Chapter XII: Amusements

On every vessel in the Navy there is a phonograph, and on some destroyers there are two phonographs, one for the officers, and one for the men. The motion of the destroyer rarely permits the use of the machine at sea, but when the vessel lies quietly at her mooring buoy, you are likely to hear a battered old opera record sounding through the port holes of the ward room, and "When the midnight choo choo leaves for Alabam'" rising raucously out of the crew's quarters. When music fails, there are always plenty of magazines, thanks to good souls who read Mr. Burleson's offer and affix the harmless, necessary two cent stamps. Each batch is full of splendid novelettes. We gloat over the esoteric mysteries of the "American Buddhist," and wonder who sent it, we read the "Osteopath's Quarterly," the "Western Hog Breeder," and "Needlework." Petty officers with agricultural ambitions, and there are always a few on every boat, descend on the agricultural journals like wolves on the fold.

No notice of Queenstown, no history of the Navy would be complete without a word about golf. It is _the_ Navy game. Golf clubs are to be found in every cabin; in the tiny libraries Harry Vardon rubs shoulders with naval historians and professors of thermodynamics. If you take the train, you are sure to find a carriage full of golfers bound for a course on the home side of the river. I remember seeing the captain of an American submarine just about to start upon the most dangerous kind of an errand one could possibly imagine. It was midnight; it was raining, the great Atlantic surges were sweeping into the bay in a manner which told of rough weather outside. Just as he was about to disappear into the clamorous bowels of his craft, the captain paused for an instant on the ladder, and shouted back to us, "Tell Sanderson to put that mashie in my room when he's through with it."

Were it not for the great "United States Naval Men's Club," I fear that Jack ashore would have had but a dull time, for our amusements were limited to a dingy cinema exploiting American "serials" several years old, and a shed in which a company of odd people played pretentious melodramas of the "Worst Woman in London" type on a tiny Sunday school stage. Alas, there were not enough people in the company to complete the cast of characters, so the poor leading lady was forever disappearing into the wings as the wronged daughter of a ducal house, only to appear again in a few minutes as the dark female poisoner, whilst the little leading man with a Kerry Brogue was forever rushing back and forth between the old white-haired servitor and the Earl of Darnleycourt. Once in a while Jack came to these performances, bought the best seat, and left the theatre before the performance was ended. The British Tars, however, sat through it respectably and solemnly to the end.

The Men's Club was to be found at one end of the town close by the water's edge. It was quite the most successful and attractive thing of its kind I have ever visited. The largest building was a factory-like affair of brick which once housed some swimming baths, then became a theatre, and finally failed and lay down to die; the smaller buildings were substantial huts of the Y.M.C.A. kind which had been attached to the original structure. This institution provided some several thousand sailors with a canteen, an excellent restaurant, a theatre, a library, a recreation room, and, if necessary, a lodging. Best of all, one could go to the Club and actually be warm and comfortable in the American style, a boon not to be lightly regarded in these islands where people all winter long huddle in freezing rooms round lilliputian grates. Enlisted men controlled the club, maintained it, and selected their stewards, cooks and attendants from their own ranks. Upon everybody concerned, the Club reflects the highest credit.

There were "movies" every night, and on Saturday night a special concert by the "talent" in the flotilla. The opening number was always a selection by the Club Orchestra, perhaps a march of Sousa's, for the Navy is true to its own, or perhaps Meacham's "American Patrol." Then came a long four-reel movie, "Jim the Penman," "The Ring of the Borgias," "Gladiola" or "Davy Crockett." The last terrifying flickers die away, the footlights become rosy; the curtain rises on "The Musical Gobs." We behold a pleasant room in which two people in civilian clothes sit playing a soft, crooning air on violins. Suddenly a knock is heard at the door. One of the performers rises, goes to the door, then returns and says to his partner:

"There's some sailors out there (great laughter in the audience); they say they can play too. Want to know if they can't come in and play with us."

"Sure, tell 'em to come in."

"Come in, boys."

From behind the back drop, a subdued humming suddenly bursts and blossoms into "Strike up the band; here comes a sailor." Enter now three pleasant looking, amiably grinning lads playing the tune. Chairs are brought out for the newcomers and the "Musical Gobs," genuine artists all, play several airs. Another knock is heard and a singer, a petty officer with a good tenor, also begs to join them. The curtain goes down in a perfect tempest of applause. The screen descends once more, and all present sing together the popular songs whose text is shown, "Gimme a kiss, Mirandy," and "It's a long way to Berlin, but we'll get there." This feature was always a favourite. We then have a clog dancer, two more comic films and the National anthems. When the show is over, almost everybody wandered to the canteen to get "a bite to eat." To o'erleap the bars of the ration system with a real plate of ham and eggs, served club style, was an experience.

So if you were aboard a destroyer that night, you would have heard Jack whistling the new tunes, and his officers discussing golf scores.