The Dangerous Years (37 page)

As the men streamed away from the afterdeck, the first lieutenant drew Kelly to one side.

‘I’ve heard from the master-at-arms, sir, that there’s to be a mass meeting in the naval canteen ashore this evening, but I also understand that civilian agitators ashore haven’t been given any sort of hearing at all. The complaints seem to be not against the officers, thank God, but against the government. They just appear to have lost faith in the Board of Admiralty.’

There was a distinct hardening of attitudes from the lower deck and even a feeling of derision. As Kelly had expected, a cut of ten per cent in a salary of two thousand a year was regarded with contempt.

‘They must hate that bloody May Committee,’ he growled to the first lieutenant. ‘I shall be going ashore myself this evening, Number One, to see what’s going on.’

That evening,
Nelson
arrived, without her sick admiral. She steamed into the Firth, majestic and grey against the Bay of Nigg. There was an overcast sky and, with her dark upperworks and turrets, she looked a splendid picture of grim readiness.

‘With the fleet staff still aboard her,’ the first lieutenant observed from behind Kelly as they watched her moved to her berth. ‘I expect that’s where all the explanations we were expecting are. They’d be addressed personally to Admiral Hodges and, because he’s sick, the clots have filed ’em away to await his recovery.’

Kelly frowned. The first lieutenant’s guess was more than likely right. The Navy had its fair share of short-sighted people.

As he stepped ashore, there were a great many men standing in groups about the pier and a lot of shouting that was not the usual good-natured catcalling. ‘Good old
Rodney
,’ he heard. ‘We won’t let ’em down!’

The officer of the shore patrol, provided by
Warspite
, greeted him warily. A meeting had been held in the canteen and there had been some disorder, the troublemakers chiefly from
Warspite
. There was still a lot of discordant singing about the town, some impromptu speeches on the pier and a few disconcerted glances from startled civilians who were clearly alarmed at the ill-feeling that existed. Kelly was aboard as the men returned. While there was singing in the boats – and he could see Leading Seaman Doncaster prominent among the singers – they came alongside quietly. But, watching through narrowed eyes, he noticed groups of men gathering on the forecastle and could hear an endless murmur of voices.

He called the officers together in the wardroom again, but the junior officers seemed not to have noticed anything at all and many of the senior officers seemed indifferent; and he realised that, since they were all in the same boat, they were probably feeling ‘If they want to get drunk, let ’em.’

Sensing that a lot of them had lost touch with their men, he headed for his cabin and flung himself into his chair to sit glowering at his desk until he recovered his temper. The Mediterranean, Keyes’ polo and the
Royal Oak
scandal had long since made him realise that the old attitudes were keeping the Navy the same in a changing world. Here at Invergordon, it was very definitely a
different
Navy, even a different world.

Frowning, his mind elsewhere, he got Boyle to bring in the reports, letters, signals and returns that would normally have been dealt with by Captain Harrison. He was the ship’s captain until Harrison’s replacement arrived after the weekend and it was something that couldn’t be ducked.

‘Leading Seaman Doncaster,’ he growled, tossing his pen down. ‘Know him, Seamus?’

Boyle frowned. ‘I’ve seen his file, sir. He’s got a clean sheet, but he’s got a temper and he
is
a bit of a loudmouth.’

Kelly nodded. ‘I was warned about him in Novorossiisk and I notice that of all the people in this ship, he’s the one I keep bumping into with his mouth open.’

He sat brooding on the problem long after Boyle had gone and was still scowling at his desk in the early hours when there was a tap at the door. It was Rumbelo. He was clearly on the side of the lower deck yet unable, in his loyalty to Kelly, to overlook what was happening.

‘I think there’s going to be trouble, sir,’ he reported warily. ‘There was a bit of mug throwing and singing in the canteen, and sometimes two or three trying to make speeches at the same time. But it wasn’t a canteen brawl, sir. It was more than that.’

Kelly’s smile died. ‘I know that,’ he admitted. ‘A canteen brawl’s an ancient and honoured method of letting off steam. This is different. What about you? What do you think of the rights and wrongs of it?’

Rumbelo shuffled uncomfortably. ‘I think they’ve got a point, sir.’

‘I’m sure they have. Where do you stand?’

‘Where I always stood, sir. I owe you a lot, including me life, and Biddy and me family, and I’ll not let you down. But I think it’s wrong, sir. You can’t take away a man’s livelihood, not specially when he’s worked hard and served his country well. And these pre-1925 men have.’ Rumbelo’s face was stubborn. The old warmth that had existed between them had disappeared with Kelly’s marriage to what Rumbelo firmly considered was the wrong woman. ‘They think that only concerted action can save their families from ruin, sir.’

Kelly frowned. ‘They may be right at that, Rumbelo,’ he admitted. ‘But we can’t look after the whole fleet. So, for God’s sake, let’s try to keep
our
chaps’ noses clean if we can.’

The following morning,
The Times
gave the first full and genuine details of the cuts, and the parliamentary correspondent reported coldly that, however things might seem to the Members and despite allowances, an admiral’s pay was being cut by only seven per cent while that of an able seaman of the 1919 class was being cut by twenty-five.

It was quite clear the lower deck had also been well informed and there was the usual stream of men waiting outside Kelly’s office to see him when he arrived. During the morning, the first lieutenant brought back from
Hood
the Admiralty Fleet Order that had been missing for so long.

‘Nothing about the cuts, sir,’ he said. ‘Just the usual rubbish about stores and appointments.’

The mail brought a telegram from Captain Masterson, Harrison’s relief, saying he hoped to catch the first train the following morning and, after stopping off in Edinburgh to attend to personal business, to be aboard
Rebuke
on Wednesday morning.

‘Pity he can’t get a move on and report before,’ Kelly growled.

As the morning progressed,
Warspite
, flagship of the Second Battle Squadron, led out
Malaya
for sub-calibre exercises in the Firth. As the remaining ships carried out their general drill against the clock, Kelly was aware of a sense of deep foreboding. Some of the jobs were being done lackadaisically, but he’d warned the first lieutenant that officers were not to chase the men. Knowing how they felt about the cuts, he gave them the benefit of the doubt and assumed they were preoccupied rather than defiant. He’d heard there’d been men from
Warspite
among the noisy crowd in the canteen the previous night, yet
Warspite
and
Malaya
appeared to have got away without trouble.

The explanation they’d all been expecting came at last in a letter from the Admiralty, forwarded from the flagship. It was out of date already and seemed to be an attempt to prove that the cuts weren’t what they appeared to be.

‘Written no doubt between a gossip about the weather and a pink gin at the club,’ Kelly snorted. ‘Doesn’t it occur to those fatheads that this bloody business is dynamite and a letter explaining it is as important as a diplomatic mission? This isn’t even in diplomatic language.’

‘And the men will still not fail to note, sir,’ Boyle said dryly, ‘that the difference between four shillings and the three shillings they’re going to get is still twenty-five per cent.’

‘For God’s sake–’ Kelly tossed the letter down ‘–it even has the brass-bound gall to suggest that senior officers aren’t paid too much, middle rank officers’ pay isn’t excessive, the pay of junior officers is more than necessary and the pay of the men is too high. It’s enough to set a bomb off in the ships. Where have they been all this time?’

The first lieutenant was as worried as Kelly. Nothing amiss had been reported aboard but he’d heard rumours that all was not well in
Rodney
. ‘What worries me most,’ he said, ‘is that nothing’s been brought up by the petty officers.’

Something was brewing, Kelly knew. Despite the normal good relationship between the wardroom and the lower deck, he suspected that in the big ships of the Atlantic Fleet there couldn’t be very many officers who knew anything of the home life of the men they commanded. Perhaps the men’s very conservatism was against it.

‘There’s an abyss between us,’ he said. ‘And it’s not because we come from bigger houses and better streets. Clear lower deck, Number One. I think it’s about time I talked to them again.’

He had never considered himself much of a public speaker but once more he tried to tell the assembled men that it would always be better if they made any representations they had through him.

‘I’ve organised a special office,’ he said, ‘with an officer and a chief petty officer, so that you can bring your problems forward.’

‘And a fuckin’ lot of good it’ll do.’ The voice from the back sounded like Doncaster’s. ‘They’ll just get stuffed in a drawer at the Admiralty and forgotten like all the rest.’

Once upon a time, Kelly reflected bitterly, they shouted ‘Good old Ginger’ and whistled. ‘Anybody Here Seen Kelly?’ Now he was not getting through to them and it had been going on all weekend.

Shore leave had not been stopped and he watched with the first lieutenant as the liberty men headed for the drifters. For a long time he stood frowning. He was still uneasy and he made up his mind abruptly.

‘I think I’ll go ashore again, Number One,’ he said.

There was no sign of trouble as he stepped on to the Centre Pier. A crowd of blue-clad men was streaming to the dockyard canteen from a football match, and the officer in command of the shore patrol, a lieutenant called Elkins, was in the officers’ club. ‘I’ve got men at the Centre Pier, the Dockyard Pier and at the canteen, sir,’ he told Kelly. ‘They have instructions to call me if there’s any sign of trouble.’

Almost as he finished speaking he was called to the telephone. Curious, Kelly trailed behind him and arrived just as he was replacing the receiver.

‘Just heard there’s a meeting in progress, sir,’ he announced. ‘And that the canteen doors have been locked. I’m going down there. If it’s trouble, I’ve instructions to contact
Hood
. There’s a strong patrol there to reinforce me.’

Waiting near the canteen, Kelly saw him try to peer through the windows before finally persuading someone inside to unlock the doors. As he vanished inside, there were immediate shouts of ‘Get out!’ and ‘That finishes it!’ and the sound of breaking glass. Very soon afterwards, the door opened and Elkins reappeared backwards.

He gave Kelly a sheepish grin. ‘Well, that seems to be that, sir,’ he announced. ‘They shoved me out.’

‘Handle you?’

Elkins looked puzzled. ‘No, sir. They just sort of linked arms and made it impossible to stay. I think it’s time to call
Hood
’s patrol.’

‘I’ll do that for you.’

When Kelly returned, Elkins was waiting outside the canteen. ‘I got in again,’ he said. ‘They apologised and one of ’em even said that what they were doing they were doing for the officers as well as for themselves.’

Kelly frowned. ‘What the hell
are
they doing?’

Elkins shrugged. ‘They’re beginning to leave now,’ he went on. ‘I think they’re heading for the football field.’

Hood’s
patrol, shaved to the bone and complete with side-arms, clanked up as the meeting on the football field finished and the men streamed back to the canteen. Kelly watched with admiration as Elkins managed to get inside yet again, this time with the lieutenant-commander in charge of
Hood’s
party.

There was a crowd on the Centre Pier as the men began to board the drifters for their ships. They were orderly, but strains of ‘The Red Flag’ came from
Rodney
’s boat as it swung away from the jetty. As
Valiant
’s drifter left, Kelly heard the words yelled across the water – ‘Six o’clock tomorrow!’

‘Six o’clock tomorrow
what
?’ he growled.

As he returned aboard
Rebuke
, he saw meetings being held on
Rodney
’s forecastle and on the forecastles of other ships, and heard cheering that reminded him bitterly of the spontaneous shouts of joy he’d heard at Scapa at the end of the war.

There was no sign of trouble in
Rebuke
but there was a message from the flagship to say that a telegram had been received from Captain Masterson, whose wife appeared to have been taken ill so that he would be a day or two late reporting.

‘There seems to be a bloody lot of unexpected illness floating about suddenly,’ Kelly said bitterly.

Going on deck, he saw groups of men talking on the forecastle. Guessing they weren’t discussing the beer they’d drunk or the quality of the football they’d seen, he wished to God Gorgeous George was still aboard or that Captain Masterson had arrived. Trouble in a ship the size of
Rebuke
didn’t seem to be within the scope of a mere commander. In his cabin, he ran a hand through his hair, then he poured himself a drink and sat staring at the glass. He was just feeling desperately alone when Rumbelo appeared.

He looked uncomfortable. Honest, disciplined and clear-headed, the trouble in the fleet left him puzzled. ‘I think that trouble I warned you about, sir, is due tomorrow when we sail,’ he said.

‘That’s what I guessed. What form will it take?’

‘I’ve heard a committee was formed of six ratings from each ship. They’re going to run the boats and essential services and that’s all. They call it strike action.’