patch you up before the Great Bogle wonders where you are?’
‘The Great . . .’ The girl stared at Dagwood. ‘If you mean my father, Sir Rollo,’ she said icily, ‘I’m sure he’ll understand. Now ... do ... please ... GO!’
Dagwood obeyed. He raced up the stairs to his own office, burst through the door and shot into his chair.
‘What’s the matter, Daggers?’ Ollie asked.
‘Tact,
tact
, TACT!’ Dagwood shouted at the wall.
‘Dagwood,’ said The Bodger, over the telephone, ‘Have you ever met Rob Roy?’
‘No sir, I didn’t even know he was still alive.’
‘He’s very much alive. My wife and I had dinner with him the other night. He was in cracking form but he sounded a little wistful that more people didn’t call on him. It’s the anniversary of his V.C. this week so I think it might be an idea if one of you called on him and made your number with him.’
‘Right, I’ll do that, sir.’
‘He’s in the telephone book. I should give him a ring first.’
‘Right, sir.’
Dagwood put down the telephone. ‘Ollie, where’s that bit of bumf that arrived the other day, all about Rob Roy’s V.C.?’
‘In your “In” tray.’
It was the custom of the Submarine Service to publish on the anniversary of every submarine Victoria Cross a Special Order of the Day describing the exploit and its chief participant. Rob Roy’s Special Order was short but it might have been the raw material for a ‘Boy’s Own Paper’ serial. Dagwood read how the submarine E.41, Lieutenant- Commander Robert Iain MacGregor in command, dived at noon on 20th March, 1916, penetrated the inner defences of Kiel Harbour and immobilised the heavy cruiser ‘
Hohenzollern
’ with two torpedo hits just before dusk. Retreating under cover of darkness, E.41 surfaced to recharge her batteries but was surprised and nearly run down by another German cruiser which she hit with one torpedo, fired from the surface. E.41 finally drew clear after engaging with gunfire an armed German trawler - for all of which exploits her Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Robert Iain MacGregor, R.N., was awarded the Victoria Cross.
‘Man,’ said Dagwood admiringly, ‘this Rob Roy character must have been quite a lad! ‘
‘He’s not dead, you know,’ said Ollie. ‘He turns up to the odd Reunion.’
‘I know he’s not dead. He lives around these parts. That was The Bodger on the telephone just now suggesting that one of us go and call on him. Shall I do it?’
‘Certainly. He’ll probably be thrilled to bits. I don’t expect he gets many chances to pound people’s ears about the good old days. You’ll be a godsend to him. You never know,’ said Ollie slyly, ‘he may have a daughter.’