Inside the first row of iron sheds are stores, with barrels of tar, drums of paint, immense coils of rope and a naval "William Whiteley's"—in which anything from a looking-glass to a ball of string, or a razor to a dish-cloth, can be obtained in exchange for a signed form from the Naval Store Officer, whose cabin near by is a maze of similar forms of all colours.
Then a worried-looking man hurries by and the O.O.D. smiles. "He's the coaling officer, and there's some twenty ships waiting to get alongside to take the beastly stuff aboard," is the laconic explanation.
A cabin marked I.O. is entered—every room is a cabin in a naval base. Here the walls are decorated with innumerable charts with mysterious red lines. A curious device, with the names of all the ships belonging to the base painted on wooden slides, reaches across one side. It is the indicator which shows at a glance the ships at sea and those in harbour, the names of those under repair, the unit to which each vessel belongs and when she goes out or comes in for "stand-off."
This is the Intelligence Office, and signals and wireless messages from the patrols and battle fleets are being almost continuously brought in and carried out by messengers. The Commanding Officer (C.O.) of a minesweeper is making inquiries about tides and the exact position on the chart of a newly located mine-field. Another officer is locking a black patent-leather dispatch-case—he is the King's Messenger or, more correctly, the "Admiralty Dispatch Bearer," who carries to and from London and the fleets all the secret correspondence and memoranda of the Naval War Staff and other important departments. A big safe in the corner of the cabin contains the secret codes and ciphers used when transmitting messages, and two overworked officers are busy at near-by desks translating signals to and from "plain English."
The next cabin contains the admiral's secretary and his staff of writers. Here a flotilla commander is receiving his "sailing orders," without which no ship proceeds on a voyage. Adjoining this is the Pay Office, in which, with the exception of a newly joined recruit mortgaging his pay for two weeks ahead—he knows that he will be at sea for that time—there is a decided air of quietude. The rush in this abode of paymasters comes at the end of each month, when all the officers arrive in a body to demand the meagre fruits of their labours.
Sandwiched between the clean and varnished cabin of the Base Commander, who is "taking" defaulters, and the camp-bedded apartment of the O.O.W. is a most interesting little combined cabin and store, presided over by the Chaplain. Here are piles of woollen socks, cardigans, balaclavas, mitts and other clothes knitted by the thoughtful women of the Empire for their sailor sons. Here seamen are estimating the cold-resisting qualities of different garments—for winter in the North Sea is the next thing to Arctic exploration. Officers are popping in and out to borrow a pile of books—thrice blessed were the senders of these donations. The corner of the cabin is piled with fresh vegetables, but alas! the cry is apples! No exhortations to righteousness adorn the walls, and the chaplain is joking with a big stoker who is distractedly turning over the cardigans in search for one large enough to encompass his massive frame. A signal boy slips in, gets chocolate, gives a breathless thanks and slips out just in time to avoid the playfully raised hand of the P.O. of his ship. Two deck hands, covered in coal dust, put their heads round the door to ask if they can have a bath, and the indefatigable chaplain hands them the keys of the room provided for the purpose by the generous.
Religion here is more practical than theoretical. If a man swears when the "Padre" is present he pays a small fine, which goes to the recreation or other needy fund. The Commander is not immune from this law at the base under review, and has more than once been "heavily fined" for giving his true opinion of German sailors and winter weather.
The next cabin is that of the O.O.W., a seething mass of officers demanding "duty boats" and pinnaces to convey them to and from their ships lying out in the fair-way. Others are expostulating about being ordered to sea during their "stand-off," informing everyone what a rotten service the navy is, crossing-sweeping is a sinecure compared with it. Then a few pass on to the cabin near the men's quarters. Here the "Drafting Officer" is trying to palm off a deck hand on the C.O. of a trawler, who is vainly explaining that he must have a signalman. A telephone rings and news comes from the "Sick Bay" that an engineer has been badly burned and will be unable to go to sea with his ship. The distracted drafting officer searches through his lists of reserves for some competent man to take the place of the casualty.
Peace reigns in the adjoining department, where a grey-haired veteran is issuing charts, "Sailing Directions," "Tide Tables" and "Warnings to Mariners." In the near-by engineer-commander's office worried experts are wrestling with innumerable problems relating to M.L. motors, steam capstans, steam steering gear, electric dynamos, damaged propellers, broken shafts, boiler cleaning and the numerous imperfections of overworked ships' engines.
The Boom Defence staff is placidly serene. The turn of this department comes after a heavy gale has damaged the submarine nets, chains and buoys. The torpedo officers and their "parties" are discussing the best way of moving four of these steel monsters from a neighbouring depôt ship to a new "Q" boat with only a rowing-boat at their disposal—soon the O.O.W. will be called upon to supply a drifter for the purpose.