Читать книгу Under Pressure - Richard Humphreys - Страница 13

HMS Raleigh is a naval establishment on the banks of the River Tamar in Cornwall, where all new recruits commence their Part 1* training. At the height of a warm and bristling English summer in early July 1985, while the country was looking forward to Live Aid from Wembley and Philadelphia, all I had in front of me was 11 weeks of utter hell and lunacy. I arrived on the Torpoint ferry from Plymouth, trying to give off an air of nonchalant irreverence. I decided I’d try to get on with everyone and make the best of it, and attempt not to get too downhearted if things didn’t go according to plan. I was nervous, yes, but I had to exude some positivity if I was to make the grade.

My grand intentions were destroyed within 24 hours. We were put together in a class 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 a good locker’ would be a fitting summary of my time there.

The most rewarding aspect of basic training was that I was taught how to sail at sea. I spent a long weekend on Plymouth Sound on a boat learning the basic skills of seamanship and how not to endanger myself or other crew-members. I loved it so much that in the time between my leaving submarine school and joining the Polaris fleet – some three to four weeks – I used to sail two retired admirals from Portsmouth round to Southampton, a distance of about 12 miles, where they’d lunch at the yacht club while I’d get a fry-up at the local café. They’d talk about the scourge of communism, Labour leader Neil Kinnock being a Russian spy, and bringing back the death penalty and the birch as I sailed them home to Gosport. They’d head off to their houses and I’d pootle around the boat, have a gin and a smoke, then return to base. Heady days.

The aim of Part 2 of the Navy training course at HMS Dolphin, in Gosport, was to instil the highest standards of professionalism demanded by the Submarine Service. I travelled from Plymouth across to the Navy’s other major historical port city, Portsmouth. From here it was a hop on a ferry over to Gosport, the home of HMS Dolphin and indeed the Submarine Service since 1904. Dominating the skyline was the submarine escape tank. It sent shivers down my spine just thinking about how I’d cope with that infamous aspect of the training. I was also required to demonstrate an intimate understanding of the different engineering, weapon and safety systems that run the submarine and keep the crew safe.

This seemed a long way away from cleaning toilet bowls with a toothbrush, ironing shirts and buffing shoes. Fortunately, the days of kit musters, long runs and drill were long gone. It was classroom-based, head down in books-type learning, absorbing the basic principles of nuclear and diesel propulsion. There were various exams after each stage: hydraulic systems, auxiliary vent and blow, electrical systems, the workings of a nuclear reactor, torpedoes and ballistic missiles, CO2 absorption units, the different ventilation states on board, the workings of the periscopes, navigational systems, electronic warfare, and radio and sonar systems – quite enough to fry your brain. This was followed by radar training, which I struggled with; it was all blips and blobs to me, a predetermined mess on a screen. I’m still very much in awe of air-traffic controllers and how they manage flights in and out of the major airports and monitor the sky.

HMS Dolphin was the very first time I saw serving submariners. The base was home to the 1st Submarine Squadron and the ‘Oberon’ class submarines, or O-boats, as they were called; these were diesel-electric submarines, Cold War intelligence gatherers also used for Special Ops drops and pick-ups (usually members of the SBS – the Special Boat Service – doing reconnaissance or covert landings). I’d mosey on down to the jetty and gaze at these sleek, stylish boats with their bulbous front ends where the sonar was mounted, wondering: How do people live on something so small for weeks on end? Sometimes I’d wait until the crew appeared, to get a glimpse at what this way of life might do to me. They always looked rough and greasy, with a deathly pallor about them. Doubtless they stank as well, although I never got close enough to tell.

These men were a throwback to the submariner heroes of the past, a tightly knit crew in their own secret world, all members of the exclusive underwater club, with the golden dolphins badge† to prove it. They may have looked gaunt and unkempt, but it was the swagger of their gait that gave the game way, confident but not cocky, men completely at one with themselves and their crewmates. It seemed like a lot to live up to.

HMS Dolphin was very much like going back to school, punctuated by the odd pint or six in Gosport, or over the water in Pompey town centre, in the footsteps of Admiral Nelson himself. One of the nightclubs, I think it was Joanna’s, was a favourite haunt, treading through sticky, beer-slicked carpets onto the dancefloor, dancing to Barry White, Marvin Gaye, Paul Hardcastle and Madonna, with one-night stands a-plenty – the dirtier the better.

The accommodation at the base was four to a largish room. There were no kit inspections, no hassle from the staff, a complete change from the horrors of Part 1 basic training. It wasn’t without its moments, though. In the room next door a trainee submariner from Aberdeen scared us to death one night, returning back to base well and truly hammered, waving a gun around and threatening to shoot someone. We became scared very quickly, and amid all the screaming and panic I found him with his back to me. I gave him a hefty kick behind his right kneecap and he collapsed like an old block of flats being demolished, straight down in a big heap. As he hit the floor the gun flew out of his hand, and we pinned him down until security arrived and took him off to the detention quarters. Just like CPO Jenkins, he was never seen again.

The final stage of submarine training ended with four pressurised ascents of the 100-foot submarine escape water training tank (SETT), the enormous concrete tower that dominates the skyline on the Gosport side of the Solent as you leave Portsmouth Harbour. All the training had been leading to this point, for this was the test, the ultimate trial of nerve. This section of submarine training in the tank had seen a few deaths over the years, and put the fear of God into every young submariner courageous or stupid enough to attempt it.

Before I started, I had to sit in a decompression chamber that sits near to the tank itself to make sure my ears could endure the pressure I’d shortly experience in 100 feet of water. Then I was bundled into the chamber with around half a dozen other terrified souls and we waited for pressurisation to commence.

No one had told me about the hissing sounds as the air rushed in. I sat there holding my nose, clearing my ears and looking like a startled child, praying that we’d get to the prescribed depth pronto. The air temperature increased and I started feeling exceedingly wary of where this was going. Soon enough we reached the required depth of 100 feet and the air temperature equalised. The instructor announced, after what seemed an eternity of five minutes, that he would slowly release the pressure and that the temperature might drop. We finally returned to normal pressure at sea level and I clambered out disorientated, nauseous and nervous; ‘shitting conkers’ is the expression that comes to mind. Next stop, the tank.

I had to make two free ascents from 30 feet below, one from 60 feet and then, to my horror, an ascent from 100 feet, in a fully pressurised suit out of a cramped, claustrophobic escape-hatch based on the type you’d find aboard a real submarine. My nerves were shot to pieces as I clambered into the first side chamber, contemplating my first free ascent from 30 feet. There were around 20 of us sitting in the chamber, which was about to simulate a rushed escape from a stricken submarine. Trying to listen to the final instructions from members of the teaching staff, my mind wandered back to my childhood in the old Victorian central swimming baths in Wolverhampton; I’d be wearing arm-bands and a rubber ring, being pulled along on a rope by an unimpressed swimming teacher with my father looking on in hideous embarrassment, until he’d up and leave to wait in the car, unable to stand the sight of his limp-bodied son. I can’t say I blamed him. Back then I was scared to death of the water, and if someone had told me I would be free-ascending from the murky depths a decade later, my seven-year-old self would have cried uncontrollably and probably pissed himself.

First off, the 30-foot ascent. The water started to rush into the chamber and I tried to clear my ears as the internal pressure equalised with the external water pressure in the tank (around 15 pounds per square inch) at 30 feet. Dressed in swimming briefs, lifejacket, goggles and nose plug, I was in the middle of the queue to get out. Very soon it would be my turn, and my heart was racing. I couldn’t hear anything with all the noise of the water pouring into the chamber. Quickly, in what felt like seconds, the chamber was flooded, with just a small gap at the top left in which to breathe. Once the pressure equalised, the main hatch to the escape tank would open and it would be time to get it done. I was next in line at the entrance, taking a big, deep breath as one of the instructors pushed me under and out into the vast expanse of the tank. I barely had time to take in the surroundings as I was met by two instructors who seemed to take an eternity to let go of me. I glanced around, they released me and I started the ascent. I knew I had to breathe out all the way up, because the volume of air in your lungs increases as the pressure decreases, and if you held your breath, your lungs would simply burst. I pushed the air out and looked straight ahead as I glided upwards for what seemed like a lifetime before I hit the surface.

Next up came another big test – the free ascent from 60 feet, something that filled me with abject terror. Maintaining exhalation from that depth seemed to me a close call, but the instructor informed me that if I ran out of puff, and if I felt like I couldn’t breathe out anymore, then I needn’t worry – I should just keep blowing, as I’d still have 25 per cent of my lung capacity left. Of course, I didn’t believe him. Water pressure increases the lower you go; at a depth of 60 feet, I’d be experiencing 30 pounds per square inch of pressure on my body. In addition, the greater the pressure, the greater the chance of a burst eardrum while equalising to the pressure in the tank. All of this information turned me into a nervous wreck as the water began to enter the chamber in preparation for the mock escape. I cleared my ears, and then I was next. ‘Take a good, deep breath,’ someone bellowed at me as I ducked down and pushed out into the tank. Within seconds a barrel-chested, slightly pot-bellied instructor appeared from a diving bell in the tank to make sure I was breathing out correctly. Meanwhile, in my head I was screaming: Shit, let go of me before I run out of puff and my lungs give way!

Slowly I started to rise, but this time I was really struggling to breathe out – the natural bodily response is of course to hold your breath. I got halfway up and a second instructor who’d been hiding in another diving bell came out to meet me and jabbed his outstretched hand into my rib cage to make sure I was exhaling. I clocked the depth gauges as I ascended, and I realised how deep this actually was. I had to regulate the blow, as I felt I was running out of capacity, but eventually I breached the surface, relieved I’d made it through unscathed.

The final part of these two days of hell was an ascent from 100 feet, with a simulated evacuation from a replica submarine escape tower. This involved climbing into a tiny compartment beneath the 100-foot tower in a hooded pressure suit. I clambered in, having only half-listened to the instructor, overcome by an adrenaline rush and heart palpitations. I couldn’t yet vote, I was about the age at which I could learn to drive, yet it felt like I was putting my life in completely unnecessary danger, as if I’d sleepwalked into this nightmare in the hands of total strangers. The tower closed shut behind me and I was stuck in a minuscule space that was about to be flooded. I guessed that they were checking for signs of claustrophobia and stress, and I saw there was an implement for me to start banging on the pipes with if I couldn’t hack it. Pleasant thought.

I climbed gingerly into the escape hatch, head to toe in a self-contained submarine escape suit; I knew I needed to plug myself into an air pipe that would inflate it as the water came in, making it fully pressurised. Suddenly it was time, and the water started to shoot in, my stress levels becoming almost unbearable as I was squashed into this tower, the suit inflating around me. As the water pushed against me, I tried to clear the pressure from my ears with the help of a nose plug, all the while trying to remember what I’d been told. I recalled all the stories of what could go wrong; at the very least I was expecting my eardrums to burst.

The pressure on my suit was immense now, around 50 pounds per square inch, and bubbles blurred my vision as water rapidly filled the tank. I was terrified beyond comprehension, but within 30 seconds the hatch suddenly opened. After floating out I said my name and RN ID number to the instructor, who had gone to the bottom of the tower to meet me in a diving bell. I was then attached to a pole and shot up the 100 feet of water in around ten seconds. As I was now in a fully inflatable suit I remembered to breathe normally, in, out, in, out, reminding myself constantly that my ascent needed to be smooth, and that I should breathe all the way to the top. I suddenly popped to the surface, almost fully breaching out of the water, then floated onto my back doing a fair impression of the Michelin man, before I was finally led to the side of the pool and handed over to the medical staff for a once-over.

At once terrifying and exhilarating – a trainee breaks the surface after successfully completing the 100-foot ascent. (POA Phot Gary Davies/MOD)

This was both the high point and the most nerve-wracking part of initial submarine training. The Navy stopped all pressurised escapes in 2009 and worked on a simulation basis instead. This seems like a shame to me as it takes away the key element of danger. Although I found it a suitably terrifying experience at the time, which I’m sure pales into insignificance compared with a real-life submarine escape, the retirement of the tank-ascents programme strikes me as an example of modern-day health and safety gone mad. It’s worth noting that in 1987 on board HMS Otus in Norway,‡ two staff members from the SETT team escaped in pressurised suits from a depth very close to 600 feet, a truly remarkable achievement by an extraordinary group of men.

I was told shortly after my final examinations that, subject to vetting, I would be drafted to the 10th Submarine Squadron, which meant only one thing: nuclear deterrence. The 10th Submarine Squadron took their name from the heroic 10th Submarine Flotilla, who performed miracles in the Second World War in their defence of Malta from German forces, by keeping the country in supplies, as well as sinking German ships destined for Rommel and his troops in North Africa. In total the flotilla sank around 412,000 tonnes of Axis shipping. At the forefront of this effort was Lieutenant Commander M. D. Wanklyn, who torpedoed, sank or disabled around 127,000 tonnes of shipping, an astonishing feat that earned him the Victoria Cross and Distinguished Service Order (DSO). He was declared missing in action in 1942, aged just 30.

* Naval training is split into three parts: Part 1 is basic training; Part 2 is shore-side specialist training; Part 3 is at-sea training.

† The dolphins badge is awarded to fully qualified submariners after Part 3 sea training and an oral exam.

‡ ‘HMS’ can mean both ‘Her Majesty’s Ship’ and ‘Her Majesty’s Submarine’, with the context usually giving a clue as to which is meant. Here it’s clearly a submarine.