One Hundred Days Page 8

  By the time I received my first gold stripe to become an acting sub-lieutenant, four months on, I was making serious progress. Well before the end of my time, I was allowed to keep watch on the bridge at sea, on my own. I remember the thrill to this day, racing through the night, sometimes feeling the sea thump against the hull, knowing that the safety of the ship and her company rested temporarily upon my shoulders alone. I know now that the Captain must have kept himself at about three seconds’ notice to take over if I got it wrong. But I felt myself to be in sole command of this destroyer. It was a very heady experience – I was not yet twenty.

  On other occasions, I was allowed to stand in for the Navigation Officer. This was something I enjoyed very much – still do – and the resident Navigator, twenty-four-year-old Lieutenant Paul Greening, himself the son of a remarkably brave Second World War destroyer captain, was a good friend and tutor. I was never surprised at their subsequent careers, Clayton ending up as Admiral Sir Richard Clayton and Commander-in-Chief, Naval Home Command, and Greening as Rear Admiral, Flag Officer Royal Yacht, and eventually Rear Admiral Sir Paul Greening, Master of the Royal Household.

  I was sorry to leave Zodiac and go ashore, it turned out for nearly two years in all. But the training plan now required me to go to the Royal Naval College, Greenwich, to take the Junior Officers War Course. This combined some rather more advanced teaching in the sciences with an introduction to the amazing regimen of Service thinking and writing. We were taught how to organize our logic processes on military subjects and put them down on paper. I see books appearing in the United States these days, hailed as the greatest break-throughs in management thinking since Sun-Tzu, which simply paraphrase the Navy’s Staff Handbook of that time.

  We were also invited to take up one voluntary subject – I chose to learn the piano, confident that I was quite incapable of making any useful progress in the time available, and accordingly could take the allotted hours off. Actually ‘hours-off’ became my voluntary subject, but I couldn’t very well have put that down as my choice. Nor did I feel it worth mentioning that I was also learning quite a lot about greyhound racing at the Stadium at New Cross. That wasn’t strictly on the curriculum either, although we were expected to broaden our minds and dog racing is no less healthy than the night clubs of the West End.

  The studious atmosphere created among the beautiful Palladian buildings of the College at Greenwich (some were designed by Inigo Jones and others by Sir Christopher Wren) was of course an inspiration to us all, confirming a belief among us that we were indeed a vastly more civilized, educated and organized group than officers of the Army could ever be. However, the deep peace which comes with superior intellect and a love of learning was not quite sufficient for us, and we felt obliged to stage a carefully planned and executed raid on our military counterparts at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. This was, by any standards, a successful operation.

  We got past the security, drove our cars all over the gravel parade ground, carving deep ruts, whitewashed a few statues of generals, trailed lavatory rolls and behaved like…sublieutenants on a mess night. We were not caught before we made our retreat, which was probably just as well. The young gentlemen of Sandhurst would not have seen it our way; and the Commandant of the Academy suffered a comprehensive sense of humour failure, which he transmitted, at some length, to the Captain of our college.

  Now, our Captain was that redoubtable sportsman and tough-minded submarine commander who was eventually to become Rear Admiral Sir Anthony Miers VC KBE CB DSO and bar, known throughout the Navy as ‘Crap’ Miers. Concerned, not only about reprisals by the Army students, but also about the likely presentation of a large bill for the damage done, he paraded us all before him and issued a major blast, ranting on about immaturity, stupidity and irresponsibility, with never a thought for our very real achievement. Not everyone could break through the defences of the British Army and humiliate them like that.

  Crap, however, had not entirely lost his sense of proportion and he finished his lecture with the flourish you might expect from a man who had not only won a vc in a most daring submarine raid into the harbour of Corfu, but had also contributed considerably to an attack on General Rommel’s headquarters in North Africa. ‘It was thoroughly disgraceful behaviour,’ he growled. ‘WELL DONE!’

  I left Greenwich with an ‘alpha’ for the Staff Course part and an accurate ‘gamma minus’ for the academic side. The whole term then went off to Portsmouth for ‘Technical Courses’, which represented another eight-month slog round the ‘Schools’, working away at subjects as diverse as Aviation, Navigation, Torpedo and Anti-Submarine warfare (TAS), Gunnery, Electrics, Combined Operations, Administration and the like. There were, however, two strange omissions, propulsion engineering and submarines. Both presumably thought somehow beneath our notice. Two or three subjects went quite well for me and the rest moderate-to-average. Resignation to perpetual exams was by now taking its toll. They set them: I pass them: seem to have been doing this all my life: what’s next?

  I am now twenty-one, and their Lordships wanted to know whether I’d like to sub-specialize as a young lieutenant in the Executive branch of the Navy. Come along, Woodward. Gunnery, perhaps? TAS? Navigation? Communications? Aviation? Even that unknown quantity, submarines?

  ‘I don’t know, really,’ was my incisive reply, so typical of my career to date. The next thing I did know, however, was that I received a letter telling me to report to HMS Dolphin, the alma mater of the dreaded submariners – I had been ‘volunteered’ for submarine training. They did add that if I really hated it, I could apply to get out in eighteen months’ time, and would be allowed to leave within three and a half years. This seemed reasonable and anyway some seven or eight of my term were in the same boat, so to speak, so we would be companions in adversity should it come to that.

  So started, inauspiciously, Woodward’s submarine career. It ended thirty-two years later, when I was still, in my own mind, a ‘pressed’ man. But grateful for it, and upon reflection, all these years later, it emerges as nothing short of an inspired appointment for me – albeit probably done with a pin by the appointers – because in a submarine, you are required to become a responsible citizen from Day One. You have to grow up, quickly. The Submarine Service is nothing like being on board surface ships, which by and large tend not to sink, and anyway, if they do, are inclined to do so rather slowly, providing a very sporting chance to its company of surviving the event. In submarines, which are apt to sink rather suddenly, you are expected to understand and to be able to work every bit of equipment on board. I was thus required to become not only a semi-engineer, but also to learn in turn to be the Gunnery Officer, the Navigation Officer, the Communications Officer, the Electrical Officer, the Torpedo Officer, the Sonar Officer, before I could hope for a front-line command in about six years’ time. Suddenly I was to be permitted, in a position of responsibility, to undertake the very kind of work I had always liked most. It was exactly right for me – though I did not of course know it at the time.

  As training proceeded, I found the requirements entirely to my taste. We were made to understand the maze of pipes, cables, hydraulic systems, air systems, water systems, sewage systems, ship control systems, torpedo firing systems, engines, batteries, electrical systems, motors, pumps, valves, cocks, gauges, masts, periscopes and switches. It was another endless list. At the end, we were supposed to be able to find any item of equipment quickly and to be able to work quite a few in complete darkness.

  This last required discipline was put to the test by my Training Officer, Lieutenant (later Vice Admiral) ‘Tubby’ Squires, another instructor who was kinder to me than I could possibly have deserved. He met me at the forward entrance hatch of the submarine which was to be my examination room. It was open and plainly pitch dark inside. ‘Go below and restore all electrics,’ he said.

  Hesitantly I went below, a small voice in the back of my mind saying that the answer had to be found in the
Motor Room, well aft. In addition I vaguely remembered that a thing called the ‘Reducer’ was quite likely to solve the problem. Nothing very difficult: find it, make the switches (Navy jargon for turn them on), electrics restored. I was not, however, that confident as I descended into the darkness, and in tentatively ‘making’ the vital switch I caused it to start arcing and jumped back from it – a dangerous and stupid thing to do. Tubby leant over and blew out the arc quickly before things started to melt. And waited, expectantly. So I tried again, and shoved the switch over, if anything more tentatively, which caused more arcing and another patient but quick puff from Tubby. There was another expectant pause. Finally, he banged the switch home for me and was good enough to say as all the lights came on, ‘Well, I’ll pass you for knowing which switch to go to, even if you didn’t know how to work it when you got there.’

  So four months’ training ashore ended and I was sent off to my first submarine, the 800-ton HMS Sanguine, for two years in the Mediterranean, based on Malta. I started as the Torpedo Officer and after about six months switched to Navigation Officer. This was real responsibility, allowed me by my competent, genial and very likeable Captain, Brian Baynham – six feet five inches tall and weighing some eighteen stone, he could stand upright only when he was immediately under the tower to the bridge.

  We sailed from end to end of the Med. Beirut, where one of our number, now an admiral, on enquiring of the head waiter at a very up-market night club how much the belly dancer cost, was told, in the most perfect Oxford accent: ‘A good many more camels than you can afford, young man.’ Gibraltar, of so many memories down the years. Trieste, Venice, Naples, La Spezia, Palermo, Algiers, Bone. All with their special events and astonishing times. Living was cheap, a run-ashore in Catania cost two bob, I’m sorry, ten pence, for a bottle of red wine and a large bowl of fish stew. A really outstanding run-ashore might take a ten-shilling note.

  I started off living in a fairy-tale castle called Fort St Angelo, built on a rock bluff, overlooking Grand Harbour, 120 feet below. The Knights of Malta had done themselves proud, and I remember it all so well: the steep ramps down to the dockyard, the ‘yells, bells and smells’ for which Malta is famous; the many churches with the clock faces showing different times to confuse the Devil; the bar where the Coxswain had set up his office; and the submarine, smelling of hot oil and new paint.

  After a year’s operational running in HMS Sanguine, my second Captain joined; and this proved to be yet another of my lucky breaks. He was a brilliant and delightful officer, whose sometimes suave manner complemented his nice, staccato humour, and disguised the patience and understanding which made him such an effective tutor to a young officer. Unsurprisingly, in my view, he went on to become Admiral Sir Gordon Tait, and Second Sea Lord.

  They sent me to Barrow-in-Furness in late 1956 to help supervise the building of a new class of submarine, and to stand by as the crew of the first to complete, HMS Porpoise. She was a 2300 tonner, enormous by comparison with little Sanguine. After two years in the building yard, we got to sea with another marvellous Captain, Brian Hutchings, who would undoubtedly have become an admiral had he not retired early for personal reasons. As it was, he went on to rise close to the top of the John Lewis Partnership, which was just as good, really. I served him for about a year and a half, as his first lieutenant, before Tubby Squires took over for my last few months.

  It was now 1960, and I was twenty-eight. There hadn’t been much opportunity to think seriously about girls or marriage, and Brian Hutchings vaguely disapproved of his ‘young officers’ getting married anyway. Nor did I have much cash to spend on girls at all, especially after I’d bought a superb Sunbeam Mark III, 2.25-litre rally saloon which would do 100 mph with little bother. In fact the running of this luxurious sports car just about cleared my pay each month, and it proved only a mixed blessing in the serious pursuit of Miss Charlotte McMurtrie. While she thought the car nice enough, it plainly wasn’t very practical, and this naturally cast doubts on my suitability.

  I solved both problems in one fell swoop by giving the greatly beloved machine to her as a wedding present. I reasoned, firstly, that it would be very nearly impossible anyway to find the money to give her something else. And when the ‘transaction’ was finally completed, the responsibility for practicality was placed firmly on her shoulders, a burden I am afraid she has been obliged to carry for most of the past thirty years. Mrs ‘Charlie’ Woodward exchanged the dashing Mark III for a Mini the week after we got back from the honeymoon.

  We settled happily into a small Georgian terraced house in Gosport, which cost rather less than the Sunbeam had. Here I dealt with the second major financial transaction of my new marriage, by enlisting the help of my new mother-in-law to beat down the house agent all the way from £1200 to £600. I had chosen my negotiator well. And, aware of my general ignorance in commercial matters after the rather protected life of a serving officer since a very young age, I actually felt rather pleased with myself. However, the grim realities of hard civilian commercialism were quickly driven home. ‘Pretty good price, don’t you think?’ I asked one of the workmen who was doing it up for us.

  ‘Six hundred quid for this, Gov?’ he replied, incredulously. ’You was robbed.’

  I was now going on to the toughest test for the submariner, the Commanding Officers Qualifying Course – the old Periscope Course – known universally as the ‘Perisher’ (as in ‘he failed his Perisher’ or ‘that Perisher doesn’t look up to much’). It used to be conducted half in the south in a simulator at HMS Dolphin, and half at sea in a submarine, up north. The Perisher was a career-breaker in those days: between twenty and twenty-five per cent of the students failed, and by the time I arrived, not one of them had ever been promoted beyond lieutenant-commander. The cruel but necessary process of the Perisher was enough to ‘break’ some of the young officers. Indeed, I seriously doubt that any of us would have passed had we been able to see, physically, the tiny safety margins allowed – a few feet, and split-seconds only, to separate the hulls of the oncoming frigates and the submarine.

  Fortunately for me, our commanding officer was Hutchings again, and it was his responsibility, in his truly eminent position as ‘Teacher’ of future commanding officers, to put us through the most rigorous test of our careers to date. He had to find out, once and for all, which of us could be counted on absolutely to carry in our minds a picture of what is happening on the surface above, and subsequently conduct the submarine in a safe, aggressive and effective manner. Towards the end of the Perisher, that mental picture, fleeting and ephemeral for some, sharp and clear for others, would not only include the usual fishing boats, ferries, islands, yachts and the like, but would also contain the major confusion factor of five Royal Navy frigates tearing about at full speed, deliberately trying to ruin our day. Brian was not always the easiest man to work for – if you made a minor mistake, he’d tend to rant and rave, which, if you were unused to this sort of thing, could be quite upsetting. However, if you made a really serious mistake, he’d quietly do his absolute utmost to help you out of it. But he was tough-minded and you couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes. He generally referred to us collectively as his ‘useless officers’ and felt entirely free to do so before the ship’s company and/or complete strangers. The thing to remember was that he didn’t really mean it, did he?

  Fundamentally the course was intended to test your ability to stand the stresses and strains of pushing your luck and skill to the limit in very odd conditions. I had personally been well prepared and found it not too difficult. But my performance in the Perisher was entirely due to having been the blessed recipient of the personal, priceless attention of four future admirals. I had also been individually schooled for over two years in Porpoise by Brian Hutchings himself. He it was who taught me hard self-confidence; to be rather less concerned for the feelings of others whenever I saw clearly the way forward. This of course does have the effect of converting one into a ‘pushy b*****d’
. But that’s a risk you take.

  The key to a submariner’s success or failure is partly this, plus the ability to hold a mental picture of the surface scene. It’s not a very good analogy, but imagine sticking your head out of a manhole in Piccadilly Circus, taking one quick swivelling look round, ducking back down into the sewer and then trying to remember all that you have seen. The idea is to generate sufficiently accurate recall and timing to avoid a double-decker bus running over your head next time you pop up through the manhole. Near-misses in the Perisher are a natural, frequent and deliberate part of the game. The biggest single worry is of course that to get it wrong is inclined to be expensive in people and equipment. Career-wise, a major foul-up would be personally terminal. It is this formidable strain on the wretched Perisher that usually causes his failure.

  I got through it, along with four others and was duly seen by Teacher on return to the Depot Ship that evening. ‘Young Woodward,’ he said – a sure sign that what was to follow was not precisely what he meant – ‘contrary to all my expectations, you have managed to pass.’ After nearly three years of him, I knew better than to react. Finally, he went on: ‘Actually, you’ve done quite well. So I’m giving you first choice of the available appointments in Command. Where would you like to go?’

  I told him, deadpan, ‘I’d rather like to drive Dreadnought.’ This was Britain’s first nuclear-powered submarine, the 3500-ton Pride of the Submarine Flotilla, not even launched yet, and several light years away from the grasp of young lieutenants such as myself. This gross impertinence did have the merit of providing my Teacher with a good story to tell the Admiral’s Staff when he returned south. Meanwhile he arranged for me to be sent, forthwith, to command HMS Tireless, as from the 19 December 1960. She was not exactly Dreadnought, but to me she was the most glorious submarine afloat; the first day of your first command, is, without fail, the biggest day of any Royal Naval officer’s life.