Читать книгу Under Pressure. Living Life and Avoiding Death on a Nuclear Submarine онлайн

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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.