Not like Invergordon but a Mutiny for all that!

HM S/M Auriga's 1962 - 1964 Commission

Written by Godfrey Dykes

© RN Communications Branch Museum/Library

'A' Boat

  Hi, this is my pen and ink sketch of an 'A' boat, a British submarine. I spent nearly five years of my life on one, so I do know the damn thing backwards. No, I am not going to give you a lecture about submarines, or about 'A' boats. I'm just using my sketches to tell you a story, a story of a boat which had a mutiny, although it was never recorded as such, nor were either of my fellow crewmen hanged or imprisoned for their act of disobedience. The dotted line (towards the top, left and right) is the free flood area of the boat which is not subjected to pressure. The areas are called the "casing" and the " fin" or conning tower. The very bottom of the sketch, the thin box, is the keel, and to a submariner, it plays no part in the daily life of the boat. That leaves the area subscribed by a continuous black line, further split horizontally into two decks and vertically into several compartments. Note, the boat's bow is one your right which means that you are looking at the starboard side.

  She has four torpedo tubes forward, two on the port side and two on the starboard side and two aft sited alongside each other, 6 tubes in all, two less than the original design/build of 8 tubes: the two now missing were external tubes and these were taken away when the submarine was streamlined in the early 1950's. Apologies for my sketch which shows 3 tubes in the bow when I should have shown just 2 tubes with 2 + 2 making 4 tubes up front. The continuous black line is called the "pressure hull" and we live inside it. The funny items which break or interrupt this line are the hatches through which we gain entry into the boat, and from which we either leave in an orderly fashion or leave in sheer panic: the latter we call "escape hatches". Obviously, the propeller shaft, the torpedo tubes, the periscopes, masts etc etc, all pass through the pressure hull in order to do their assigned task in submarine warfare. Now, let's put some meat on the bones. Just like we found her in late 1961, the boat is coming to life.

   Oh. by the way, her name is AURIGA, a Roman Charioteer, and of course a constellation whose chief star is Capella.

  We soon pulled her into shape and we had a good crew, a good skipper, but a pain-in-the-arse First Lieutenant, the jimmy. Since this man is the villain in my story, I have chosen to use his initials only whereas everybody else, have their full names shown.

  Our commissioning at RGD (Refit Group Devonport) was a good event, but we broke with the tradition of the youngest sailor on board helping the captain's wife to cut the cake. Instead, the skipper chose his own children.

  This picture shows that event. Mrs M R Wilson on the forward casing with the wooden object placed on top of the forward escape hatch opening. Note S69, our pennant number: in French tête à la queue (or worse!) Here is the commissioning cake in more detail and before it was cut.

  

  Shortly afterwards, we sailed north, to the traditional testing grounds for UK boats, namely to Faslane. In those far off days, Faslane, before the nuclear age, was a fun place, and many submariners of my age and time will remember the run's ashore we had, dressed in submarine sea jersey's, white stockings and Jesus boots, not to mention the antics in the compound canteen (or club). The Friday and Saturday nights in Helensburgh will long live in my memory. Still, we were there to work-up the boat in war-like conditions, and Rhu Narrows (an area leading to the Loch on which Faslane is situated) were seen more regularly than any of the fun houses ashore, particularly on the way out to sea. Like all R.N., sailors irrespective of where and upon what they serve in, we worked hard and expected to play hard but our 'Jimmy' was having none of that. It was one way, with no give and take, and whilst we did the job he wanted, there was no soul, no camaraderie. I was a young petty officer in the boat, and a member of a mess having ten senior rates three of whom were chief petty officers. Naturally, I listened and took part in mess conversations chiefly about the lads, our lads, and their mumbling and grumbling about M.J.C., Lieutenant Royal Navy, first lieutenant of HMS Auriga. M.J.C., became known as the "burberry kid" (a burberry is a raincoat), because no matter what the weather or his site visit, he would have his burberry buttoned to the collar, rather like a trawler-man in the North Sea would wear his foul weather gear. The work-up was unnecessarily hard because of his attitude. In boats certainly, and in the Navy per se generally, the first lieutenant has no real say over the comings and goings of members of the engineering fraternity. This is exercised by the engineering officer, known in boats as "engines"- ours was Lieutenant Max Kohler Royal Navy. In Auriga, engine room personnel could take leave whereas non engine room personnel couldn't. Engines, when well pleased, rewarded his division appropriately: 'Jimmy' was never well pleased. Such was the atmosphere in the boat as we went through our work-up, but despite this, we passed with merit and I can remember our rather quiet though diligent skipper, Lieutenant Commander M.R. Wilson Royal Navy, thanking us for the "gutsy effort" as we started our journey south to Devonport. Lt Cdr Wilson was 33 years of age, a native of Yiewsly, Middlesex. He joined Dartmouth in the late 1940's and joined boats in 1950 his first being Artful. Later on after service in other boats, he commanded Aeneas from October 1958 until July 1959. Auriga was his third 'A' boat and it should be obvious to all that what he didn't know wasn't worth knowing.

  More meat on the bones. This image above shows the use of each compartment and where everybody worked or lived. It is not to plan, but if you focus your gaze upon the section "Heads, Bathroom and Galley" you might get some idea of size. This little area had FOUR TOILETS for the men 56 in number, plus one toilet for the officers who numbered 6: 5 wash basins for the crew of 56 plus one wash basin, and when water was not a problem (and it ALWAYS was) a shower cubicle for the officers, PLUS the galley providing 3 meals a day of sorts. You will also see that directly under this area is an area called "SLOP drain and Sewage Tanks". The wireless office, my office, was immediately opposite the crew's four toilets and at no time were we the sparkers, ever more than two metres from the "traps" as they were affectionately known. However, that wasn't a problem compared with the following. Imagine 62 (in all) including us the sparkers, bit by bit (and a lot by a lot for guy's like stokers), filling up a huge tank with 'motions', which has also collected all the liquid rubbish discarded by the chef next door in the galley, and to a much lesser extent, the dirty water from the 6 wash basins onboard. Can you? You can almost hear the effect!!! CLICK ON REFRESH NOW. Well, there comes a time when that tank gets full and if nothing is done about it, it will overflow into that little compartment shown above. At the bottom of the tank there is a plug (for the want of a better word) and this plug is removed. Then high pressure air is blow in at the top of the tank, and all the solids are forced out of the bottom into the sea - sorry about the use of the word bottom! When the tank is empty, the air blow is stopped, and the plug is put back in position at the bottom. Now the tank is full of air, lots of air because it is compressed, and that air aint sweet air like you would find on a walk with your girl friend in say, the Lake District - no, it is FOUL FOUL AIR, and, it has to go before the tank can be used again. If on the surface, it is vented outboard into the atmosphere, but when dived............ Now, I am working away at being a diligent radio man, talking to the outside world on behalf of the captain, never more than two metres away from the traps, when the order is given to "VENT INBOARD". Do you know, those sadistic bastards ACTUALLY open a lever and all of that air, millions of cubic feet of stench bearing nastiness, comes wafting into the submarine, and who do you think cops most of it - go on - a test for you to see whether you have been following the story properly. As a grown up - and you have to be to serve in boats - I wouldn't mind too much, but what about the bloody poor old chef, also a couple of metres away and the food he is preparing for MY CONSUMPTION? Engine room personnel reading this would want to tell you that the vent had a de-odouriser fitted designed to eliminate the smell. I will tell you that in Auriga, it either didn't work or it was not fitted. Incidentally, what I have described used to happen in my former less sophisticated boats (I am thinking about HM S/M TURPIN a 'T' class boat) on a one-to-one basis, where the pressure blow-back would result in you wearing, around your face what you thought you had got rid of. Mind you, you could so easily have worn somebody else's. If smoking was permitted when this venting occurred, you could see the end of a cigarette flare up, rather like a sparkler burns, when the air turned from the norm - 50% oxygen 50% body odour (BO) - only joking - to 2% oxygen and 98% methane!

  To finish off the story of who's who in the boat, I have sketched a plan looking down on the main deck so you can see the port and starboard sides at the same time.

  Now safely back in Devonport (Plymouth) and exhausted, I had enough time to dash 200 odd miles east to Gosport (Portsmouth) to get married in the August of 1962.

  Thereafter, we operated out of Devonport and used the rest of 1962 pottering until it was time for us to deploy to our new base in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. Whilst in harbour for a lengthy period in late November, my wife, visiting her family in London, had a mis-carriage. Despite my protestations, I was allowed 24 hours to get from Plymouth to London and back to see my wife. In those days road networks were poor, and most of the time was spent behind the wheel of my little car. Whilst my wife was well looked after by her family, this mean act of denial, further strained my relationship with our first lieutenant, the burberry kid.

  Christmas came and went, and in January 1963, we began storing and kitting out for Canada. When we sailed, conditions at sea were normal for that time of year, and the Atlantic was not going out of its way to be friendly. However, things took a turn for the worse which made that crossing of the pond (the Atlantic) unimaginably difficult for the whole crew. Before we rounded the bottom of Ireland we had some defects with our mechanical machinery which were considered to be fixable by our own engineers. In the event, they could not be repaired at sea, but at that time they were not life threatening and so we continued. We were able to dive, and for a few hours here and there, we could escape the worst of the rough seas (note that the sea is still angry down to many feet below the surface.) Whilst nursing our defects, a subsequent defect occurred which truly affected all our lives, and stopped us from diving, keeping us on the surface at the mercy of the Atlantic. As the boat's radio petty officer, I saw all that came and went by radio morse messages, and I can remember well (also assisted by my diary of those times) that the sea areas on our route west were gales force 8 increasing to force 9 for four long days without a break. Believe it or not, the defect was in the slop drain and sewage tank venting system (the very one I have been mentioning above) which precluded the use of the heads (toilets). From that point, the crew shifted to plan two: constipation. The seas were unforgiving and the casing was out of bounds to all personnel. That left the fin which enclosed the conning tower from control room to the officer of the watch surfaced con position. This was open to the sea top and bottom and was outside the pressure hull. By climbing into the base of the fin which stopped the rollers coming directly onto the pressure hull, one could drop ones trollies and try ones best. However, have you ever tried doing a communal crap where people will risk their necks for a little bit of privacy, and where the sea, whilst not directly dowsing you nevertheless gushes up from the bottom free-flood holes of the fin like some gigantic bore-hole aiming right for your tender parts, negating any need for such luxuries such as toilet paper, necessitating instead, the need for a total change of clothing, a pie-in-sky extravagance in a submarine. The motion (a different one now!) of a submarine, because of it round tubular shape, is somewhat different from the movement of a ship in exactly the same sea condition. It rolls, in a confused and unpredictable manner, first clockwise then anti-clockwise, not stopping too long on any cycle nor choosing neat patterns to smooth the excesses. It does pitch and toss too, but whatever it does, it is most uncomfortable and a submarine is a poor surface vessel. Imagine then, being stuck on the surface and unable to dive. Returning to the wireless office being only two metres away from the heads, and having missed out that the traps could be used for non-sit down human waste also, one can imagine my delight at being the chief witness of hearing and smelling the proverbial "five-fingered-spread" (sea sickness) being regularly, though illegally, offered to numbers 1,2,3 and 4 traps; moreover, guess who's department was responsible for cleaning the heads and bathrooms. Some of the 'visitors' were just passing when the thought struck them (and us), whilst others actually made a pilgrimage to the site from distant parts, forward and aft. Those that made the 'visit' to the lower casing, added to the charm and serenity of the communal crappers. Thus we arrived off the coast of Canada, now in calmer seas, licking our wounds. I and many others had not defecated for many a long day, but equally, our food intake had been minimal, so we were not over concerned. Our first port of call was not our base port Halifax, but a little town called St John's in Newfoundland. There, amidst a wonderland of snow and ice and our introduction to a weather environment which was to become the norm for many more weeks to come, we relaxed, drank and cleaned the boat to rid it of the turmoil caused by a miserable crossing from the UK. The people of St John's were warm and friendly, not given to seeing many submarines berth in their small town. We sailed south from there to Halifax, arriving spick and span as though we had never been to sea.

  This, is what all the pictures above amount to; the sum of their parts. Auriga up in northern latitudes having used its strengthened fin and masts to smash its way through a POLYNYA (pol in ya) to surface through the ice. Submarines operating under the ice are fitted with an upward looking echo sounder.

  This works the same as a conventional echo sounder but looks for distances below the ice as opposed to distances from the sea bed. Normally the ice is of uniform thickness (isomorphic) but occasionally the ice reduces in thickness and reveals a 'weak-spot' which is called a polynya. The sheer upward force of the submarine coming to the surface is enough to break the ice and expose the polynya. In our time based in Halifax, we swung from minus 20 degrees up in places like the Cabot Straits, to plus 90 degrees down in Charleston South Carolina - fortunately, not all in one go! Breaking through the ice didn't do my radio antenna much good, but wouldn't it have made an excellent movie?

  I have mentioned the skipper and the jimmy, both of whom went into obscurity, and "engines" Lieutenant Max Kohler, and they were three of our six officers. The others were Lieutenant John Coward, the Navigator and my direct boss; Nigel Frawley a Lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Navy (RCN) who was the Torpedo Officer, and Lieutenant R.S. Forsyth who was the 'fifth hand', and officer in training without a portfolio. John Coward, who we (my wife and I) recently met whilst on holiday in Guernsey where he was the Governor, went on to become a war hero in the 1982 Falkland's War and achieved high rank as a Vice Admiral not to re-mention the Governorship of Guernsey. From my many sources of contact with people who served under John Coward both in boats and in ships, there is a common utterance that he was one of the best officers of his generation, and he is held in high regard by us all. I understand that Nigel Frawley also achieved great things, and he too, was an officer who had mastered the difference between motivation and de-motivation.

  Our base in Halifax was the RCN (Royal Canadian Navy) dockyard, just under the Angus L McDonald bridge which connects Halifax with Dartmouth. When in harbour the crew lived in the local RCN barracks HMCS STADACONA and we were under the operational command of HMS AMBROSE whose commanding officer was Commander Submarines 6th Squadron (CDR S/M 6) , one, Commander Ken Vause R.N. He had just two boats in his squadron, the Astute, who we relieved, and the Alderney. Everybody liked Ken and from the command and control aspect manifest in the many signals I exchanged with his staff ashore, he was easy to work with and for, and I know that our skipper and he, got on well together. Under Ken Vause was his deputy, SOSM (Senior Officer Submarines) the man who had the 'hands-on' contact with us and a fully qualified submarine CO. His name was Lieutenant Commander Gerald Allan Sotheran Paul. My wife joined me as a married accompanied draft with all the problems and set-backs of a sea going unit. She had sailed out of Liverpool in the luxury Liner Sylvania and I had met her ship on arrival in Halifax. Every thing was running well despite the ship's companies morale, lowered by the ambitions of "I'll get my half stripe out of this come hell or high water" displayed overtly by the Jimmy. Our pay was generous, receiving not only our R.N., pay and submarine pay, but also a Canadian allowance (RCN Bonus), bringing my pay as a petty officer in line with that of a lieutenant in the R.N., in the surface fleet. We got around, visiting Boston and New York several times, and many of the eastern US cities too. Bermuda was a favourite of ours. When in harbour, how much sweeter could it have been than living ashore with my wife, and then our first born, Steven on 6th September 1963. Fellow submariners back home in the UK would have killed for such a draft (posting) especially when the drafts to Australia and to Malta were on the run down, although Singapore drafts were on the increase, and guess where Auriga's next commission (with me still onboard) would be ? - Singapore, of course.

  Our first disaster was the loss of the American nuclear submarine Thresher. USS Thresher SSN 593, was lost off Boston USA on the 10th April 1963, with all hands plus a large amount of civilian technicians, whilst undergoing trials. Evidently, water had short circuited one of her major control panels which led to a catastrophic and fatal failure. We had just returned from eight days at sea ourselves, and I was at home having a shower when I was re-called to my boat. We sailed immediately (with some crew members absent) for the Boston sea area just to the south of Halifax, where remaining on the surface, we would act as a decompression chamber should any of Thresher's crew manage to escape. We knew that that was impossible, given that the depth off Boston is over a mile deep, but our call-out was a gesture, and a very sad experience for us all. When I got home, my wife's eyes said everything, and I was haunted by the thought of the loss of those scores of men and the manner in which they would have perished. What none of us could have foreseen was the affect the tragedy had on our captain's wife. This distressing period resulted in a break-down and our captain was taken away from us. The mild mannered ways of Lieutenant Commander M R Wilson Royal Navy were at an end, and the forthcoming change to a new skipper, elevated the jimmy to an even greater power base.

  The following pictures have been kindly sent to me by John Sayers. John was one of my Sparkers onboard and I am grateful for his contribution.

Auriga underway in ice	Auriga on surface in ice in Cabot Straits	Auriga, forward seaman's mess. Busy writing home because they had been told that mail would be taken off the submarine by a Canadian destroyer. Another of the boats Sparkers, Peter Clothier, is in his bunk at the far end.	Auriga. John [with set] and an oppo sitting on top of the boats sailfin in Halifax Harbour. Beyond is the Angus L McDonald Bridge which connected Halifax with Dartmouth. Inboard the bow of another British 'A' boat, and forward, a Canadian warship	John [set less] taken inboard in the Halifax Canadian Barracks HMCS Stadacona where victualled members of the crew were accommodated when the boat was in harbour.	An Argus anti submarine aircraft of the RCAF flying over ice, exercising with the Auriga.

  The obvious choice for a new skipper was the SOSM to Cdr S/M 6, and so our new captain was Lieutenant Commander Gerald Allan Sotheran Paul Royal Navy: he went on to command other submarines of his own, Olympus and Resolution retiring as a commodore in 1986. Inevitably, this led to a new work-up where the crew would have a new conductor, but the leader of the orchestra and the orchestra proper were the same: a different interpretation of a score all in the orchestra knew and could already play with proven ability. Almost as soon as this captain's work-up had been completed, the navy appointed a new skipper from the UK and Lieutenant Commander K A Bromback Royal Navy joined the boat to relieve Lt Cdr Paul. Kenneth Bromback became known as "get me up ...get me up" (said quickly without a pause) referring to his periscope being washed when at periscope depth because the planesmen had gone too deep.

  Yet another work-up started, the third in just a few months, and whilst the crew had to knuckle-down and get on with it, the Jimmy got more and more up people's noses, he naturally allying himself to the various skippers, but at the total abandonment of that part of the crew over which he had total control: for the purists, not the engine room staff nor the electricians. Under Bromback's command, the boat had a mixture of good and mediocre times, but notwithstanding the mood, Auriga was known as an efficient boat, and like all foreign based boats, the majority of the crew were happier when away from base port.

  As for everybody, the parochial troubles and in-fighting were for nought, when in late 1963, Kennedy was assassinated. The event polarised all our minds and thinking. Auriga was dived off Boston exercising with USA and Canadian surface units and aircraft. In those days we received our signals on low frequency (LF) (the Canadians did not have the 'proper' frequencies viz., very low frequency (VLF) which were always used in the UK) using high speed morse code. When the skipper wanted his signals, we would come to periscope depth and I would listen to slow morse code stating what traffic was about to be transmitted using high speed morse, and to whom they were addressed. If we were on the list, we would stay at periscope depth and record the high speed morse on a tape recorder. Whilst I couldn't guarantee that we had received the high speed signals properly, I could listen to the high speed transmission and make a judgement as to whether it was a good signal free from destructive interference, and when the transmission had ceased, I would tell the skipper, who would then go back to the desired depth again. We would replay the tape recording at a slower speed and transcribed our messages by hand or on the typewriter. If it was a plain language message, then it went straight to the skipper and from him, to other officers for action. If it was a coded message, we would type the transcribed groups into a decoding machine, stick the decoded plain language tape onto a piece of paper, ready for the captain to read. On this occasion we came shallow and read our messages. After going deeper again, (from my diary) I played the 2200 routine back to listen to Auriga's messages. We were approximately south of Halifax (160°) range 410 miles in approximately 39° N 61° 39' W, with about one mile of water under us. I cannot explain to you the environment in a small, cramped wireless office in a diesel submarine, deep in the Atlantic ocean, operating in very cold water, nor can I explain my feelings as each dot and dash of the morse code passed through my brain, down my arm, through the pencil I was holding and onto the piece of paper. When I had finished transcribing, and I was able to read the text properly, I couldn't believe what I had just done. It was almost as though I had done a naughty thing, nay, a bad thing. I couldn't believe that in those few short months, America had lost a submarine and a President. I opened the wireless office door, pushed myself through the black-out curtain leading into the control room, sought permission from the officer of the watch to climb the ladder leading to the skippers sleeping cabin, and called out "it's me sir, the RS". "What is it RS". "Some terrible news sir". After reading my transcription, the skipper jumped to his feet and followed me down the ladder back into the control room. The skipper announced the death to the crew using the boat's tannoy system, but before he had finished we were ordered to surface by the American's above us and to terminate the exercise.

  We arrived back at base to a subdued and much saddened Halifax. One the day of Kennedy's funeral, we were alongside in harbour, the only boat in a squadron of two 'A' boats and therefore, the only British ship. As was the tradition were wore a union jack on the bow and a white ensign on the stern. On top of the fin we wore a tiny pure silk white ensign. My duties in Auriga covered such things as bunting and flags per se, although in normal terms this task was carried out by our signalman Peter McCarthy. I ordered that a brand new mini ensign be used for this event, and in the evening, when all the flags were lowered, the big ones to be reused, I kept the mini silk ensign neatly folded in my locker. I have it to this very day as a keep sake in remembrance of those bad old days so long ago.

  After this, we worked with the American's based in Argentia (ar gen se a), a big US base in Newfoundland, and an interesting 'come around for a few drinks' at a whaling station crewed by a motley mixture of outback Canadians, with a sprinkling of Russians, Norwegians and a Scot who collectively proved to be too hot to handle drinks wise, so we could not and did not invite them back to the boat.

  Then came a peaceful Christmas, and Halifax/Dartmouth is as nice a place as any to spend such an occasion.

  Have you ever seen the movie K19 about a Russian nuclear boat in 1960? The story of its exploits was kept secret by the Soviets for 28 years, so the news did not break until at least 1988. I do not recall when the film starring Harrison Ford was made. It is a harrowing story of a hapless crew officered by a mixture of Captain Bligh (mutiny of the Bounty), Blue Beard and another more sympathetic guy. Anyway, they are dogged by drill after drill after drill, or "for exercise" as we would say. Auriga started 1964 that way to shake-out a lengthy period in harbour which was no bad thing. Regrettably, it didn't appear to stop, this despite an excellent response to "action stations" and "attack team close up". "Diving stations" was second nature - didn't even have to be thought about - and the boat was immaculate. The only area for real complaint was the food and the victuals. It was not good even though the chef was. The coxswain did an excellent job in victualling the boat, but submarines and good catering are opposites, and the much told proverbial navy joke about cooks is not appropriate here. Can you recall the story line of Caine Mutiny, a 1954 movie starring Humphrey Bogart? Caine was the name of the ship. Doesn't matter if you can't. If you do, or if the in future you research the movie, for Lieutenant Commander Queeg (the skipper) read Lieutenant M.J.C., (the jimmy) but without the ball-bearings!

  Many things happened and the muttering increased, coming now from areas hitherto not involved. It all came to a head in the spring of 1964 when operating from Bermuda. Firstly, we had a casevac (a casualty evacuation) when a sailor was lifted by helicopter from the top of the fin to be taken ashore to Bermuda suffering from severe stomach pains. This was executed by the USN and the man was found to be suffering from an appendix which was just about to burst. Submarines didn't carry a doctor or even a sick berth attendant, and the medics were chiefly the Jimmy and the coxswain who were trained more thoroughly than we, the rest of the crew were. The skipper had a lockable safe in his sleeping cabin which contained morphine. Anyway, towards the end, when we were about to go back north to Halifax, Jimmy was recommending that we take back our recuperating rating. This, by signal, was not endorsed as being the right thing to do, although, in the end, but not on Jimmy's insistence, he did hitch a lift back to base. However, before that event occurred, two other events brought the matter of Jimmy and his rule to a head.

  Like all warship's visiting Bermuda, Ireland Island is the dockyard and the shore establishment is HMS Malabar. Also at Ireland Island there is a NAAFI club which the crew's frequent more than anywhere else on the island. Bermuda, nice though it is, is a playground for the well off, and we were anything but that. Hamilton, the Capital caters for rich Americans and areas like St George have little to offer as a venue for a run ashore that the men wanted. All other areas of the island are frequented by the locals and they don't take kindly to high-spirited men of the Royal Navy. Having said that, it is the ideal place for a quiet run ashore, and whilst pursuing this, one can't be guaranteed not being ripped-off but can be guaranteed to be free of raucous near wild matelots letting off steam. I'll certainly have some of that!

  Now Aurigans had a lot of steam to let off; a pent-up feeling of wanting to be rid of the Jimmy and helpless that they were stuck with him. Plus it has to be said, that foreign bases do favour the R.A.'s (the men who take their wives with them), and what this crew needed above all else was to get out of Halifax, and find somewhere to let their hair down. Was Bermuda the place to do this? Yes. provided they did it at the dockyard site on Ireland Island. It was, as I remember, the night I was the duty PO onboard the boat. I did this duty as often as possible when away from base, so that when back in Halifax I could have as many nights as possible home with my wife and child without having to do these duties. It was also Saturday, a time to enjoy oneself knowing (though wrongly in Auriga's case) that Sunday morning was a lay-in to help with the hang-over. We were berthed alongside SNOWI's flagship at the time, after having been as sea for many a long day. Because of this, the crew were on their best behaviour, warned like children by the Jimmy, of the consequences of being 'too happy.' SNOWI incidentally stands for Senior Naval Officer West Indies (a Captain RN) who was flying his broad pennant in a frigate (one of the Tribal-Class as I recall) which was the then West Indies guard ship.

  Off went our lads, bless them, leaving me and a few others to settle down with a beer to watch a movie in the forward seamen's mess.

  At the appointed hour, the men returned to the boat in dribs and drabs and none was truly the worse for wear. The gangway staff of the flagship, a frigate whose name I never did record, were helpful and took the ribbing dished out to them with good grace. Many of our sailors had used the flagship's washing and showering facilities during that Saturday, and I had put items into their laundry for the attention of their Chinese launderers. I did get them back, all nice and clean and ironed and lovely. At about 2300 I wandered up on the casing to take the night air, and saw that all was well. I spoke with the duty officer of the flagship, a pusser (supply and secretarial branch officer) I was told by their quartermaster (QM) resplendent in his tropical mess undress. One hour later at midnight, I returned to the upper deck and was joined by our duty officer who looked just as smart, wearing a crisp tropical shirt, dark trousers and cummerbund. We exchanged pleasantries with each other and with the gangway staff of the flagship, even congratulating the 'good and reliable common sense of our lads'. With his permission I turned in, on notice for an immediate call-out should it be necessary. I had one or two rowdy sailors to deal with down below but by 1am all was quiet. There was no need of a head count (we didn't use station cards) because leave expired onboard at 0800 the following morning - some were bound to stay ashore to get a decent nights kip, or for other reasons.

  The trot sentry, the submarine's gangway staff had been told of my sleeping bunk position for any call-out, but also the time I wanted to be called in the morning. I figured 0600 would be a good time even though it was Sunday, giving me plenty of time to go inboard to the flagship for a shave and a shower and perhaps a cup of tea if not a bacon sandwich - they have these things on ship's, especially flagship's. Night night I said to myself, secretly thanking my lucky stars that the duty had been so cushy, and went fast asleep dreaming of Halifax.

  The picture below shows some of the crew at the commissioning ceremony in Devonport in 1962.

  It tends to get light early in the summer months doesn't it? It did that day, because at 0515 I was rudely awakened by the trot sentry telling me that Jimmy was waiting for me on the casing and that I had better chop chop. I quickly dressed, and as I climbed the ladder to the casing from the forward torpedo compartment, I saw Jimmy's legs and then some green coloured things, letters I thought. There was no need to look at Jimmy and even less reason to talk to him, for there, painted alongside virtually the whole of the flagship was "MADE IN JAPAN" artistically applied with green paint each letter about two foot high. Most surprisingly of all I think, is that he didn't bother to ask me for an explanation, not that I had one, but immediately ordered a clear lower deck of everybody, ERA's, CPO's, PO's the lot. I was no longer the duty PO: I was part of the 'lot' and Jimmy was the only duty person around. I can't with any truth tell you that the staff of the flagship thought it was funny, far from it, but their reaction was, let's say, more mature than the reaction of our one and only burberry-kid, who by that time, had lost the bubble (a submariners saying where the bubble, in a clinometre (spirit level), keeps the submarine level .) The Buffer (man responsible for the appearance and upkeep of a ship) of the flagship provided many paint brushes and copious amounts of grey paint, and when our crew were suitably dressed, they set about painting out the pretty green letters referring to the land of the rising sun. Once the marks were painted out which took several coats albeit in that heat they dried quickly, the skill of repainting the ships pennant numbers took place using black with a white shadow surround. The whole operation took up most of that Sunday, and whether one was directly involved in the painting or not, one's leave was stopped. Remember, we had been at sea for many a long day before being allowed access to the flagship as a 'mother' ship. This was nothing other than group punishment and the men saw it that way. At no time that day did Jimmy stop and try to find the culprit, and when the culprit finally declared his hand sometime later, he was a Petty Officer from my own mess, Petty Officer Art Bodden a Canadian and the number one torpedo rating in the boat known as the UW1 or the TI which stood for Torpedo Instructor. No leave was given that evening and all ratings, irrespective of their seniority or status were suspects - even me I felt. The air was tense.

  The next day Monday, we shifted berth from alongside the flagship to alongside a jetty, a jetty devoid of any facilities. Remember I was the boss radio man and I saw all radio communications. We had received signalled instructions that a port of call was being arranged for us enroute to base, possibly our third visit to New York, to Brooklyn Navy Yard, and to Flushing Meadow USN Barracks, a decent but manageable walk over the Brooklyn Bridge into downtown Manhattan just by the Woolworth Building and not too far from the destroyed world trade centre site, though the world trade centre buildings were not built at this time. That signal was never actioned by signal unless our officers had used either Malabar's or the flagship's radio facilities to do so. The signal demanded a response which was sub judice before the painting happened. Other suspicious things happened, like officers wanting references for signals previously received whilst at sea. Signals were coming in about various subjects, but strangely I was not being asked to send any. Restricted leave was given on that Monday evening with times to be back on board curtailing any revelry that might be planned. On Tuesday, just before up spirits (rum ration), it was announced that the boat would be returning to base in a few days time and that liberty leave would continue to be given but with restrictions imposed. Sports and recreation leave would be as normal. Shortly after tot time that day, in a pre and post lunch time frame, sailors from the seamen's and stokers messes left the boat and walked onto the jetty. They were still there at turn-to time, a time in early afternoon when they restart their work. They stayed there despite being ordered to turn-to and get back on the boat. The coxswain, a popular man called William (Billy) Blackhurst, a CPO with a ready and sincere smile, tried and failed and although I was not present at any of these proceedings, I am told that he gave them a fatherly talk about the consequences of what they were doing. The Jimmy didn't stand a chance: he was literally ignored by the men. In mid to late afternoon, of their own doing, they returned to the boat, got on with their work, and the subject was not debated, even in our mess, the power-house of the boat. We sailed as per the new plan and went straight back to Halifax, proof if proof were needed, that the signal had been answered using other communication means, and had been answered in the negative, clearly as a further punishment for the crew.

  Our arrival in Halifax met with no excitement, with few signals either way enroute. Clearly, any signalling about the mini mutiny had been routed well away from my department in the boat, which although frustrating, proved to be in my favour when the buzzes started: what I didn't see I can't talk about, not that I would have done anyway. Within hours of arriving in Halifax we had a visit from SOSM, Lieutenant Commander St Paul, and very soon afterwards, Lieutenant M.J.C., Royal Navy was history, ignominiously removed from his appointment as First Lieutenant of Her Majesty's Submarine Auriga.

  None of the offenders, for they were clearly offenders with mitigation, were punished or were made to leave the boat. No signal ever left Auriga about the mini mutiny and the captain, 'get me up...get me up' Bromback was clearly shaken by the whole affair, but remained in command until we arrived back in the UK. He went on to command the submarine Token after the Auriga. At a later time, he was appointed to Australia, one assumes as a submariner to advise the RAN on its submarine programme. Equally, it appears that he retired from that appointment and stayed on as a civilian in Australia with his wife Ann. He died in early February 2008 in Queensland. He joined the submarine service in 1950 and did his Perisher in 1957, thereafter commanding an 'S' boat, 'T' boats and 'A' boats other than Auriga. He is listed in the 1969 RAN Navy List under 'Officers on the RAN Emergency and Retired' List serving in HMAS Kuttabul. This tells us what Kuttabul was, where and what it did.

  Welcome to HMAS Kuttabul, Macleay Street, Potts Point, NSW. Situated above the historic Garden Island (GI) Dockyard facility, HMAS Kuttabul primary role is to provide administrative, training and logistics support to defence personnel, both uniform and civilian, employed within the Sydney area.

  Funny really! I have a good friend, Preston. E. Willson who was a colleague of mine in the communications branch but in general service. One of his brothers (at one time the three brothers were in the R.N., together) served in boats, also as a radio man. He was in Auriga the commission before this (1959-1961 and also in Canada) and he tells of a very unhappy Auriga. The third commission (1966-68) saw me again in Auriga based on Singapore, and that commission also fell to pieces when Lieutenant Commander John Round-Turner Royal Navy routinely relinquished his command nearly two third of the way through the commission. He again was an excellent and well liked skipper, the type of man one is proud to serve with. He went on to command two nuclear submarines, Renown and Conqueror, and was promoted to the rank of captain in 1981 then appointed as Captain SM2. He retired in 1989 and became an executive with the British Horse Racing Authority based on Newmarket Suffolk. His relief, a very different officer much disliked, also later commanded a nuclear submarine and a diesel boat, had a stint at HMS Ganges, a stint at HMS Raleigh, a stint as a Naval Attache in Bonn was promoted to the rank of Captain in 1981 and retired also in 1989.

  As for the burberry-kid, his submarine career was ruined. He got his half stripe and as a lieutenant commander commanded a small vessel, and this is an extract from the Navy List of the remained of his career:-

   1973: HMS PHOENIX, HM Naval Base, Portsmouth

   1972: As above

   1971: As above

   1970: HMS TAMAR, Hong Kong

   1969: As above

   1968: As above

   1967: HMS PRESIDENT London (Administration of several minor establishments & appointments)

   1966: HMS LANTON Ton Class Coastal Minesweeper

 He retired in 1973 and died on the 31st May 2001. He may have had a need for a burberry whilst in Phoenix but probably not whilst in Tamar (Hong Kong) where a Wanchai Brolley would have sufficed.
In summary, I suppose that like ratings, there are good, bad and bloody bad officers.
Funny really! Just as an add-on, Submarine Logs are kept by the National Archives from 1914 to 1980. Regrettably they don't have Auriga's Log for that month in 1964?

 For this commission we had a bunting, the last of a line in boats thereafter. His name was Pete McCarthy and he wore a buntings crossed flag branch badge. In 1963 that badge was withdrawn and buntings had to wear a radio operators badge instead. There was no way that Pete would give up his badge, even after the skipper told him to do so, and he was still wearing it the day he left the submarine service for general service (in the surface fleet). Finally, in 1965 the Admiralty withdrew the West Indies Guard ship and replaced it with RNR Sweepers. I wonder why? Seriously though, the West Indies Guard Ship duties were disbanded in 1964 and replaced by the APT = Atlantic Patrol Task.

Yours aye, Jeff Dykes