He strolled across to the wardroom, took a cup of coffee and a sandwich before setting to work. There were almost none of the flying officers there, Tubbs sat lonely in one corner.
“Nowhere to go, Tubbs?”
“No, sir. My family lives down in Cornwall – a forty-eight is not practical, sir. No sooner get home than I would have to turn round again. I don’t know anybody in London, so I stayed here. Borrowed a bicycle in fact. Had a look at Beachy Head and along the flatlands of Romney Marsh – queer old place, that is.”
“Out of the ordinary, they tell me. I have only seen it from the air. Still a good chance to get some sleep in at least.”
“Yes, sir. Received a letter from my father, sir. He has just heard of my posting. Up in arms about it. Says he has contacted my uncle to get me out and aboard a proper ship as soon as can be. I have written back that I am doing well here in the RNAS and wish to stay, sir, but I think they will pull strings to get me sent back to a battleship – only place for a member of the family to be.”
“Bugger that, man. You belong here. Look, I will speak to Captain Troughton, see what strings we can pull in the opposite direction. Can’t guarantee anything, obviously.”
Tubbs made his thanks, explained how much he was enjoying himself, doing something that he succeeded in.
“Makes me feel useful, sir.”
“You are a valuable member of the flotilla, Tubbs. We would be less efficient if you were posted away. We need your ability.”
Not entirely true, but close enough.
Peter finished his sandwich, reflecting that it was strange how he had come to actually like bully-beef and piccalilli, the naval staple in storm and for a between meals snack. He had enjoyed the meals at the restaurants the previous day, admittedly; he would not feel the need to eat their like every day. Perhaps he was no gourmet.
To the office.
“PO Payne! Good to see the promotion came through. Anything urgent for me?”
“Nothing, sir. A number of signals from previous ships and acquaintances, sir. Congratulations, best wishes, that sort of thing. Nothing from HMS Calliope, sir.”
“Perhaps they have not heard up in Scapa Flow, PO. Possibly the captain has still not forgiven me!”
“Probably not, sir. Commander Cairncross is inspecting the field at the moment, sir. I will inform him of your presence when he comes in.”
“Do that, please. For the moment, can you get Captain Troughton on the telephone for me?”
The normal delays as the call was put through then Troughton’s voice booming in the earpiece.
“Naseby, you are back early, old chap. What can I do for you.”
They discussed the problem of Tubb’s family for a few minutes, Payne busy at his desk making a show of hearing nothing.
“Bloody nuisance, Naseby. The boy’s doing well where he is, for the first time ever. Pity they can’t leave him alone. I’ll have a word around, see what is to be done. We won’t be able to keep him if they really make a fuss, you know. We are pushing to keep RNAS personnel distinct from the wet navy, no interchange. Don’t know if it will come through in time. What I can do is ensure he goes where he might be useful. Naval Constructor’s Office, perhaps, or into the Gunnery section, though that is very clannish, don’t like outsiders who haven’t been through the Whale Island route. I shall see. Met your new man yet?”
“No, he’s out on the field at the moment.”
“Bit on the stiff side – ten years in the rank and passed over for promotion to post captain. By the book sort. No great harm in him.”
Peter wondered if there was any great good in him either. He made no comment, feeling at peace and charitable to the human race for the while. There was much to be said for a young lady like Charlie, should be more of them about…
He sat down to his in-trays, signed eighteen documents unread and then turned to the small stack marked ‘action required’.
Ten minutes saw a request for compassionate leave granted and two turned down and permission to marry granted to four ratings, all of whom had been transferred ashore after long commissions and wanted to settle down while they could.
The Navy did not like its men to marry, certainly not before reaching senior rank in their various fields. Peter thought this was a Victorian hangover and no longer appropriate. China was only twelve weeks away in this steam age – there was no need for men to go out on five or ten year postings as had previously been the case. In any case, they were at war – a marriage delayed might never take place at all.
That left the largest stack, ‘for information’, which he needed to read, ignorance never being an excuse.
Payne knocked half an hour later.
“Beg pardon, sir. Commander Cairncross is in his office now, sir, and is free to speak with you.”
Clumsily expressed, Peter thought, walking through after Payne, picking up his hat – they should exchange salutes at a first meeting.
“Come in, Naseby. How do ye do? Take a seat.”
A formal handshake – no harm in that.
“Bit of a difficult set up, Naseby – no direct line of command as such. You are OIC Flying and I cannot overrule you on operational matters. Trouble, is, what is ‘operational’ and what is not? I am in command of HMS Polegate in all other aspects. We need to work together, I think. As long as we accept that the single overriding need is to fly our patrols, there should be no great problem.”
It was easy to agree there.
“We have tended to be pretty much relaxed in everyday matters, Cairncross. The ten of us who fly do nothing else, with the exception of myself. No guard duty; no officer of the day; no duties at all when the blimps are grounded. Thing is, a patrol of ten or twelve hours can leave the boys exhausted – they are only youngsters, all of them.”
“Could lead to a sort of ‘us and them’ mentality in the wardroom, Naseby.”
“It does to a great extent already. The fliers see themselves as different. They are the whole reason for Polegate existing – every other man on the field is there to get us in the air and keep us there. Very easy for us to be an elite group – the little lords of creation, you might say.”
Cairncross could accept that. It was difficult to see how they could be other.
“I was talking to the wardroom steward, Naseby. Not a happy man.”
“Needs his arse kicking, Cairncross! Most of my lads are wartime entry, no money of their own, living on their pay – which ain’t very much for a mid or a sub. They can’t be forking out fees for a wine cellar and whatever – they haven’t got the cash. Simple as that. I really do not want them worried about living expenses when they should be giving their all to their flying. Can’t have formal dinners and such with wartime entry officers, Cairncross – it’s simply not possible.”
“Even so, we could do a bit more, don’t you think, Naseby?”
“No. The boys have spent out on warm scarves and gloves and extra sweaters – they simply don’t have even another five shillings a week to put into the wardroom fund.”
“I was thinking of more like two pounds, Naseby, and that is low compared to many ships.”
“It is. They haven’t got it. The mids are part of the wardroom and they cannot conceivably find anything from the few shillings a week they are paid.”
Cairncross shook his head. Without agreement, he could not go forward with his plans to make the wardroom a more respectable place.
“I was thinking we could put in for a gunroom to be built to house the midshipmen. Not really the thing, having them in the wardroom with commission officers, you know.”