Down The Hatch (13 page)

“Fine, fine, fine,” The Bodger said hurriedly. Talking to technical officers on technical subjects always gave The Bodger a feeling closely resembling vertigo. He nerved himself again.

“How about you, Dagwood?”

“The radar bioscope was on the blink on the way back, sir. And we’ve got to charge sometime this week. We’re fitting a new whip aerial and there’s our side of the echo-sounder to fit and test. . . .”

“Rusty?”

“Load three fish on Wednesday, sir. All the sonar ratings are due for another ear test. We need some more smoke candles.
Terrapin
have challenged us at cricket, sir       “

“Pilot?”

“New chart folios, sir, and a new ensign if we can get it. That one’s getting a bit crabby. Change binoculars. They’re all flooded. We’ve got to swing compasses again some time before we leave, sir. . .

“Have you got anything on, Mid?”

“I must get some more films, sir. Everybody’s seen the ones we’ve got. And we need some more squash and lime juice. . . .”

“
Well
.” The Bodger was slightly taken aback by the multitude of requirements
Seahorse
must fulfil before she was ready for sea again.

“Let’s not get down-hearted, men. Let’s say we do the charge tomorrow, load fish on Wednesday, swing compasses on Thursday. . .

“But we’re going into dock on Thursday, sir.”

“So we are. All right, let’s do the charge
today
. . . God.” The Bodger stopped, aghast. “I’ve just remembered. This morning is the only time we can have the Attack Teacher.” The Bodger looked at his watch. “And we should have been up there five minutes ago! I’ll go and tell them we’re still coming. . . .”

The Bodger sprang from his chair.

“Get the Attack Team together as soon as you can,” he said to Wilfred over his shoulder as he went.

There was a short silence in the wardroom after The Bodger’s passing.

“So much for work-studying our Maintenance Week,” said Dagwood, at last.

The wardroom had no more time to ponder upon work study. Messengers from all over the establishment were already queueing up outside. The telephone rang continually.

“First Lieutenant, sir? The Sick Bay say can they have the ratings for X-rays now, sir? It’s the only time the Barracks can take them.”

“Engineer Officer, sir? The Spare Gear Office inboard says would you send up two hands to collect some gear, sir. . . .”

Each message drained away a little of
Seahorse
's effective force. By ten o’clock, Derek found himself quite alone. The other officers were in the attack team and the ship’s company had scattered like autumn leaves. When Derek poked his head out of the wardroom, the control room was empty. The whole submarine, in either direction, was empty.

“Anybody there?”

Derek’s voice echoed along the deserted passageway.

“Hello? Anybody there?”

“Sorr?”

A head projected from the door of the stokers’ mess.

“Gotobed, it’s nice to see you!”

“Want somethin’, sorr?”

“No no, Gotobed, it’s just nice to hear another human voice, that’s all.”

Derek sat down again in the wardroom, full of warm thoughts towards Stoker Gotobed. He was enormously cheered to know that there was somebody else there.

Derek’s feelings towards Gotobed would have surprised a stranger to
Seahorse
, because Gotobed was not a man of prepossessing appearance. His face, chest and most of his body were covered in a tangle of thick black hair. His arms hung down to his knees. In repose--his favourite position--he looked like a successful mutation of man and ape.

Gotobed was long overdue for a move to another submarine, but Derek had fought off all attempts to have him drafted because Gotobed was the one man in
Seahorse
who was irreplaceable. Other stokers could be relieved.

Derek could be relieved. The Captain himself could be relieved. Gotobed could not. Gotobed was the only man living who could work the Oily Bilge Pump.

Seahorse
’s Oily Bilge Pump was a piece of machinery which defied the normal principles of mechanical science. On the shop floor it passed all tests imposed upon it, but as soon as it was fitted into the submarine, it became possessed by devils. Dockyard workmen had wept salt tears over it. The maker’s representatives had spent sleepless nights by its side. A succession of engineer officers from various submarines and surface ships had tried out every combination of its valves. But the Oily Bilge Pump refused to take a suction for anyone but Gotobed. When anyone else but Gotobed tried to use the pump it not only refused to take a suction but sprayed its compartment with bilge water. Gotobed was therefore as vital to
Seahorse
as her pressure hull.

Derek’s pleasant meditations upon Gotobed and his indispensability were suddenly interrupted.

“Excuse me. . .”

Derek looked up. A young man in clean white overalls, carrying a brief-case, stood in the doorway. He wore two stop-watches slung on lanyards round his neck. In one top pocket he carried a row of pencils and in the other a small slide rule. His eyes burned meanwhile with the fierce fanatic glare of a reformer.

Derek recognized the face at once. This was the keen young scientist in the advertisements for chemical products, the successful business executive advising his less successful colleague to change his brand of tobacco, the wholesome salesman soothing the nervous housewife’s fears.

“I’m from the Work Study Team.”

“Oh. Well, come in. What can we do for you?”

“We’ve been asked to do a survey on the way submarines plan their maintenance periods.”

“Really? Well, when you find out, let me know, will you? I’ve been in submarines nine years and I’ve never managed to plan a maintenance period yet.”

The Work Study Man smiled. “That’s exactly why we have work study. Frankly, you know, you need it. . . .”

“Do we?”

“Yes. Do you know, we did a short survey on
Terrapin
last month and we found that the average time worked by each man per day was
two hours!
”

“Blimey,” said Derek. “The Lamm of God must have been cracking the whip! Did she go to sea all right?”

“Yes.”

“Did she come back again?”

“Yes, but. . . .”

“Obviously two hours a day was enough then.”

The Work Study Man smiled again. Overcoming the subject’s prejudices was Lesson One, Line One in the Work Study syllabus.

“Let me show you some of the results we’ve achieved. .. .”

“Oh no, please don’t bother,” Derek protested. “You just crack on and do whatever you have to do. Don’t mind me. . .”

But the Work Study Man had already, in two economical movements, unzipped his brief-case and whipped out a large drawing.

“Here are some of the surveys we’ve done. You can see that in the case of a large shore establishment we cut the pay office staff by fourteen officers and thirty-seven ratings, merely by replanning their office layout. We cut the maintenance time on the potato-peeler in a cruiser by nearly seventy-five per cent! On one air station we cut the rum issue time by a half. . . .”

“Just a minute,” said Derek, his argumentative instincts rising, “that may be all right in industry but not in the Navy. What exactly have you achieved?”

“What have we achieved? An enormous saving in . . .”

“Let’s take the examples you’ve given me. You’ve cut the staff in some wretched pay office by umpteen blokes. But what’s happened to those blokes? They haven’t gone outside. They’re not civilians. The Navy’s still paying them. They’re probably settled in some
other
pay office right now and when you come to work study
that
pay office you’re going to find some familiar faces. And they’re going to hate you. And the chaps who save all that time on the spud-peeler. What do you think they’re going to do with that extra time? Maintain more spud-peelers? Not likely! I’ll tell you what they’re going to do. They’re going to have time for two cigarettes instead of one. And as for
cutting the time of the rum issue by half
. . . . Do you think the Navy’s going to thank you for that? Why, it doesn’t bear thinking about! It would be like missing out every other bar of the National Anthem!”

As Derek finished his rhetoric he realized that it had all been wasted. The Work Study Man was still talking.

“. . And so the best thing would be for me to take one of your ratings and plot his daily work.”

“You want one of our blokes to work-study?” The idea struck Derek with such force that he blinked.

“Gotobed!”

“Sorr?”

Gotobed’s massive face appeared at the wardroom door. “Gotobed, this gentleman would like to work study you.”

“Sorr,” said Gotobed blankly.

The Work Study Man was already writing in his notebook. “Gotobed,” he said briskly. “Right. What’s your job, Gotobed?”

“Ah gits a soction on the bliddy bilges with the bliddy pomp, sorr.”

The Work Study Man paused. “I
beg
your pardon?”

“He pumps out the engine room and motor room bilges,” said Derek.

“I see. Is that all?”

“It’s quite enough.”

“I see. Well, this should make a very good subject. A fairly simple operation with clearly defined movements.” Derek kept his face expressionless. “Off you go, Gotobed. Pump out the engine room and motor room bilges. This gentleman will go with you.”

Gotobed led the way aft to the small pump space which contained the Oily Bilge Pump. It was Gotobed’s own compartment; he was responsible for its cleanliness. It was his shrine. Gotobed climbed down while the Work Study Man started a stop-watch and made symbols in his notebook.

Gotobed’s performance was well worth a few symbols.

He primed the air pump with water from a small can, blew some drops of water from the filling hole, replaced the cap and sealed it with two mighty strokes of a hammer. A faint frown appeared on the Work Study Man’s brow.

Humming tonelessly between his teeth, Gotobed climbed out of the pump space and shambled along the engine room to the first bilge suction valve which he opened one turn. Returning to the pump, he placed his shoulder against the motor casing and shoved, at the same time turning the starting rheostat one notch.

The Oily Bilge Pump started with an eerie whistling noise which made the hair on the back of the Work Study Man’s neck rise involuntarily. The whistling note deepened to a whirring and then to a steady roar. The pump began to give spasmodic shudders which Gotobed met with timed shoulder heaves, crouching by the pump as though assisting a cow in labour.

“Bliddy pomp’s got a bliddy wackum! “

“What’s that?”

“Bliddy wackum!”

“Eh?”

“Wackum wackum wackum!” roared Gotobed over the booming pump. The vacuum gauge quivered wildly, whereupon Gotobed released the pump, hoisted himself out of the compartment, ran to the bilge suction, opened it fully, and dropped down again into the pump space. Once there, he raised a foot, placed it firmly against the pump casing and thrust. The pump gave several more shudders and settled down to a steady contented hum. The Oily Bilge Pump was taking a suction from the bilges.

Derek had strolled aft to watch the show.

“How’s it going?” he asked the Work Study Man.

The Work Study Man’s face was transfigured with holy rapture.

“It’s a classic! This is a natural for the Society! It’ll make my reputation! I don’t know if you realize it but people will talk about this in years to come! “

“Glad to hear it,” said Derek politely.

“I’ve counted sixty-two separate wasted motions! The whole thing has taken thirteen minutes twenty seconds. I can see at a glance we can get down to five movements and anything over three minutes would be a criminal waste of time! “

“I’d like to see you do it quicker. In fact I’d like to see you get a suction at all.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I most certainly
am!
”

“I don’t believe it.”

“You just have a try. I’ll tell you this much. I can’t do it.”

“But I don’t know where the . . . where anything is. . . .”

“You tell us when to do it, and we’ll do everything for you.”

The Work Study Man climbed down and gingerly started the pump. It started immediately with an ugly howling noise as though the pump casing contained a man-eating animal. “Open the suction!”

The pump gave a series of seismic palpitations and then exploded. Derek leaned over and looked through the hatch. He could see nothing in the fine oily mist which was rising from the compartment.

“I should stop the pump now,” he said. “I’ve got a towel in the wardroom.”

Gotobed stopped the pump. “Too much bliddy wackum,” he said disgustedly.

When The Bodger and the others returned just before lunch The Bodger said: “Before I forget, Chief, we’ve got a work study man coming down to see us some time today. You’d better look after him.”

“He’s been, sir. And gone.”

“Already? Did he enjoy himself?”

“I think so, sir.”

“So much for work study then.”

The Submarine Staff Office was, architecturally, an undistinguished room. Only two chairs were provided, one for Commander S/M and the other for Lieutenant-Commander Barney Lightfoot, resident staff officer; submarine captains, visitors and onlookers all stood. On one wall were bunches of signals and a map of the English Channel; on another, a large board on which were chalked the dates individual submarines were due for various commitments. Above Commander S/M’s desk were the two mandatory staff notices “Next Week, We Must Get Organized” and “Haven’t You Heard? It’s All Been Changed”. Above the desk of Barney Lightfoot, an erudite man, was a typewritten notice: “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, it means you haven’t the vaguest idea what’s happening.”

Nevertheless, the Staff Office was, if the term could be used in its loosest sense, the nerve centre of the squadron. It was simultaneously an operations room, a club-house, and a coffee-bar. There Captain S/M kept his finger on the squadron pulse. There Commander S/M grappled with insoluble logistical problems, and there the squadron technical officers explained to sceptical audiences that their men were only possessed of two arms each and each day contained a maximum of twenty-four hours. There also, the submarine captains attempted to keep up with the latest changes in events.