Under Pressure: Life on a Submarine. Richard Humphreys
of around 25 recruits and given a lecture of induction by the master-at-arms. He told us he was to be addressed as ‘Master’, pointed out who the senior NCO (non-commissioned officer) on the staff was, and then, much to my amusement, had us pledge allegiance to the monarch and sign various forms with next-of-kin details. I was then given a service number and whisked to the barbers for a brutal No.1 haircut – the only option – for which I had to pay £1.20. Piss-take. Next, once I’d climbed into a smelly sweater used by every training recruit, I had my photo taken for my naval ID card with said new haircut. I was then measured by the stores staff, hats were shoved on and off my head, shoes and boots tried on, more sweaters hurled at me, with tape measures poked into my every nook and crevice. Finally, once I was handed a kit bag, I walked over to my dormitory – a ‘mess deck’ in naval terminology – ready for the long slog to begin.
I soon got chatting to my fellow squad members, who seemed like a good bunch, a nice mix of cocky, hard-working and methodical types. I reckoned I’d be OK. I was assigned a bunk, and told that lights-out was at 22.00 hours and we’d be woken up at 5.30 every morning. Shitsville.
Just before I drifted off for my first night’s sleep I distinctly remember wondering what the hell I was doing there and thinking that there had to be easier first rungs on the job ladder. The next thing I knew it was 5.30 sharp, the lights flicked on, to the accompanying shout of ‘Hands off cocks, hands on socks!’ That morning – like every other that followed – started with half an hour spent scraping away at my mostly whiskerless face with an old cut-throat razor, then a shower and a further 30 minutes making my bed, which had to be done to perfection: sheets, counterpane and blankets all folded in a variety of ways, snug and neatly presented or my bedding would be launched straight out the window.
Our instructor was Chief Petty Officer Jenkins, a Cornishman who had served most of his career on carriers as a radar operator. He was a softly spoken man of the sea whose bark was worse than his bite, and he used the word ‘boning’ a lot. At first I thought he must have been a butcher in a previous life, but it soon became clear he was talking about the opposite sex – he could have given Roy Chubby Brown a run for his money. And then one day Jenkins vanished from our course and wasn’t seen again. I never discovered what happened – maybe the Navy found out he was a sexual deviant and had him put in rehab or a straitjacket. He was replaced by another officer, CPO Williams, on what was to be his last posting before he retired. Supportive and occasionally encouraging, he was confident enough to let other training departments do the shouting.
Basic military training is pretty consistent across the armed forces: 11 weeks of ‘militarisation’ to instil a sense of discipline, teamwork and organisation, with a focus on weapons training, firefighting, swimming and damage control. You’ve got to be fit, as there are obstacle courses, long runs and gym sessions, including gymnastics and rope-climbing. Although I absolutely hated gymnastics, the one sport I’d been hopeless at while at school, being quite unable to reverse-somersault over the pommel-horse, I was brilliant at rope-climbing; I could get up a rope in around six to seven seconds, which took some doing.
Part of our training involved a trip to Dartmoor, a long weekend in the middle of nowhere with a compass, food and tent, trying to get to various rendezvous points within a certain amount of time. As ever when I ventured outdoors, the heavens opened with monsoonal fury, and we spent most of the weekend soaking wet, cold and hungry. One guy got pneumonia and ended up in hospital for a month. Most of the weekend, John – probably my closest mate in the squad – and I kept seeing what we believed were shadowy figures, which flicked in and out of our peripheral vision. Everyone thought we were going loopy through lack of sleep and hunger, hallucinating even. We were later told that members of the SAS had been shadowing our movements all weekend for training purposes.
I soon picked up the fundamentals of life in the Navy, including ceremonial duties and basic drill – yes, lots of drill, far too much. I still don’t know why there was so much of it. Its purpose was to instil pride and discipline in the group, but I never saw the point. It seemed a relic of a bygone age, resonant of empire and the need to keep the plebs in place. Getting screamed at by a gunnery warrant officer was a particular favourite, especially when there was close eye-to-eye contact; no matter what I or the rest of the squad did, it was important to keep a straight face as the guy’s blood vessels reached bursting point with the rounds of expletives he hurled in our direction. Partly detached from the whole experience, I was usually overcome by the smell of Kouros emanating from his every pore.
Other than advanced seamanship, firefighting, navigation and basic weapons training – comprising pistol shooting, self-loading rifle (SLR) and general-purpose machine gun (GPMG), which consisted of hitting a stationary target from 25 yards with a machine gun firing God knows how many rounds a minute – the one element of basic training I remember was this pointless shouting and hollering by the instructing staff, which often bordered on bullying and abuse. I could deal with the insults and swearing (‘You fucking spunk bubble!’ being my personal favourite), along with the questioning of my manhood and parentage, but I wondered how this would improve me as a person and sailor? To me, the idea that abuse is good for the individual and team ethic, and that subordinates – even in a military environment – should be taught through fear and humiliation, is just wrong. All it served to accomplish with me was strengthening my sense of self, while making the training staff appear like wild-eyed testosterone monsters. Why an experienced NCO would squander all the knowledge he’d toiled for over a long and successful career by hurling inane obscenities at a group of young men, and in some cases boys, I never understood.
I’m not sure what the Navy is like nowadays, but in my day it verged on the nonsensical. I’d spent time at boarding school, where the bullying was at least as bad as you got in the armed forces, so I’d dealt with this kind of treatment before. I knew you had to let it wash over you and not engage with the teaching staff. If you did, they’d exploit each and every one of your weaknesses, and devote themselves to making your life a misery.
I used to be up for hours every evening, washing and ironing; it felt more like a dry cleaner’s than military training. And the ironing was ridiculous – creases here, creases there, creases fucking everywhere, creases sharp enough to cut a loaf of bread. I’d spend an eternity perfecting the use of the steam cycle, and if I was required to wear ceremonial dress the next day I might as well forget about getting any sleep. Polishing shoes was another major ball-ache – up all hours, using a naked flame to heat the polish, then applying it with cotton wool, then, Bob’s your father’s brother, shoes so gleaming you could use their reflection to shave in. Again, I’m not sure how all this was preparing me for a career under the waves, but hey-ho, that’s basic military training; you are scum, the lowest of the low, a number. Nothing more, nothing less.
Summer 1985 and I’m passing out. Proud as punch in my full Royal Navy guard uniform, armed with a self-loading rifle, shoulders back, chest out, begging my father to get the camera working.
The extreme demands made on us were a shock to many. Some of my group had suffered enough by the end of Week 5, as their bedding and locker were launched out of the window onto the parade square for the umpteenth time, their kit and shoes deemed insufficiently clean. Their punishment? Cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush. Utter sadism. After 11 gruelling weeks I passed the course, and Mum and Dad came to see me pass out. There was an official video made of the day, and as the camera panned around the parade square before the arrival of the First Sea Lord, the VIP for the day, it caught my parents arguing intensely about the workings of the new camera they’d bought for the occasion. I presume they got it working in the end as I still have a couple of photos that I’ve shown my children, who never believed I actually went to sea or indeed was ever in the Royal Navy at all.
What did I learn from basic military training? Not much, to be honest. Everyone talked about it being good for developing team skills, but I wasn’t so sure. It seemed more like 11 weeks of self-preservation by any means. I learnt how to iron and I became an expert shoe-shiner. If all else failed I could keep my kit nice and neat; ‘Humphreys kept