CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SCROUNGING LEAVE
The Destroyer Flotillas in Dover were always kept at “Five minutes notice,” which meant they must be prepared to slip their respective buoys within five minutes of getting the M.K. The custom throughout the Flotillas was to keep everyone on board, except the mailman and wardroom steward whose duties took them ashore and, of course all Skippers went ashore.
This lack of freedom did not make for happy ships, particularly with the shore so near and crowds promenading up and down the seafront. If any Skipper did let any of his men ashore, he took the risk and chanced a good scrubbing if by chance the M.K. was suddenly made and he had to put to sea and leave any of his crew behind; as, unless the man hid until the ship returned, he was sure to be ticketed by an M.P. and that would, or course, give the whole show away.
However, the Falcon never came in without at least one Watch getting a few hours to stretch their legs and we managed thuswise.
As soon as we got to the buoy, the whaler and dinghy were at once called away and the men concerned being already dressed for the beach, were landed. All were on their honour not to leave the seafront, or, if they did, for one or more to remain and keep an eye on the ship and in case the “Recall” was hoisted, to be able to make touch with the others, the whole party to be in the boats within four minutes, leaving one minute to get on board. (On more than one occasion I had to slip and pick up the last boat as I went past the pier end.) I must say the Powers were very lenient and winked at a good deal, so long as I was not caught out — though it was freely prophesied, both afloat and ashore, that one day we should get our Waterloo!
We were cutting it pretty fine, I knew, but somehow, we managed it. Of course, in the first instance, I had fell in the hands and explained the situation clearly; if they let me down, I should get an almighty scrubbing — perhaps a Court of Enquiry and they would get no more Special Leave, as it was called.
However, it worked like a dream. It kept the men as happy as sandboys, gave them something to look forward to and talk about in the night watches and, what is more, I never had a man up for punishment the whole time I had command of her.
I gave Number One complete discretion as regards granting leave, with the result that there was not a smarter ship in the Division, or even in the Flotilla. Number One need only threaten to stop the Watch’s “Special” if someone was not up to scratch, for the remainder of the Watch to turn on the offender and nearly rend him to pieces. I really think they valued that hour or two of Special Leave far more than any legitimate leave. Partly, I suppose on account of the element of risk, partly because they could swing it on the other ships, but mainly as sheer relief from the deadly monotony of each other’s company in such confined quarters.
On one occasion I had to leave one man short. Twice with two men short, but the crew had a funk hole arranged for just such a happening, where the miscreants hid their sorrowing heads till the ship returned and their chums brought up a current Leave Chit.
Personally, I had my own private recall signal, which I could always see from the house — situated as we luckily were, on the seafront.
One night when it was blowing a gale of wind from the S.W. and usual beast of a sea was rolling into the harbour, I was pacing up and down the dining-room keeping an eye on the ship, when suddenly I saw the “Recall.”
Grabbing my greatcoat and slamming my cap on my head, I dashed off for the Naval Pier, where the whaler would be waiting. I arrived at the end of the pier soaking, but there was no whaler. I dashed into the signal hut, to tell them to make a signal to the Falcon for her to send the whaler in at once. A signal-man had just commenced taking a signal at the time and he pointed to his pad. I, to my horror slowly read word by word, as the signal came through from my First Lieutenant. Falcon-to-Capt.-D-stop-regret-to-report-having-been-rammed-in-the-stern-by — Nimrod-and-cut-down-to-water-line-stop.” Here was I ashore (where I had no business to be) and she, perhaps sinking. I couldn’t break in on the signal and tell them to send the boat; I must stand helpless and impotent, waiting for the remainder of that signal, whatever it might mean.
Dimly, through the swelter and rain, I could see her rolling, heavily in the seaway and to my perfervid imagination, she seemed distinctly deeper in the water. Was she sinking? All this and much more flashed through my mind as I stood almost holding my breath, until the signal-man continued and to my utter relief, I read, “Water-well-under-control-stop-in no-immediate-danger-1030.”
Just then the whaler came alongside the pier and in I jumped.
Dark and raining though it was, there was a very obvious grin on every face. With very good reason, too!
We were due out on patrol the next day and would have been out over Christmas Day in that S.W. gale. Even if it eased up the sea would have been beastly. Now we were in harbour and there was every likelihood of staying there. No wonder there were smiling faces. The next week, thanks to our good friend Nimrod, saw us on our way round to Portsmouth, for a refit and to repair the damaged stern.
During our two strenuous years of service in the Patrol, we had a mavellous run of luck and escape from accident. Apart from making violent contact between my propellers and Hills Bank, just outside Dunkirk, we hadn’t scratched the paintwork. But the Nimrod seemed to have broken the spell and her effort turned out to be the opening chorus to a whole chapter of accidents — with Finis written at the end.
The next trouble started though going up Portsmouth Harbour at 16 knots, exactly the same speed I used in Dover, or anywhere else for that matter. What I didn’t know, was, that the rigid maximum for Portsmouth was 8 knots. Furthermore, it happened to be a very high tide and we sent the water shooshing right up the streets, which in many places are just on high-water level. Evidently there was some delay or difficulty in locating the actual culprit, but the authorities, though much too late then to impale the criminal, consoled themselves by determining to catch us on the way out, when they thought we should, no doubt, do the same trick. Well, we didn’t and for the very good reason that the whole harbour was shrouded in a regular pea-soup fog.
From leaving the wharf we saw not a thing till we got up to the forts at the entrance to the Harbour (neither could anyone see us). Then we saw nothing till Beachy Head and only a glimpse of that. The fog still thick as a hedge, we made the best of our way to the entrance to Dover, which although buried in fog, we managed to make our numbers and get permission to enter by sound signal, we made fast to a buoy for a couple of hours and when it cleared went into Granville Dock for a boiler clean. Then came the second patch of bad luck. We rather prided ourselves on being able to slip our buoy and make fast in Granville Dock in the record time of nine minutes, where others sometimes took the best part of an hour. I used the same old speed, namely 16 knots, a speed which gave one perfect control with those powerful engines. It wasn’t altogether swank that induced me to use that speed, it was the fact that I knew from experience that a Destroyer, like an Atlantic liner, is easier handled at a high speed.