A huge teapot containing a gallon of so-called tea is dropped with a thud on one of the wardroom sideboards. Plates are rattled violently as they are served around the table; there is a crash from the pantry as the third-class officers’ steward, who has been sleeping on top of the sink, strikes his yawning elbow against a pile of dirty tumblers left over since lunch-time, and the marine servant shouts out: ‘Tea is ready, gentlemen, please!’
There is a general movement from the settees, sofas and arm-chairs where tired officers have been snatching a brief rest. Four uncurl themselves from the small table where they have been sitting on high-backed chairs with their heads resting upon their arms. There is a general movement towards the long tables where the cups, saucers and plates show up startlingly white against the approved Admiralty pattern of serge tablecloth, whose main recommendation to the chooser must have been that it did not show the dirt. The dark red flowers have long ago become hopelessly mixed with the black background which is its most prominent feature when new.
The officers—there are thirty when they are all mustered—sit down at the tables and stare in front of them with the glassy, fixed eyes and owlish expression of those newly awakened from unrefreshing slumber in a tainted atmosphere. The marine servant, helped by another, carries round the enormous tin teapot and carelessly splashes a portion of the fluid into each cup as he passes. On the table are jugs containing ‘tinned cow’ and basins of brown sugar which the officers push to one another. For food there is good bread, butter and jam, and some musty fragments of old cake. For five minutes or so the meal is consumed in silence, when a signal messenger enters the wardroom and, with an air of conscious importance, lays a signal on the table beside the senior officer present. That individual gazes casually at it for a second, and then is suddenly galvanised into action. Holding it in both hands, he reads out eagerly: ‘Flag to all ships. Our light cruisers report that they have just sighted an enemy light cruiser.’
There is silence for a moment and then a voice is heard: ‘So much the worse for the enemy light cruiser!’
The scraping of the chairs against the floor is heard as they are hastily pushed back and the occupants rise, looking for their caps. No need to tell them what that signal means. ‘Action stations’ will be sounded in a few minutes.
A few whose duties are not so urgent remain behind, making hasty efforts at finishing their tea. They guess it will be a long time before they get the chance of another meal.
‘I’m a conscientious objector,’ says an engineer officer. ‘I want to go home to mummy!’
‘And I’m a pacifist,’ remarks a lieutenant, ‘but that’s no reason why I should drink filth as well as think it. Waiter! bring me a cup of freshly-made tea, and don’t let the dog get this or you’ll poison him.’
‘One little cruiser from the Spiritual Home
Met the British battle boats—