‘Never mind, Sandy. I’ll make do with this one.’
‘No, I’ll get it, sir, I’ll get it,’
Sandy ferreted about in a small cupboard behind his door. He took out a rolled drawing, carried it across to the blackboard, and hung it over the other drawing.
‘Sorry, Sandy.’
‘If yew doan’t tell me, sir, how kin I know? I say, if yew doan’t tell me nothin’, how’m I to know?’
Sandy retreated behind the small door.
‘Well, we’re all set now. Feed system in the Boiler Room. You know, I’ve changed my mind. I think we’ll do the Engine Room first, after all. You at the end of the front row. Come up and take this drawing down. Don’t let Sandy hear you, for God’s sake.
‘That’s right. Engine Room. In the Engine Room you have a condenser, that’s this doofah here, a closed feed controller, that’s this little widger here, and an extraction pump. The condenser, as its name implies, condenses steam into water after it’s left the turbine. I forget now whether I told you about turbines? I did? Good. These whatsits here are tubes. The main circulators push sea water through the tubes to condense the steam. If you get a leak in one of those tubes there’s a real nausea. You get salt water in the closed feed system. Condenseritis, it’s called. Keeps Senior Engineers awake at night. . . .’
The Beattys were as closely supervised out of their working hours as they were in the class-room. Each cadet had to take part in one of the College activities in the evenings. The cadets noted their activities in a log which The Bodger inspected once a week. Any cadet who had spent more than one day in the week skulking, by which The Bodger meant not playing cricket or sailing, was summoned to The Bodger’s office.
Spink was the most frequent skulker.
‘Look here, Spink,’ said The Bodger. ‘On Monday last you went shooting and a week ago on Thursday you went on the river. That’s fair enough. I’m not complaining about that. But every other day for the last fortnight you’ve been bird-watching, butterfly-catching, or fossil-hunting. What’s all this about?’
‘There are some very interesting specimens in this part of the country, sir,’ said Spink.
‘Spink, my dear old
chap
. When I was at Dartmouth I was the best bird-watcher in my term. There wasn’t a bird for miles around I hadn’t watched. And as for butterfly-catching, no butterfly from here to Totnes was safe until I passed out of Dartmouth. I must admit I never thought of fossil-hunting, but what I’m getting at is this . . . there’s nothing anybody can teach me about bird-watching, butterfly-catching, fossil-hunting or any other kind of watching, catching or hunting. You people seem to think that I and all the staff came out of the egg the day before yesterday. Now listen, Spink. I’m not interested in your private hobbies. That’s not what you’re here for. You can do that during your leave. While you’re here you will join in the College activities as laid down by the College. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you can tell Dewberry and the other nature boys what I’ve told you. Right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Carry on, Spink.’
Spink was in the minority. Most of the Beattys needed no urging to take part in the sports provided by the College. It was, perhaps, the only part of their training on which they and the College were completely in agreement. Most of them had played games at school and now played them at Dartmouth, if not with an excess of zeal at least out of a hope that some astonishing feat of athletics would lift them for a short time from the general ruck of the term. The Bodger was not so impressed by these feats as the Beattys imagined, but he recognised the part games could play in transforming the Beattys from a crowd of schoolboys of different schools into a composite term of cadets with a feeling of comradeship in their term and, eventually, in the Navy.
Almost half the Beattys went regularly on the river and half normally played cricket. Tom Bowles was attracted to the river as soon as he came to Dartmouth. He had seldom sailed a boat before, but within a month on the River Dart he had learnt more about sailing small boats than most naval officers learn in a lifetime. Tom Bowles was able to sense the smallest quirk of wind and current and quickly became the best coxswain in the term except for David Bowie, a New Zealander, who had started with advantages, having been able to swim before he could walk and having spent a large part of his childhood sailing in Auckland harbour.
Michael Hobbes and Paul Vincent played cricket, Paul for the reason he had given the Interview Board, that it was his only sport, and Michael because it was summer. Michael had played cricket in the summer at school and it would have seemed peculiar to him not to do so now that he was at Dartmouth.
Maconochie also played cricket. He could not bat, neither could he bowl, but he could field. After some practice and the confidence of a few catches, Maconochie developed into a quite remarkable fielder close to the bat.
Cleghorn and Stacforth played tennis and Dewberry, the College orchestra having no french horn, learnt to play the trumpet. He noted it in the log as ‘athletic training.’
Some College activities were held after supper. One of them was the Dancing Class.
The Dancing Class was taught by the wife of a College master. Partners were provided by other masters’ wives, by the nursing sisters from the hospital and by various other ladies in the College whom The Bodger loftily referred to as ‘the camp-followers one gets in any great establishment.’
The dancing took place to the music of a gramophone. The College had a limited stock of records and cadets who went to the classes for any length of time became accustomed to them and to no others. The Dartmouth Dancing Class was thus responsible for the widely held belief amongst naval wives that naval officers can only dance to certain tunes and only then when they have had sufficient to drink.
None of the Beattys except Raymond Ball attended the Dancing Class. One or two of them tried, Michael among them, because they felt that dancing, however repugnant, was an accomplishment they should possess.
On the one occasion when Michael attended the Dancing Class he was ordered, on entering the room, to take up his position for what sounded to him to be The Promenade Whisk with Sideways Chassé. Michael turned and bolted and never returned. It seemed that the Dancing Class had been going on since the College was built. Michael had no doubt that at one time, possibly between the wars, the class had been learning simple steps. But they had now progressed into the realms of fantasy and there seemed no way of bringing them back.
Raymond Ball was the exception. He was an experienced chevalier of the chassé, a paladin of the palais, a hardened veteran of many campaigns, from the Lyceum to Hammersmith. He was probably the first cadet ever to have come to Dartmouth with a Gold Medal for Ballroom Dancing. He was a triton amongst the minnows at the College class and even the class teacher, who was holding perspiring cadets at arm’s length before Raymond Ball was born, had to admit herself outclassed.
But for most of the Beattys the time between supper and going to bed was the only time of the day which they could call their own and they preferred not to spend it in such cold-blooded pursuits as ballroom dancing. Evening was the time for reflection, for unbuckling the spirit after the exertions of the day. It was the only time when the Beattys could attempt to take stock of what was happening to them at Dartmouth.
‘What amazes me,’ Paul said in the chest flat one evening, ‘is the emphasis they put on trivial things. If you can climb a rope, you’re made. If you can tie bloody silly knots, you’ve got a great future in the service. What are they getting at? What’s it all leading up to? Do they want a lot of performing monkeys or what do they want?’
‘It’s almost like a continuation of school,’ said Michael. ‘But not quite. They seem to put a kind of pressure on you which school never did.’
‘They take it so seriously, too. This place must cost thousands to keep up. What’ve we got tomorrow?’
Michael consulted a timetable which he made out for each week. He was a methodical boy and wrote on his timetable his work and recreation for every hour of every day. The timetable was neatly ruled off and gave times to the nearest minute. Paul and the rest of the chest flat found it invaluable.
‘P.T. tomorrow. . . ’
‘Oh Lord.’
‘... Then The Bodger for Ship Organisation, Chipperd for Anchors and Cables, Chief G.I. for Parade Training. In the afternoon we’ve got the Schooly for navigation. In the Dogs we’ve got that match against the Officers and Masters. After supper the Bodger again on Leadership. Tomorrow’s also the day we’ve got to enter our marks for throwing the heaving line. . . .’
‘Enough, enough. ‘Tis not so deep as a well or so wide as a church door but ‘tis enough. ‘Twill serve. Will there be time for me to go to the heads sometime, do you think? Still, we must just take each day as it comes. Does the road wind uphill all the way?’
‘To the bitter end,’ said Michael, who was now used to Paul, and recognised his cue.
‘And shall we find other Beattys on the way?’
‘Day and night, my friend,’ said Michael.
A long low note on a bosun’s call sounded outside the window of the chest flat. It was the Night Rounds Party and Isaiah Nine Smith, the Chief Cadet of the Day, sounding the Still. The long low note ended and was succeeded by the voice of Mr Froud, chastising the author of the note. Clearly, the Still should be a long, high note.
Spink was standing rounds for the chest flat. He rehearsed his report, repeating it to himself over and over again.
‘Number one chest flat cleared for rounds, sir, nineteen cadets present, temperature fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. Number one chest flat cleared for rounds, sir, nineteen cadets present, temperature fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, sir.’
The Still, now wavering between high and low, came nearer and stopped outside. Spink braced himself. The Night Rounds Party, a small cavalcade led by Isaiah Nine Smith carrying a lighted lantern, followed by Mr Froud with the Chief G.I. bringing up the rear, came into the chest flat.
‘This lantern doth the horned moon present,’ murmured Paul, under the blankets.
Spink saluted.
‘Number one chest flat cleared for rounds, sir, fifty-five cadets present, temperature nineteen degrees Fahrenheit, sir.’
‘Oh blessed Bottom, thou art translated.’
Paul’s silent laughter stopped when Mr Froud stood at the foot of his bed.
‘All right, Vincent. Up to the surface.’
‘Sir?’
‘Were you bathroom sweeper tonight?’
‘Sir.’
‘Turn out and swab the deck again and square off the basins.’
‘Sir.’
The Night Rounds Party disappeared towards the other chest flats, their progress marked by the banshee wailing of Isaiah Nine Smith’s bosun’s call.
Paul turned out. Five minutes later he was back again.
‘See what I mean,’ he whispered to Michael as he climbed back into bed.
Their new life reacted on individual Beattys in markedly different ways. Those who had been first to preparatory and then to public schools found the transition easiest. They merely exchanged the petty tyrannies and traditional idiosyncrasies of their schools for those of the Navy. They were not mature enough to understand that the fads of a public school may be left behind with the school but those fads inculcated by the Navy could become lifetime habits. They did not feel the separation from their families keenly because they had been separated from their families for long periods before they joined the Navy. The lack of privacy did not trouble them because they had never known privacy except in the short holidays they had spent at home. Theirs was a simple transition from the semi-monastic existence of a public school to the semi-monastic existence of Dartmouth.
Michael and Paul were among this group. Michael in particular found the adjustment to Dartmouth easy as though, as he said, it were a continuation of school. The Bodger regarded Michael Hobbes as almost the norm of the Beattys. He was still diffident but eager to do well. He was intelligent enough to do all that was asked of him but not intelligent enough to enquire into motives. Properly led and carefully taught, he would make a servant who would serve the Navy faithfully and according to its demands upon him as long as he was able. Since he had been at Dartmouth The Bodger had developed the knack of picking out boys who were ideal subjects for training, as a salesman learns to pick out a genuine customer. Michael Hobbes was, in The Bodger’s opinion, a genuine customer.
Paul, on the other hand, adjusted himself to Dartmouth just as easily but was more critical of its motives. He appeared to the staff to be looking at the Navy with quizzical eyes. He was sure that he could make a success of it but he was not yet sure that it was worth making a success of. He was apparently suspending judgment on the Navy until it had proved to him that, behind the façade, it provided a satisfying fulfilment. He carried out his duties as well as any cadet in the term but The Bodger gained the impression that he was doing his best only through allegiance to himself and not yet through any allegiance to the Navy. The boy was balanced on an edge. He could make the best type of officer of all, or he could grow embittered later, lose his ambitions and, because he was a forceful and persuasive character, cause others to lose theirs.
The cadets who had been to day schools, or to schools which do not give their pupils the same early experience of human foibles as the major public schools, found Dartmouth more difficult. Dartmouth seemed to these cadets a series of furious and seemingly pointless rushes from place to place. They were always one of a herd of milling bodies. They were always pestered. They were always late. Their lives had become a succession of sorties from one period of futile occupation to another, the whole mad stampede being carried out at the whim of a group of insane megalomaniacs in uniform.
Maconochie and Raymond Ball were typical. Maconochie had the further disadvantage that he suffered from illusions of personal grandeur. He had come into the Navy prepared to take it in his stride with his own charm and polished personality. Maconochie considered himself a finished product and found it impossible to accept the Navy’s view of him, as the rawest of raw material. Dartmouth took his self-assurance by storm, trapped him, and exposed the inexperience underneath. The process of destroying Maconochie’s egotism, which Paul had begun almost instinctively in the train on the way to Dartmouth, was completed by the Navy so quickly that Maconochie found himself struggling to maintain his place in the term after a few months.