“Nothing said to me…”
“Promotion comes with the job, sir. Can’t tell you until you take over.”
It was the Navy way.
“Can’t say I have any objections, Oadby. Lieutenant Commander at twenty-four and a good chance of another promotion if the war lasts two more years – which it could well do. Ten years as a commander sees me to post captain before I’m forty. That says a battleship command by forty-five and rear admiral three years later in the normal way of things. Good for the career! Except that, thinking on it, the RNAS don’t exactly have a lot of battleships.”
“Command of a flotilla of balloons, sir. Going into battle leading twenty blimps behind you, sir!”
A servant was privileged, was allowed to joke.
“We’ll see, Oadby. For the while, let us be content with what we have. You’ll need some cash to get us set up. Here!”
Peter pulled out his wallet, extracted a big white fiver which disappeared into Oadby’s pockets. Most of it would go to comforts for the cabin; an amount would keep Oadby lubricated in the nearest pub in the surrounding villages.
The Navy was old and many of its traditions were outdated. The relationship between officer and servant still worked well.
Peter changed coats, admiring the two and a half stripes around his cuffs. In peacetime a lieutenant had normally waited seven years for the first promotion. There was much to be said for the war. A chance of dying balanced against the opportunity for rapid promotion…
“Every swing has its roundabout – and there’s a bloody stupid concept, Oadby.”
Oadby agreed, wholeheartedly, had no idea what the boss was talking about. Far be it from him to say so, however. He busied himself with Peter’s shoes, not as shiny as they should be. Gleaming shoes announced a busy servant – everybody knew that the senior officer did not polish his own footwear.
“Lunchtime, sir. Working dress?”
“Definitely, Oadby. No time to change to mess dress in the middle of the day. I hope the President of the Wardroom will see the sense of that, when he gets here.”
That might present a difficulty, considering it. The commanding officer could not be senior in the wardroom. Peter, being in charge of flying, was in some ways a commanding officer and should not take the responsibility. That would leave the senior of the lieutenants in the role, inexperienced in a post that involved creating an efficient and friendly off-duty atmosphere as well as maintaining discipline in a fighting unit.
The CO could deal with that, when he arrived.
Chapter Five
The officers congregated in the anteroom, introducing themselves, few of them already acquainted with each other.
Peter knew the three subs he had brought with him from Polegate. There were two others already present, together with five uncomfortable midshipmen who did not really believe they belonged in the wardroom.
Time to break the ice. Peter coughed and called for their attention.
“Not the normal way of doing things, gentlemen – making speeches before lunch! However, just to save time, I am Lieutenant Commander Naseby, senior in Flying. I know my three subs from Shoreham – Mr Horrocks, Mr Tubbs, Mr Bracegirdle. I have met Mr Norris. Who else must I know?”
Sublieutenants Wiggins and Sargent announced themselves, followed by the mids, Davies, Leburn, Griffiths and Woods.
Peter turned to the two new subs.
“Are you both to be pilots, gentlemen?”
“I am, sir. Wiggins, that is.”
“Not me, sir. I believe I am to be junior to the Gunnery Officer, sir. In the magazine, that is.”
“Necessary, I must think, Mr Sargent. There are bombs and such to be dealt with and blimps to be loaded up each day. A lot to do in the magazine. Where is it, by the way?”
“Underground, sir. Carved into the hillside behind us by a quarter of a mile. We have a traction engine and its trailer as transport.”
Sargent seemed excited by the traction engine, would no doubt be found driving it whenever possible. Peter grinned – the boy was young yet.
“Very good. What of the mids – are you all to fly?”
The five affirmed that they were, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“I shall speak to you all later. For the moment, the senior steward appears to be beckoning us to the table. By the way, gentlemen, unless otherwise ordered, mess dress for dinner only.”
Half had changed, the rest were in working uniforms.
The meal was better than adequate, a vegetable soup of some kind followed by fried fish, locally caught that morning, with potatoes and spring greens and a tart to follow, probably made with canned raspberries but sweet and filling. There was coffee afterwards, tea for the very English, strong and to naval specifications.
They retired to the anteroom to smoke and break the ice, managing to talk more with full bellies.
Peter deliberately sat down with two of the midshipmen.
“Griffiths and Woods, is it not?”
They agreed it was.
“From your appearance – newish uniforms – I imagine you are wartime mids, not Dartmouth products?”
“Yes, sir. Two months in, sir, myself, and Griffiths has six weeks. Basic training, sir. Griffiths came onto the course late, sir, but he knew how to handle a Lee-Enfield already and had his Morse so he could catch up easily.”
“Cadets at school, Griffiths?”
“No, sir. My father was posted to West Africa, sir, back in ‘08. My mother and I went with him. There wasn’t a lot to do at the trading station, sir, inland from Freetown. I learned my letters from my mother and cacao and oil palm with my father and spent my free time with the native soldiers, sir, the guards. They manned the telegraph station as well. They were pleased to teach me how to use the key and handle a rifle. We got on well together, did a little bit of shooting in the bush. We came back to England just before the war, sir, my father being promoted to head office in London. It seemed strange to me, having to go to a school, even as a day boy, having to wear a uniform and pretend to be a child…”
Peter suspected the native soldiers had had daughters, some of them helping Griffiths to grow up far earlier than he would have in England. He nodded sympathetically – life in London’s suburbs must have been a shock to a boy from the West African bush.
“I could not get on at school, sir. I knew no Latin at all and was far ahead of the others in English, having read for pleasure from my father’s books since I was eight. I knew the mathematics, as well. I was tougher, too, and they bounced off me at rugby, helped by a knee or two. I was happy to volunteer when I was sixteen, my father’s firm giving me the good word with the navy. More volunteers than places for midshipmen, sir. I chose the RNAS for being less stuffy than the regular navy.”
“How did you know it was?”
“I looked at the different people going into the offices, sir, where they were recruiting. You could see what they were like.”
“Very good, Mr Griffiths. I suspect you will fit in well with us. We don’t keep to quite so many rules as the regular navy. I have found a difference since I came to the RNAS, I know. What about you, Mr Woods?”
“I was at school, sir, and couldn’t face two more years before I could join up and then training at a depot. I was afraid the war would be finished before I could get into it. Couldn’t be having that, sir, and I was thinking of buying a birth certificate, sir, to say I was eighteen – you can get them easily in Windsor, sir, if you go to the right public house – not in school uniform, of course!”
Peter gathered Woods was an Etonian, well able to find the ten or so pounds a forgery would cost.
“Then I heard that the Navy was taking wartime midshipmen, sir, and put my name forward. They accepted me – Eton and all that – and I was last on the list for the day, my name starting with ‘W’, and they said there were vacancies in the RNAS, the regular navy full up for the next two months. If I took the RNAS I could join in three days, on the Monday following.”