Submariner Funerals

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.

You....

You read something
You think something
You say something
You regret something

You wait
You think
You worry
You care

You.

Lost Reflections

It used to be that we could mark Remembrance Day at the Submarine Museum in the simplest of ways; we would fall in, the 'Still' would be piped, there would be the 2-minute silence, the 'Carry On', fall out and then a tot. It was simple, pure, and our thoughts were our own. And all the time the main parade was taking place elsewhere in the town.

And then someone decided it would be a good idea to invite a padre with all the associated palaver - hymns, prayers, his bad jokes, and a reference to his limited time on boats, The purity, and the time for reflection had gone, replaced by the discipline and routine of religion.

What it would be to have the chance to be able to observe those few minutes of reflection in a personal way without having to read an A5 pamphlet to remind one of what follows after the Submariner's Prayer. I doubt that opportunity will ever arise again.

Added later:

And then in 2019, the last time we got together, the 1100 bugle sounded, whilst the padre was talking. He stopped but only long enough to allow the tubes to die away. He was determined to finish his sermon.

Guilt Trip

We were up in London a couple of days ago, having a fun day and splashing a little money around (a rare treat). We'd had a nice lunch in a patisserie, bought some Chanel perfume, had a good mooch round and then went to Wardour Street for a pleasant dinner.

And then we headed for home.

As we walked through Picadilly Circus Underground, there was a guy with a blanket, reading the Metro, and a cardboard sign that said 'Ex British Army, Homeless'. I was all set to walk past him until I saw his sign, so I stopped to talk. He'd done 7 years and was late of the Royal Green Jackets. He'd been to Northern Ireland and Kosovo, and that wasn't what he joined up for, he said; I'm sure those who have done those tours will empathise. He got out but things just 'didn't go right'. I didn't press him. In September he will get a place to stay through the charity Homes 4 Heroes, and he wears one of their hoodies.

I asked him if he had anywhere to stay and he replied that he was hoping to get the £18 he needed for the night shelter. When asked if a tenner would help him, he looked at the change in his pocket and replied that would probably just about get him there.In the end, we made sure he had a bed for the night and left him.

What has gnawed at me ever since is the fact that we had blown some money on nothing really, and that we didn't think twice about making sure he had a bed. And yet, this guy was having to spend his day begging for that small sum which, I suppose, doesn't come easily.  It's the inequity that upsets me.

http://www.ukh4h.org.uk/

Armistice Thoughts

I find that I have come to find some peace in the quiet introspection that comes with marking the Armistice at the 11th hour. There is no build up (other than keeping an eye on the clock or radio in preparation). There is no religion nor any need for it. No pomp. It is a pure act of remembrance, a solitary commemoration. And for 2 minutes it's possible to think of anything - ice cream, cars, blisters - but thoughts go back to the hundreds of thousands who died a century ago, the years in between, and those who die today even though their physical war ended 20, 30 years ago.

In my mind I see the rows of white stone, the rows of crosses, the rows of dark squares I've recently come to learn about, I see a face of a gone too soon friend. And I wonder how I would feel in

the noise, (there's always noise whether it's in the air, on the land, or in and under the sea) in the depths of any war. and how the fear would feel. All the time, aware of a stillness even though I may hear traffic and everyday noises.

Then when the cannon sounds, I 'surface', perhaps a little selfconsciously, and go back to my normal life.

And I Miss You

And I miss you
Your eyes

Your smile
The feel of your skin

Your hand in my hair.

At the end
You held me close
Said that of all
I was the one
You worried for most
You fell back asleep
Never to wake

And I miss you

I went to the funeral of a colleague today who was a fellow guide at the Royal  Navy Submarine Museum. Dave Sullivan was a submariner who had been a guide and steward at the museum since its opening in 1980. He was someone who was always popular with his fellow guides, with the visitors and with the younger front of house staff. Latterly, he only worked on Sundays, and he was always there with a smile, a welcome and, often, a joke. He was full of stories from his time in the Royal Navy, and later as a technical civil servant. Being a man of his time, he would often use language that would be considered unacceptable by today's standards. He would refer to people as 'darkies' or as 'queers' but never in malice and he would always correct himself, aware of modern sensitivities.
Dave often complained of a bad back and when he finally consulted a doctor, he was diagnosed with cancer. From that point he gave up guiding, temporarily he hoped but he never did return to his 'second wife' as Margie, his wife, referred to the Submarine Museum. Somehow, Sunday mornings always seemed to be missing something after his enforced absence. I would find myself looking for him half way through the day.

His popularity was demonstrated today by the fact that the crematorium at Havant was full with many friends and family sat in the pews and a large number of ex-submariner colleagues from the Association and the museum stood around the sides. The hardest thing to see today was the grief and tears on the faces of his grandchildren.

I, as were many others, was genuinely saddened to hear of the death of Dave, and much more so than another who had died last year. This man was a bully and a braggart, the antithesis of Dave, but because one should not speak ill of the dead, no-one did but I know he wasn't missed by many.

Dave must have, at some point, been greatly struck by the piece 'Desiderata'. He always carried copies of it in his bag and would offer them to friends and colleagues, particularly those younger members around them.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass. Take kindly to the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy