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Edward Scott¹⁵, a Cheshire man with no Cameronian connections, had this to record:

‘On the outbreak of war in September 1939 I volunteered for service in the army and was formally enlisted. I had undertaken to enlist as a member of the Officer Cadet Reserve, which I had joined on leaving the School OTC with Certificate “A”. I was aware on enlistment that I would have to serve some six months in the ranks before being considered for a commission…’

While awaiting joining instructions he continued his legal studies. On the formation of the Local Defence Volunteers (afterwards the Home Guard) as a private, he joined the local unit. His opinion of its possible effectiveness, despite the undoubted enthusiasm of its members, most of whom were between 45 and 60 years or in reserved occupations, was somewhat circumspect:

‘We were issued with a .303 rifle and ten rounds of ammunition with which to repel the German paratroops… Eventually to my surprise I received orders to report to the Infantry Training Centre of the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) at Hamilton Barracks. I duly reported there on 14 November 1940, and found myself as a rifleman, in hutted accommodation in the company of some 30 young men from Lanarkshire and Glasgow, little of whose conversation I would at first understand. My comrades in arms were good-hearted and loyal to the group. They seemed to have readily, if resignedly, accepted the need to serve, accepted the firm but fair discipline, and showed keenness to learn. Regimental traditions and standards were soon imposed. The training, particularly in weapons, was of a high standard.

My Company Commander was Capt G. R. S. Drought. He was killed in action in Sicily in 1943. He had been an Army Boxing Champion, and it became clear to me that if I wanted a commission I had better enter the boxing ring. I did so one bitterly cold November night, suffering from a head cold and confronted by one Corporal Telfer, who seemed much bigger than me. He struck me on the nose in the first round, and I was covered in blood, but survived to be beaten on points over the three rounds…’

This exploit had evidently impressed the Company Commander, who put Scott forward for an interview with the Commanding Officer, as a result of which he was recommended for a commission. Scott attended 168 OCTU at Droitwich, then at Morecambe.

‘At the conclusion of the four-months OCTU course, which did not impress me, cadets had the opportunity to choose three Regiments in order of preference. The time spent at Hamilton had been an excellent introduction to basic full-time soldiering, and I had no hesitation in selecting the Cameronians as my first choice, being thankful to gain acceptance.’

There was then no pre-OCTU course lasting six weeks, during which those unlikely to make the grade, for whatever reason, were weeded out. This did not become part of officer training until later in the war. Both in training and quality of instruction, in the early stages of OCTUs’ existence it seems that they left a lot to be desired. Most who had been members of their university or school Officer Training Corps or Army Cadet Force felt that they had learned little new from the course. Standards did improve later as instructor cadres began to be filled with battle-experienced officers and NCOs.

Michie, by this time commissioned (in March 1940) and, like McNeil, a subaltern in the 6th Battalion The Cameronians, was very much of the same opinion:

‘Early in 1940 I was sent on a short Junior Leader’s Course at Esdaile, Kilgraston Road, Edinburgh, where an instructor read us a book called Infantry Section Leading. This excellent publication was issued to London Scottish NCOs in the summer of 1939, and I used to study it in the London Tube on my way to work – all the instructor did was to read from it… I could have taught him!’

Both Michie and McNeil served with the Battalion during its short stay in France in 1940. Of this period, Michie recalled:

‘The platoon anti-tank weapon was the Boyes Anti-Tank Rifle, which could hardly open a tin of sardines. The rifleman in charge had more than likely come with me a week earlier as one of the 275 other ranks who joined the 6th. He had to confess that he had never fired the weapon, and in fact didn’t know how to handle it.’

MacNeil remembered:

‘I’d had very good instruction on rifle, pistol, Bren Gun, 2-inch Mortar. Tommy Guns were issued in France in June 1940 – without even an instruction book. We relied on memories of US gangster films to get it working, per Edward G. Robinson.’

While the experience of recruits in 1939 was broadly similar to that of their predecessors in 1914, their instruction was different. They were more cynical about the nation’s leaders, and less inspired by calls on their patriotism to rally them to the colours. The war was seen as a necessary evil to combat Nazi Germany’s arrogance and drive for domination, but less of a crusade than it had appeared to many of those who rushed to enlist in 1914. Once part of an army unit, they settled down in much the same way as their fathers had 25 years earlier, accepting the trials and tribulations of wartime with as good a grace as possible.

Notes on contributors

Lieutenant-Colonel Sir John Baynes Bt., Independent Military Historian, Llanfyllin, UK.

Sir John Baynes served in the British Regular Army with the Cameronians (Scottish) Rifles and the Queen’s Own Highlanders. He has written numerous military biographies and related books and is best known for his outstanding work, Morale: A Study of Men and Courage. The Second Scottish Rifles at the Battle of Neuve Chapelle (1967).

Cliff Pettit, Independent Historian and Author, Alnwick UK.

Cliff Pettit is a retired solicitor who served as an infantry platoon commander in North West Europe in the later stages of the Second World War. He has an extensive knowledge of the First and Second World War battlefields of Western Europe. He has presented, advised and assisted in television documentaries on Gallipoli, the Somme and Third Ypres.

Recommended reading

Milligan, Spike, Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (London: Michael Joseph Ltd, 1971). A humorous but nevertheless realistic account of barrack room life and the attitudes of conscript recruits.

Whiting, Charles, Poor Bloody Infantry, Chapters 1 and 2 (London: Guild Publishing, 1987)

Chapter 3
Waging the undersea war: a British perspective

Jeff Tall

‘It is essential to keep the standard high – nothing can be neglected – it is not a kindness to overlook slackness or mistakes, it is really great cruelty to do so – cruelty to wives and relatives of the man you let off and his shipmates and to yourself. There is no margin for mistakes in submarines; you are either alive or dead’¹ These words, spoken by Admiral Sir Max Horton when Flag Officer Submarines in 1941 to all submarine officers and men in Malta, carry a universal truth for all mariners, not just submariners. To cover the whole breadth of wartime maritime experience in the context of Horton’s exhortation would fill several volumes; however, even the most gnarled sea-dog would probably concede that examination of the British submariner’s story during the World Wars encapsulates his experience sufficiently well to justify this chapter’s narrow focus on the craft and its inhabitants.

Of all the British fighting arms of the two World Wars, the greatest similarities are to be found in the Royal Navy Submarine Service. The platform itself had developed little in the inter-war years and, whatever improvements had been made, the tradition in the Royal Navy of putting the requirements for equipment above the comfort of the crew, prevailed. True, the submarine had become larger, which meant that it now had more torpedo tubes and greater reload capacity; the gun had a longer range and a bigger arsenal; its endurance had been enhanced through more powerful engines and higher fuel storage capacity; communications were now an integral part of submarine warfare; and a ranging form of ASDIC for mine detection had been added to its tactical capability. But all these enhancements called for a higher manning requirement, so there was no relief on the demands for internal space.

Thus, for the men, little had changed. Living conditions were cramped and sanitary arrangements were crude. Minor compensations were the fact that everyone smelled the same, and the daily tot of rum for the sailors (issued on surfacing) was served neat rather than watered down as ‘grog’. Even though by the start of the Second World War the majority of submarines were fitted with Escape Towers and the Davis Submarine Escape Apparatus (DSEA), ‘the war orders were that all escape and other hatches, except the conning-tower hatch, were not only to be clipped internally but also secured by a steel bar externally to prevent a hatch jumping its clips due to depth-charging.’² Thus the chances of escape once sunk were remote in the extreme.

The two areas of specialist operator growth witnessed between the two wars lay in communications and underwater listening. In the First World War, because of the lack of experience in Wireless Telegraphy (W/T) in the Submarine Service, it was necessary to call for volunteers from the ranks of Boy Telegraphists as they left training in HMS Vernon. There were 16 recruited throughout the war, the youngest of whom was 16½, and of these nine perished. There was a single Hydrophone Listener in the later submarines of the era. In the Second World War the W/T staff had grown to four in number, and the Higher Detection (HD) rating occasionally had an assistant, although a Radio Operator was often to be found on the ASDIC set.

In addition the submarines’ modus operandi had changed little. Although they could travel further and stay on patrol longer, they were still weapons of position in that they relied on their targets to come to them, unless the playing field was levelled by mutual physical constraints of restricted waters; they were required in large numbers to be effective; they still relied on the cover of darkness to allow them to charge their batteries, the life blood of the submarine, and conduct their transits; the sextant and astro-navigation still told them where they were (some of the time); the torpedo was still essentially a straight-runner, whose reliability was sometimes in doubt; and the commanding officers still attacked by eye. In the First World War, in addition to being a torpedo boat, the submarine was used as a minelayer, anti-submarine patroller, shore bombardier and, on one famous occasion, a platform from which to launch a ‘special forces’ operation (HMS E11 and a Turkish viaduct). In the Second World War they were used as gun-boats, minelayers, troop-carriers, store-carriers, tankers, navigation beacons to guide surface vessels, rescue stations to pick up downed pilots, reconnaissance units, survey ships, convoy escorts, anti-submarine vessels, power stations to supply electricity ashore, and for landing and taking off agents on enemy soil.

But above all else their primary role was to disrupt enemy supplies by sinking their shipping; they were weapons of attrition. However, unlike the Germans in the two World Wars and the Americans in the Second, who did most of their attacking on the surface at night in the open sea, preying on large convoys and relying upon their low profiles to avoid early detection, in both wars the British had to seek out their targets in heavily defended waters, much of it shallow and richly populated by mines. As a result they conducted most of their attacks submerged by day, or, if circumstances were favourable, by a brief visit to the surface to use the gun. It was constantly dangerous, and the virtually guaranteed outcome of an attack was a ‘bollocking’ either from escorting anti-submarine (A/S) vessels or aircraft. Commander Ben Bryant, who commanded HMS Sealion and Safari between 1939 and 1943, described the submarine as ‘expendable’³, and perhaps the final telling factor of similarity lies in comparison of loss rates for the World Wars. In human terms, the number of men lost was roughly equivalent to the number serving at the start of the conflict (First World War 1,200/1,418, Second World War 3,200/3,383), and in hull terms, losses were approximately 35 per cent of the total that saw active service (First 57, Second 74).

So lightning did indeed strike twice on a myriad of occasions in British submarines, but how and why, and what could possibly induce a young man to join a life redolent of sardines in a can and with a high chance of ending up just as dead?

Rudyard Kipling attempted to define the submariner in 1916 when he sought to find the origin of the sobriquet that had become attached to the service, still only in its 15th year of existence:

‘No one knows how the title “The Trade” came to be applied to the Submarine Service. Some say the cruisers invented it because they pretend that submarine officers look like unwashed chauffeurs… others think it sprang forth by itself, which means that it was coined by the lower deck, where they always have a proper name for things. Whatever the truth, the submarine service is now “the trade”; and if you ask them why, they will answer, “What else can you call it? The Trade’s “the Trade” of course!’⁴

A very similar sentiment was expressed by another observer many years later. Following his analysis of the circumstance of every British submarine loss, A. S. Evans concluded that ‘the small dank and foul-smelling interior [of a submarine] crammed with noisy and temperamental machinery, was no place for the faint-hearted; it took first-class men to withstand the unsavoury conditions and to perform skilled work with efficiency and with at least a modicum of cheerfulness.’⁵ So, from the very beginning submariners had to be submarine ‘types’.

In short, there was a submarine ‘type’ who wanted to belong to a ‘trade’, but this is still far too nebulous to lead to an understanding of why men sought to sign up. Perhaps a ready source of recruitment, consistent with the prevailing view that submariners were ‘pirates’, would have been the gaols, as suggested by Lieutenant Commander Williams-Freeman of HMS H9 in 1915 when he wrote, ‘I cannot conceive why they hang a man, when the foulest crime to be seen would be punished two-fold if they gave him life, and put him in submarines!’⁶

A better clue is provided by Captain W. R. Fell, a veteran of the Great War submarine operations and mentor of Charioteers (human torpedomen) and X-craft (miniature submarines) during the Second World War, when he stated:

‘To serve in submarines is to become a member of the strongest, most loyal union of men that exists. During the First War and the 21 years of peace that followed, the Submarine Branch was an integral part of the Royal Navy, subject to its discipline and obeying its laws. But it was still a “private navy”, inordinately proud of its tradition, jealous of its privileges, and, if slightly inclined to be piratical, the most enthusiastic, loyal and happy branch of the Service.

Scores of people ask, “Why did men join submarines and how could they stick in them?” There are many answers to that question. For adventure and fun at the outset; then because of the intense interest, and because of the variety of tasks that must be at one’s fingertips. The submariner must be a navigator, an electrician, a torpedoman, a gunnery type, and even a bit of a plumber. He must know men and get on with them, he must use initiative and tact and learn to enjoy hard living. He must accept responsibility when young, and not misuse it. There is every reason why he should join and delight in joining submarines, but the greatest joy of all is the companionship, unity and feeling that he is one of a team.’⁷

It was not only the officers who felt the strength of the team. Telegraphist William Halter of HMS D4 recounts his experience in 1914:

‘It was an exclusive service because nobody but a submarine rating was allowed in a submarine. We got more pay and a very stiff medical examination. Your character had to be perfect to get in and we were regarded as something a bit special. We went to [HMS] Dolphin for training, messed in the hulk and slept in the Fort [Blockhouse]. Discipline was quite comfortable and after instruction you could lie in the sun on the ramparts; a very different navy altogether. When we got in the boats we were so near the officers… every one was close to each other. No red tape, no falling in and out.’⁸

Certainly the experience of Lieutenant Leslie Ashmore bears out Fell’s words concerning adventure. He relates: ‘I had ambitions to get into some branch of the service that would give more scope to a junior officer. Watchkeeping and coaling were eating into my soul.’ He found himself visiting the shipbuilding firm of Vickers Ltd in Barrow, Britain’s principal builders of submarines and:

‘…the sight of so many of these sleek little craft in various stages of construction seemed to suggest a solution to my yearnings. It was therefore not entirely by chance that I struck an acquaintance ashore with two officers, considerably my seniors, whom I knew from their conversation were submariners standing by HMS E18, which was nearing completion. The attraction of their mysterious trade for me must have been very obvious and I was soon being questioned by the senior of the two, Lieutenant Commander Halahan, captain designate of E18, as to what I was doing and whether I would like to transfer to submarines.

Evidently Halahan thought me likely material, for next time he visited the Admiralty, he pulled various strings with the result that I received orders to join the Submarine Depot ship HMS Bonaventure at Newcastle. In those days, entry into the submarine service was as simple as that. There were no organised training classes and the young enthusiast learnt the rudiments of his trade by going to sea as a “makee-learn” in an active service boat.’⁹

Although training became more formal as time progressed, nevertheless learning on one’s feet continued as a basic principle. The 1940 experience of Lieutenant Phil Durham, though not typical, nevertheless underlines the principle. As a midshipman Durham had seen active service in a battleship, an anti-submarine trawler (of which he was second-in-command), a ‘County’ Class cruiser, a destroyer and a battlecruiser, and had earned a Mention in Dispatches, yet his goal remained service in submarines. While awaiting training class, he filled his time by joining the training submarine HMS L26, and spending a fortnight of ‘daily seagoing, diving, gunnery and torpedo practice’, after which he ‘had made drawings of air and electrical systems and was able to trim and handle L26 dived’. His enthusiasm made sense of the ‘bewildering mass of pipes, gauges, dials, levers, switches, hand wheels, air bottles, electrical control boxes for rudder, fore and after planes, and centrally, the aluminium ladder leading to the conning tower and the outside world.’ Like Ashmore his talent was also spotted by a senior officer, in this case the revered Commander Jackie Slaughter, who sent him off to join the recently captured German U570 (HMS Graph) with a warning to the Commanding Officer of Durham’s lack of experience, but suggesting that since he had no knowledge of how a modern British submarine was handled, he had ‘nothing to unlearn in finding out how a U-boat worked.’¹⁰

It was not until the trainee submariner got to sea that the real test of character began. Ashmore described conditions in the ‘C’ Class in 1915 as:

‘…primitive in the extreme. There was one bunk for the Captain, but all the others had to sleep on the deck, there being no room to sling hammocks. When diving, the atmosphere quickly became foul, fumes from the petrol engine adding their quota to the normally fetid air… Sanitary arrangements consisted simply of a bucket passed up through the conning tower on surfacing. The periscope was raised and lowered by hand winch. By the time we had been dived for some 15 or 16 hours it was as much as one could do to operate it.’¹¹

He also declared that ‘during these early patrols I got to know the characters and temperaments of my fellow officers and of the ship’s company in a way and a speed only possible in the cramped space, enforced intimacy, and shared responsibility of a submarine.’¹²

His sentiments concerning the atmosphere were echoed by ‘Stoutfellow’ in the ship’s magazine of HMS Oxley of Second World War vintage:

‘One soon gets used to the smell of feet

Of the bath drain blown on the bathroom wall

Of mildewed socks and of putrid meat

One gets to know and like them all

We get so we hardly notice

The smell of fuel and oil

And from ham and halitosis

No longer disgusted recoil

But there’s just one smell like an angry skunk

That, wafted aft by the breeze

Keeps me tossing in my bunk

The smell of that blasted cheese!’¹³

Add to the smells the daily grind of watchkeeping and the hardships involved in conducting even the simplest functions, and one must begin to wonder if the enthusiasm of Ashmore and Durham (and thousands like them) was not totally misplaced. A letter home from Signalman Gus Britton of HMS Uproar in 1944 summed up the sailor’s life and routine:

‘We have lockers about the size of coffins… and a small table in the fore-ends. Hanging from the ceiling there are about 15 hammocks, so if you want to move around you have to do so in a crouched position… Potatoes and cabbages are piled in one corner and, as it is as damp as Eastney beach, after six days there is the horrible smell of rotting vegetables, and refuse is only ditched at night; and on top of that there is the smell of unwashed bodies… At the moment we are doing about 18 hours dived every day so you can guess that it is pretty thick at night.

What a blessed relief when, at night, comes the order “diving stations” and about 10 minutes later “blow one and six”. The boat shudders as the air goes into the ballast tanks and then up she goes! I am at the bottom of the ladder… and then the captain opens the hatch and up rushes all the foul air just like a fog, and if I did not hang on I would go up with it as well. Beautiful, marvellous air… we are provided with top-notch waterproof gear but the water always seems to find a weak spot to trickle into. Up on the swaying bridge, with a pair of binoculars which you try to keep dry to have a look around between deluges of water, soaked and frozen, you say to yourself, “Why the **** did I join?” Then when you are relieved, you clamber down the ladder, discard all the wet gear and go into the fore-ends, have a cup of cocoa, turn in and, as you fall asleep, you think, “Well it’s not such a bad life after all.”’¹⁴

Halfway through this catalogue of complaint Britton hastily points out to his parents (his father himself a submariner): ‘Before I go any further don’t think that I am complaining because I really love submarines and this sort of life, and I wouldn’t swop it for anything.’

Not that surfacing at night, with the promise of the hot meal, a smoke, and the opportunity to ‘ditch gash’ was guaranteed utopia. It could be blowing a gale, and submarines, whatever the era, are wretchedly uncomfortable when on the surface in a storm. The misery was eloquently penned by Lieutenant Geoffrey Larkin RNVR, a human-torpedoman in 1942:

‘I can feel, see and hear for a space

The blindness and the deafness both have gone.

Again I feel a love towards my race

Who recently I hated loud and long.

I feel an urge again to smell and eat

The faintest of a half felt urge to sing.

Strange, since my recent thoughts have been delete

And minus, strike out – leave not anything.

I know this saneness probably will last

And flourish just as long as we remain

At rest. Though still I hope this daily dying’s past,

I feel tomorrow’s dawn will see again

The same insensate blankness – nothingness.

A life of one dimension – of complete

And utter soul destroying hopelessness,

Longing for death and spared that final treat

Now for a while, tho’ ’tis but short and sweet,

I smell and taste, and can appreciate

The beauties of this life, and can create.

When she begins to roll – I terminate.’¹⁵

Those who were sea-sick missed out on the delights of the submarine menu. During the First World War submarines did not carry trained cooks, and kitchen facilities were limited to one hot plate and a ‘fanny’ (water boiler). Submarine comforts (during both wars submariners got the best of provisions that were available) consisted mainly of tinned fare – soup, sausages, bacon, ‘tickler’ jam (even in the 1980s this was always plum-flavoured!), and bottled confections such as fruit. Ironically, fresh vegetables like onions and cabbage, sources of much-needed ‘roughage’, were invariably banned by Commanding Officers because of their residual smell! Bread and potatoes lasted only a few days, but by 1939 most submarines had trained cooks, and they would bake bread overnight for next morning’s breakfast. The range of processed foods available to them had also improved. Tinned sponges – perennially referred to as ‘Mrs B’s’ – became a firm favourite, and ‘pot-mess’, a conglomeration of left-overs, would make a regular appearance on the menu. As patrols became longer, food, like the receipt of mail, played a larger part in the ‘morale factor’ and chef’s creations gave rise to many hours of debate.

Since the most basic of human needs is to relieve one’s bowels, it is unsurprising that the ‘heads’ (or often the lack of them) are a common unifying bond for submariners of all generations. Constipation was a constant companion, but because of the limited diet, lack of exercise and, to begin with at least, sheer embarrassment at having to ‘perform’ in front of an audience, often only a ‘pill’ would sort out the problem. The most famous pills in RN submarine history were those taken onboard HMS E9 in 1914.

Max Horton was engaged on a week’s scouting duty in the Heligoland Bight early in the war, cruising with periscope awash by day and lying ‘doggo’ on the bottom at night.

‘Five or six days of this cramped existence, living mainly on tinned foods, had affected very seriously the digestive apparatus of one of his officers. The latter, seriously perturbed, decided on drastic remedies, and before turning in one night demolished about ‘half a guinea’s worth’ of a certain well-known brand of proprietary medicine. By the early hours of the morning the result of the experiment had passed his most sanguine hopes, but conditions in the confined and stagnant atmosphere lying on the ocean bed are not ideal ones for such shattering effect. That, at any rate, was the view taken by Horton and the rest of the crew. The latter sacrificed their morning beauty sleep without a murmur of protest when their commanding officer decided to rise to the surface an hour before the usual time. All on board were unanimous in expressing an earnest desire to fill the lungs with fresh morning air with as little delay as possible.

The boat rose slowly, Horton’s eye to the periscope. The pleasing sight of the German cruiser Hela was reflected to his delighted gaze as she steamed slowly by, and within two minutes she was sinking, a torpedo in her vitals. It was that box of pills, undervalued at a guinea, that brought Horton to the surface at that propitious moment.’¹⁶

Horton, probably the greatest submariner in our history, strode the two World Wars like a colossus. His renowned attacking and leadership qualities during the First War carved out for him a glittering career and reputation, while his performance as Flag Officer Submarines in 1940–42, then as Commander in Chief Western Approaches 1942–45, earned him a place in the annals of outstanding national military leaders. He was also the first submariner to raise the Service’s battle ensign – The Jolly Roger (JR). After his successful patrol he remembered Admiral Sir Arthur Wilson’s words that ‘all submariners captured in war should be hanged as pirates’¹⁷, and raised the flag on entering harbour to denote his achievement. The practice of flying the JR on returning to home base, now adorned with symbols to depict a variety of activities, became standard practice during the Second World War.

However, back to basics; there are numerous stories from both World Wars about some submariners’ total aversion to using the heads, but few took it to the extremes of Lieutenant Commander Robert Halahan, Commanding Officer of HMS E18. Leslie Ashmore tells the story:

‘For Halahan I had great respect and affection. He inspired considerable devotion amongst his juniors and repaid it by resolute and fearless leadership. He had one idiosyncrasy, I remember, which used to cause us some anxiety. He could never bring himself to submit to the uncomfortable complications involved in the use of the submarine’s rather intricate sanitary arrangements. He therefore insisted, no matter where we were, in taking the boat to the surface every morning so that he might exercise his natural functions in a simpler way over the side.’¹⁸

One day the inevitable happened and they were ‘bounced’ by a German airship. The Captain scrambled down the ladder ‘pantalone en bas’ and the boat escaped with a minor pounding.