More than anything about “Lucky Alphonse”, CincRock hated having to make the speech of welcome at the beginning of the Wash-Up. As he said to his Chief of Staff, “I feel like a damned chairman congratulating his damned shareholders on how many damned washing machines he’s sold for them.”
“My first, and my most pleasant, duty,” said CincRock at the Wash-Up, “is to welcome you all here and to congratulate you on your excellent showing during ‘Lucky Alphonse’. This year’s exercise was more successful than any we’ve had in previous years. More nations contributed ships. There were more incidents. And the whole thing went with a bang! One or two things cropped up, particularly on the anti-submarine side, which were not quite as successful as we had hoped for. Submarines made a total of ninety-four attacks. Seventy-nine of those were judged successful. That’s a very high percentage. Too high. At the same time, only five submarines were judged sunk, one by aircraft and four by surface ships. That was not so good. My Chief of Staff will deal with that in detail in a few moments. My job now is to say how glad I am to see you all here and to hope you have a damned good time while you’re here.”
CincRock nodded to his Chief of Staff who had been standing, a Svengali-like figure, in the background.
The Chief of Staff made an immediate impression upon Dagwood.
“Augustus was a chubby lad,” recited Dagwood irreverently. “Fat chubby cheeks Augustus had. He ate and drank as he was told, and never let his soup get cold.”
Augustus was a brilliant officer who had risen to the rank of Rear Admiral on a series of staff appointments. As Staff Commander, Staff Captain, and finally as Chief of Staff he had been the eminence grise behind a number of successful admirals, of whom CincRock was the latest. Analytical discussions were Augustus’ forte. He was a master strategist, in terms of counters and symbols, a blackboard Bismarck, a veritable Wellington of the Wash-Ups.
“All yours, Gussie,” said CincRock.
Augustus unrolled a map, took up a pointer and began to summarize Exercise “Lucky Alphonse”. He described the rapid mobilization which had followed the proclamation of a state of emergency in Western Europe. He outlined the balance of power and the disposition of forces available at the moment the conflict began. He explained the solution of the logistical problems which had made possible the assembly of a vast Task Force of different nations far out in the Atlantic. He traced the progress of the Task Force towards the continent of Europe. Augustus had all the data at his finger-tips. Incidents, times, courses and speeds rolled from his memory. As he expounded, with cross-reference and flash-back, the unfolding of the master exercise plan, every officer present began to understand where his own limited and seemingly unconnected contribution had fitted into the whole. Augustus was like a skilled advocate building, piece by piece, a complicated case in company law and by the time he had completed his summary it was easy to see why he had become a Rear Admiral. His had been the performance of a virtuoso and there was a moment’s silence after he had finished speaking, like the momentary hush which precedes the tumultuous applause after a superlative interpretation of a concerto. Indeed, one or two of the more susceptible officers present wondered whether a round of applause might not be in order.
“Well done, Gussie,” said CincRock, sotto voce.
The audience were given no more time to decide whether or not Augustus should be given a clap. Augustus had hardly put down his pointer when a Squadron Leader with shiny black hair and a toothbrush moustache had stood up and begun to read rapidly from a sheet of paper.
“At fourteen hundred hours on the ninth, Yoke Uncle was on task over the Bay of Biscay. There was seven-eighths cloud at five thousand feet and a force two breeze from the south-west. Some difficulty was experienced in maintaining radio contact with. . . .”
Augustus, who had been about to sign off with a neatly turned phrase which would have thrown the meeting open, remained on the platform, his pointer still poised. He opened and shut his mouth several times without achieving a break through. The Air Show was exactly timed. Yoke Uncle had hardly landed when Mike Zebra was in the air, piloted by a Flight Lieutenant with a ginger bat-handle moustache. Mike Zebra had maintained radio contact successfully but had had other troubles; her starboard wheel had been reluctant to come up and once up, had refused to go down again. Mike Zebra had barely come to rest in a field by the side of the runway when Delta Eskimo, represented by a Squadron Leader in a bushy black moustache, was airborne and suffering damage to her tail-plane. Fox Pepper, with a reduced Salvador Dali and sad spaniel eyes, had been lost in fog. Indian Queen had not taken off at all. (“The ashtrays were full,” Black Sebastian said in a resonant stage-whisper.) When at last the Air Show ended the admirals and captains of the greatest Grand Alliance in history had been given a thorough exposition of the trials and hardships attached to anti-submarine flying.
CincRock found his voice. “Did you find any submarines?”
Every flying eye turned towards a pale youth with a faint blond moustache sitting in the back row of the pilots. He was the only pilot who had not yet spoken. The others looked towards him as though to one who had searched for, and found, the Holy Grail. He was their champion, the gentle knight without a blemish. He had seen a submarine.
The gentle knight rose reluctantly to his feet. “Well, actually, the whole thing was rather a bit of joss,” he said diffidently. “We were just as surprised to see him as he was to see us. It was very early in the morning. We came suddenly through thick cloud down to about five hundred feet and there he was, lying on the surface. He dived straight away, of course, but we tracked him with sono-buoys until some frigates came up and took over. I believe they got him.”
The gentle knight sat thankfully down again, like Sir Galahad after a press conference.
“Well done,” CincRock said warmly.
After the Air Show there was some general discussion amongst the Task Force and escort captains about tactics. Of the four submarines judged sunk by surface ships, three were credited to Black Sebastian and the fourth to the Captain who had consulted the Second Book of Kings and Hymns Ancient &: Modern.
“I nearly got another,” said Black Sebastian, looking balefully at the back row where The Bodger had fallen into a light sleep. “With one more escort in the right place we’d have got him.”
This remark touched the Wash-Up audience on its most sensitive spot. The shortage of escorts had hampered everyone. The cry was taken up on all sides. Carrier captains complained of being asked to fly off strikes whilst completely unprotected against submarine attack. The Master of
Wave Chiropodist
complained of being detached from the main body to carry out his own anti-submarine search. “Let me say now, once and for all,” he said, “no fleet tanker I ever heard of is equipped to look for submarines. I only hope the Unions don’t get to hear of it.” One of the guided missile cruiser captains claimed that he personally had made more submarine detections than either of his two escorts. The escort captains retorted that no anti-submarine vessel yet designed could have covered effectively the areas they had been called upon to patrol. The R.A.F. listened curiously, as deep thus called out deep.
The mineral-water bottle vanman had been sitting in enthralled silence. He had followed every word of Augustus’ narrative. The Air Show had been meat and drink to him. He had developed a very high respect for Black Sebastian. But now, as the argument gained momentum, the young man in the blue cuffs began to grow impatient. He fully appreciated that he was probably the most junior person present and was not likely to be called upon for an opinion but he could not allow this discussion to pass without putting forward an obvious solution. It was not in his nature to remain silent when the simplest way to solve the argument must surely be staring everybody in the face.
“Why not build more ships, sir?” he called out.
It was the compelling voice of innocence, the voice of the child who pointed out that the Emperor had no clothes on. It cut through the heated atmosphere of the Wash-Up like a cold fresh wind. The escort captain who had been speaking stopped, frowned, and sat down at once. CincRock stood up and searched the rows of faces.
“Who said that?”
The vanman had been dumbfounded by the effect of his remark. He felt like a small boy who, having mischievously pulled at a small insignificant length of chain, discovers that he has stopped the express.
“Me, sir,” said the vanman, blushing bashfully.
“Well done,” said CincRock. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard today.”
Staff Officers who had been bursting to deliver themselves of brilliant logistical suggestions changed their minds and decided to put their ideas on paper. Captains who had been reserving their most telling arguments until last decided that perhaps there was nothing further to add after all. The vanman had killed the Wash-Up stone dead.
Just as he was about to close the meeting, CincRock remembered that there was still one community who had not yet made any contribution to the Wash-Up.
“How about the submariners? Anyone want to say anything back there?”
Like the Traveller, knocking on the moonlit door and asking “Is there anybody there?” CincRock repeated his question.
Dagwood tactfully nudged The Bodger who came awake immediately, stood up and said: “From our point of view it was a
splendid
exercise! It was a good clean fight, no holds barred, and may the best man win! “
So saying, The Bodger relapsed enigmatically into his seat. His place was taken by Ole Miss who was jerked to his feet by a firm hand under each arm-pit. He was a very short man and he was temporarily suspended, his feet pedalling at the floor, like a gnome on gimbals.
“As a career-motivated officer,” Ole Miss said, “I can tell you all that Exercise Lucky Alphonse was the goddamned best exercise, logistics-wise and sea-familiarization-wise, we’ve ever partakelized. The only time we hit trouble was some goddamed
yacht
. He really scared the juice out of me . . . ! “
Ole Miss stopped, blinked, appeared to have lost the thread of what he was about to say, and was rapidly lowered out of sight.
The only other submarine contribution was from Count Ugolino who shook off his former mask-like torpor and launched a torrent of Italian, embellished with histrionic gestures, flashing eyes and snapping fingers.
The Bodger stirred uneasily. “Who’s that
noisy
bastard?” he inquired irritably. The message was passed along the row to
Farfarelli’s
Navigating Officer who spoke softly to his captain. Count Ugolino finished his sentence, bowed low, blew a kiss to CincRock and sat down.
After the Wash-Up CincRock released the normal statement to the press, confirming that “Lucky Alphonse” had been a complete success, having consolidated the maritime defences of Europe and strengthened once more the bonds which united the nations of the free world.
The only flaw in the confident facade was disclosed by CincRock himself. He was button-holed about “Lucky Alphonse” by the Naval Correspondent of the
Daily Disaster
outside the “Keppel's Head” and replied that in his opinion the United Kingdom was no better fitted to defeat a determined submarine attack than it was equipped to beat off a swarm of locusts.
“At least,” CincRock shouted, as he was hustled into his car by his Flag Lieutenant and Augustus, “we could eat the bloody locusts! “
“This week,” said The Bodger, “we really
must
get organized.
Work Study
is the latest cry in the Staff Office at the moment. Apparently we’ve been doing it all wrong all these years. It seems that what was good enough for Nelson is not good enough for us after all. Everybody’s got time and motion study charts showing that if you hold your glass in your right hand and the bottle in your left you’ll have time for twenty per cent more drinks before the bar closes. Or something. Anyway, Captain S/M has told us all to get our Maintenance Weeks organized instead of having the usual shambles.”
The rest of the wardroom looked sceptical. The Submarine Service had been trying to organize its Maintenance Weeks since the first of the Holland boats went to sea at the turn of the century.
“
So
,” The Bodger went on, “seeing as how it’s Monday morning, I thought we might have a conference and see if we can fix everything to happen at different times instead of in one Godalmighty chaos. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Now. . . . What have we got on this week, Number One?” Looking like a man upon whom great issues hung, Wilfred took out the desk diary which he kept hidden in his drawer. He began to read from it in a hollow voice, as though chanting a rubric for lost souls.
“Paint ship, sir. Twelve bodies overdue for the escape tank. They’ve got to requalify this week. Five blokes for X-rays. Another six to have a first-aid course. Store ship for six weeks at sea. Survey all emergency stores. Send all the bunk covers and curtains to the cleaners. Get Chippy to mend the cupboards in the Petty Officers’ mess. Muster all the attractive items in the permanent loan list. Fix up the ship’s company run ashore to Brighton. Captain S/M’s rounds of the messdeck inboard.”
“Fine,
fine
,” said The Bodger. “I can see you’ve got a pretty busy week.” It was a long time since The Bodger had been First Lieutenant of a running submarine and he had forgotten how many details had to be arranged. “How about you, Chief?”
Derek opened a huge blue file marked ‘Engineer Officer--Very Urgent’ and found among the papers, drawings and stores notes which overflowed from it a piece of paper covered in figures and squiggly drawings.
“The starboard supercharger was rumbling on the way in, sir. We’ll have to strip that down and have a look at it. The main engine lub-oil’s due for a change. We’ll have to fuel and take on fresh water some time this week. We’re docking on Thursday to fit that new echo-sounder for the boffins. And we’ve got to change the after periscope. . . .”