Submariner funerals are interesting. Standards will be paraded. Old men will line up awaiting the coffin. Alarmingly, when given the command, "Submariners - submariners HO!", these old men will come to attention so smartly, it was as if they'd been practising on Whale Island for the past two weeks. The chapel at the crematorium is always packed.
After the move to the Royal Naval Association for the wake, or more correctly 'drinks at the RNA', there is always an assault on the bar. Then there will be food. Salads usually get a good stiff ignoring, but otherwise, the Scotch eggs disappear almost immediately, and the sandwiches and chicken wings follow soon after.
And then there will be rum. There is always rum. And it is always Pussers. There is a toast, the glasses are upended and that warm sensation in the depths of one's innards slowly radiates.
These are occasions for everyone to catch up and to discuss matters submarine, but usually, those from previous decades for these are men from those decades. It's interesting times as stories from one generation are shared with another - it's a two-way flow; one group did 'mystery tours', the later did 'sneaky patrols'. Both did the same but the name changed somewhere through the years.
Badges are everywhere. Dolphins. Of course. And not just British ones for some of these old gentlemen will wear Australian or Canadian dolphins for they served in the submarine squadrons in those countries. There are medals galore. Some wear nothing but a lapel pin. There are one or two who have parachutist wings on the shoulders of their civilian jacket. There is any number of non-service badges or pins. Some wear theirs just on their lapels so they resemble an aged 3rd Former from my grammar school days. Others have one or two, whilst there are those who wear many and some of these are so big it looks as if the wearer was attacked by a vicious paintball assassination squad outside on the car park.
They are always cheerful events but when looking at the comrades assembled, one has to wonder when the next one's life will be celebrated and a tot drunk.
After the move to the Royal Naval Association for the wake, or more correctly 'drinks at the RNA', there is always an assault on the bar. Then there will be food. Salads usually get a good stiff ignoring, but otherwise, the Scotch eggs disappear almost immediately, and the sandwiches and chicken wings follow soon after.
And then there will be rum. There is always rum. And it is always Pussers. There is a toast, the glasses are upended and that warm sensation in the depths of one's innards slowly radiates.
These are occasions for everyone to catch up and to discuss matters submarine, but usually, those from previous decades for these are men from those decades. It's interesting times as stories from one generation are shared with another - it's a two-way flow; one group did 'mystery tours', the later did 'sneaky patrols'. Both did the same but the name changed somewhere through the years.
Badges are everywhere. Dolphins. Of course. And not just British ones for some of these old gentlemen will wear Australian or Canadian dolphins for they served in the submarine squadrons in those countries. There are medals galore. Some wear nothing but a lapel pin. There are one or two who have parachutist wings on the shoulders of their civilian jacket. There is any number of non-service badges or pins. Some wear theirs just on their lapels so they resemble an aged 3rd Former from my grammar school days. Others have one or two, whilst there are those who wear many and some of these are so big it looks as if the wearer was attacked by a vicious paintball assassination squad outside on the car park.
They are always cheerful events but when looking at the comrades assembled, one has to wonder when the next one's life will be celebrated and a tot drunk.
