With the Oceanic’s comfortable quarters, and bathrooms, there was no call for the tough element, in fact it did not exist in Southampton, where the mail boats were now running from. Again, she introduced a reserve of power that enabled a steady speed to be kept. In fact, the Oceanic’s records for steady and consistent running have never been equalled. Two consecutive runs of over three thousand miles and not one minute of difference. Three consecutive voyages and only one minute of difference between the times of leaving Sandy Hook, New York, and passing the Wolf Rock off the Scillies.
We were bound home on that fateful August 4, 1914, when we got the brief message that hostilities had broken out and were advised to “deviate from the recognised tracks.” We did deviate, too, for we saw no fun in being captured in a fine ship like the Oceanic, right at the outbreak of war. Judge our anxiety when nearing the Irish Coast, on seeing the masts and funnels of two ships coming above the horizon — ships obviously of the cruiser variety. The only question was whose cruisers? Well, anyway, we had to get in sometime, and the chances were they were not Germans — so we’d better risk it. All the same, it was undoubted relief when at last the white ensign also came above the rim of the sea.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE WAR
All the mail boats were potential cruisers, with built-in gun platforms, so it was no surprise to see a shoal of draughtsmen, naval architects, Government representatives, and so forth, hurl themselves on board and turn our well-ordered routine into chaos, and the ship into a man-o’-battle, or an imitation one anyway, for we didn’t see ourselves doing much battling with old and antiquated 4.7’s.
In due course — and a mighty long one — we commissioned as one of His Majesty’s ships, and hoisted the white ensign. Our crew were duly “fell in” (something new for them right away) and asked if they would wish to volunteer to remain in the ship in view of the service for which she would be required.
It seemed rather a futile question to me, and one I could, with the utmost confidence, have given the answer to in the next breath. The men belonged to the ship, had been in her for years, and they had no intention of leaving her unless they were chucked out, which certainly would not happen so long as they had behaved themselves. If she was going “off the run” there might be additional fun, which would be welcome, but beyond that they were not interested. In response to the order “those now wishing to volunteer to remain in the ship, once pace forward march,” they all quietly walked forward across the deck, to make evident that it was one very good pace.
The Navy chap was a bit horrified, but I told him to never mind, they understood in the main, what he meant.
Unfortunately, a good sprinkling were Royal Naval Reserve men, and ex-service men who were quickly drafted to other and perhaps more useful spheres — we were sorry — and believe me, so were they.
Our Carpenter and Bosun were informed that they were now Warrant rank, which didn’t seem to impress them greatly, till they found themselves each invested with a sword. As old “Chips” — not notorious for either cleanliness or choice of language — asked me, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this damn thing? Take it round with me when I’m sounding ship?”
What disgusted this quaint couple most was having to move their quite comfortable quarters, as it was considered infra dig. to be quartered so near the crew. When told the exact meaning of the words, the Bosun feelingly replied, “Infra dig., eh? If any of my watch is looking for a nice thick ear, let ‘em try the infra dig. on me.”
Evidently he had not quite got the exact meaning, though he certainly had the sense of it, and did not need a sword and new quarters to put a point to it. A mail boat man in a mail boat, is a round peg, fitting nicely into a round hole; a hole that is rapidly squared with the introduction of Navy ways and manners. But when it came to drafting a lot of Hebredian fishermen on us, they were any-shaped pegs, endeavouring to fit impossible holes, naturally leading to utterly impossible situations.
I was promoted to First Lieutenant and Mary of the Messdecks; also the thankless task of trying to get these fellows from the north firstly to understand English as we spoke it, and secondly, when it took the form of orders, to instill in them just what was expected of them, when these orders were given.
There were Action Stations, Collision Stations, Fire Stations, and many other Stations and evolutions, but none that our fellows from the north had ever heard of. Furthermore, it was sometime before they realised that it was necessary to practice these efforts, so as to be ready if and when the occasion arose. After a lengthy explanation of what each individual was to do, where to go, and how to act, when Fire Stations were sounded, the order was at last given to the bugler, “Sound off fire stations.” This he did, immediately followed by the “Still,” then the indication, “Fire in the forward magazine,” and the bugle call, “Carry on.” Everyone dashed off, except three.”
“Come on, what the hell are you standing there for? Didn’t you hear? Fire is in the forward magazine,”
Now I ask you, what would you do when a big fellow, with his eyes nearly popping out of his head, replied in sepulchral Scotch, “Guid God, sir, ye dinna say so!”
It was not that they were by any means born stupid, nor were they scared, but they were a bit slow in the uptake. Excellent material, but a wee bit raw, till they became accustomed to “Navy Ways.” When anything needed doing, they, as with the Merchant Service men, had a perfectly simple method of just slipping into it, and getting it done, without waiting for pipes and whistles and bugle calls.
Our own Boatswain gave an amusing illustration once when an order was given to clear and lower the gangway ladder. It was a great big cumbersome teakwood affair, weighing a couple of tons. His method in our way was to take a few hands, heave it out, and lower away, in very short order, but no particular manner, except that the operation embodies the essence of seamanship. But now we were the Navy, and the hands must first of all be piped. Then fallen in. Then told off with their Petty Officers for that particular job. By the time they arrived down on the main deck, and started to get busy, the Bosun was just about boiling with impatience, but being now a Warrant Officer, must not lay his sacred hand to unseemly toil. I watched him, more than a bit amused, as I’d seen him have that ladder out, and down, time and again, in the shortest of shakes. He stood it for a while, then with a real Western Ocean Bosun’s flow of language, he leapt on to the ladder, yelled at a couple of his own men to “Come on” and the rest of them to “get the hell out of it.” Breaking all sacred Navy traditions and disregarding his rank, he had the ladder tipped out and lowered down in not much more time than would have been taken to clear it away.
Forcing the Merchant Service man into Navy ways was almost as hard as making water run uphill. Yet, such is his adaptability, that within a few months of was he clicked his heels and turned to the right about, with the best. In fact, when the war was over, and we were back again in our own happy and respective spheres it took him some time to quit clicking his heels — and get some work done.