Issue XIX
Contents
I
In Search of a Story
II
The Way Ahead by Kim Reeman
III Chain of
Command
IV Sword
of Honour
I
In Search of a Story
When my publishers told me that as part of the celebration of my forty
years as an author they were going to reprint my first ever book, A
Prayer for the Ship, I found it difficult to believe. To say
that the forty years have flashed past would be untrue. There have
been so many words, so many books; and most writers will tell you that
there is rarely a time when you can sit back and indulge in complacency.
I am often asked, especially by aspiring writers, “How can you begin?
Where should I start? ” On such occasions I realize just how uncertain
and chancy it can be. It certainly was for me.
I thought I had lived a fairly full life. I
had served in the Royal Navy in wartime, and later became a police officer
in London's East End, where I was with the C.I.D. Some old friends
from "the job" still maintain that it was the police training that really
taught me how to write. Day, date, time, place; what better way to
begin a book? So maybe they are right. Then, with the outbreak
of the Korean War, I was back in the navy again. The fact was, I
never wanted to leave it in the first place, although coming as I did from
a long line of soldiers, I suppose my affinity for the sea is sometimes
hard to understand. But when I hung up my naval uniform, there was
still no hint of a new course to authorship. I sold marine engines,
I worked with underprivileged children, I was even a yacht skipper, and
eventually I bought my own boat.
Rightly perhaps, it was aboard my own boat that I
first entertained the idea of writing. I was working hard -- I think
I was cutting out some rotten wood -- and listening to the radio at the
same time. It was someone reading a book. I only wish now that
I could remember its title.
Hacking away at the offending timber, I said, “I
could do better than that! ”
A friend asked, “Then why don't you? ”
The usual answer. “I don't own a typewriter.
And anyway….”
After that, things moved quickly. The friend
obtained a very old "sit-up-and-beg" machine so heavy that it practically
made the boat list, for the modest price of four pounds. I had no
more excuses.
I have gone through a lot of typewriters since then,
but that old faithful sits, sleeping now, in my loft. I shall never
get rid of it. I wrote a short story, a humorous one, and it was
accepted by a magazine: there were plenty of them in those days for would-be
writers to cut their teeth on. Then I wrote a second short story,
which was rejected by everybody until I offered it to a magazine that claimed
to print only fact. I lied a little bit, and it was published.
I didn't feel too badly about the deception when I discovered that most
of the other "true stories" were also imaginary!
With the money I earned, I bought a small portable
typewriter, and when I was taking a break from my job I would sit in the
back of a car and work on my first book. It was typed on the reverse
of London County Council nit notices; my boat left me a bit short of spare
cash for good quality paper.
For my subject, I chose something I knew: the war
at sea in small craft, the navy's Light Coastal Forces, motor torpedo boats,
and motor gunboats. Young men, most of us very young, and a fast-moving
war often fought at close range, in the Channel and the North Sea.
I told quite a number of people what I was doing.
In retrospect, I think that may have been a mistake. I got plenty
of advice, mostly from friends who knew even less about the writing business
than I did.
It was not a long book, and it was, I suppose, simply
told, but when I took out the final pieces of carbon paper (does anybody
remember them?). I was proud of it, nervous of what might happen,
and more than apprehensive about it being rejected.
On to choosing a publisher. I selected three,
something I was later to realize was not the right thing to do. I
sent a copy of the manuscript to each, and held my breath. The first
publisher I selected because they published the works of Nevil Shute.
I have met many writers, but he was the one I have always admired more
than any other. The second publisher I chose because he liked cats,
and had written a good deal about them. And the third publisher I
picked because they had published a novel about minesweeping, called Proud
Waters, by Ewart Brookes, the best description of that dangerous form
of warfare I have ever read. I thought that if they had published
his book, they might consider mine. It wasn't much of a yardstick,
but it was all I had.
Weeks became months, three months to be exact, and
I had heard nothing. What to do? Telephone, and risk angering
some overworked editor? Write, and ask if the manuscript had been
received? I did neither of those things. I sat tight, while
my "friends" either consoled or pitied me.
And then, when all seemed lost, the letter arrived.
The publisher who had produced Proud Waters was quite keen to see
me. To say that I was nervous on that day is an understatement.
Every one was friendly, and when I eventually met
the publisher we talked about almost everything but writing. When
he finally did come to "the work", as they call it, he told me that he
liked it. He did not say that it was the finest thing that he had
ever read, or that it might be another Cruel Sea. Instead,
he asked gently, “And what are you writing now?”
I felt crushed, and had to reply, “Nothing.
This is it! ”
He and his chief editor exchanged smiles. They
had seen and heard it all, I imagine.
The publisher then said, “I'll tell you what.
I'll give you a contract for this book, and the next two you write are
for us.”
So quietly said, in that rather untidy office in
Great Portland Street. I walked out of the building and said aloud,
“My God. I'm a writer!”
And the following year, 1958, A Prayer for the
Ship was published. It has been republished many times since
then, with different jackets, and in sixteen languages around the world.
But that was then, this is now. And it changed
everything.
I wrote to both of the other publishers and received
kind and encouraging letters in return. Publishing is a small world.
William Heinemann Limited was Nevil Shute's publisher, my first choice.
It is my publisher today.
Sometimes, when the going gets rough, I say to my
Canadian wife, Kim, who is also a writer, “There must be an easier way
of making a living!” The mood soon passes, because in fact there
isn't. In what other profession or job would you meet so many interesting
and helpful people? My first publisher once told me that the most
important attribute of a good writer was to be a good listener. I
did not really understand, but I do now.
Travel, research, meeting the characters who come
into your mind to speak the words and lead the way through each story,
this makes everything worthwhile.
Ten years after A Prayer for the Ship came
the first in a new series about Richard Bolitho, which was entitled To
Glory We Steer, and written under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.
And so for me this particular Newsletter means a
lot. A fortieth and thirtieth anniversary rolled into one, with so
many faces, letters, and special moments to mark every mile of the way.
I have sat in bookshops from Caracas to Singapore, from Hamburg to Tahiti,
and I am touched by such memories.
But for me, that day in Great Portland Street must
still take pride of place. Happy Anniversary!
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II
The Way Ahead
by Kim Reeman
Douglas, this is the book you said you would
never write. What happened to change your mind?
I just felt that I owed it to Richard, to show more of his family, how
his family -- what he has of it -- progresses, and his friends, and what
influence he might have had on the navy. And for a very personal
reason. I didn't want any one writing his interpretation of it at
a later date, something that I abhor.
Some people in the trade have already mentioned the
eventual death of Richard, which has been no secret since the beginning
of the series in 1968. But again, I disagree completely with this
business of, "he, the author, is killing him off." It doesn't happen
that way; it is what Bolitho has always called fate. In spite of
the tragedy, common enough in any sort of warfare, I found the story a
compelling one to write.
Did you plan the actual moment?
I don't know what I thought about the actual moment. I wasn't
really expecting it. I knew the inevitability of it. As often
happens, as I've seen for myself, these things tend to happen without any
dramatics, and with a very abrupt suddenness. The immediate reaction
of those around Bolitho, and those who are to hear of it, as fast as news
can travel on the prevailing wind, were much as I would have expected of
the individuals, and of the men.
Were you depressed?
I felt a great sense of loss, but not depression. It was like
being shown the way. As Bolitho has done for so many.
He knew didn't he?
He knew, yes. His last words to Allday show that.
He knew that this was to be his last action.
Yes.
Like Nelson.
Yes, like Nelson. Nelson definitely knew, which was very apparent
from his last letter to Emma Hamilton.
What happens next? Is this the end?
By no means is this the end. In fact, I'm looking forward to the
next part of this series very much. It is a challenge to me, and
to young Adam Bolitho, who must, inevitably, come out from Bolitho's shadow.
A new viewpoint, and a new navy.
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III
Chain of Command
As mentioned in the previous Newsletter, communications at sea were
difficult and often unreliable. Within the ordered and disciplined
world of a fleet or squadron, the importance of signals between ships,
especially in the prelude to battle, was paramount. The man whose
flag of command flew over any force relied absolutely on a rapid exchange
of signals, the briefer, the better. From the line of battle to the
smaller rated frigates, “the eyes of the fleet”, immediate understanding
and swift response could mean the difference between victory and bloody
failure.
Of necessity, admiral was a remote and often lonely
appointment, but one so important that any serious misunderstanding in
the heat of battle could not only wreck a campaign but bring ruin and disgrace
to that same man, although to his gun crews and hard-worked seamen he might
always appear invulnerable and beyond reach.
In every flagship there were two offices who could
provide the vital link between the admiral and his long chain of command.
The flag captain not only commanded the ship but was responsible for exercises
and manoeuvres of the squadron under sail, forging them into a single weapon
which he considered competent enough to follow the flag, if necessary to
the cannon's mouth. It was often said that to be appointed a flag
captain was the shortest route to promotion, or to a court-martial.
Hardy, who was one of his flag captains, was slow and careful, a necessary
anchor for his admiral's mercurial and unorthodox mind. On the other
hand, Edward Berry, Nelson's flag captain at the Nile, rarely saw eye to
eye with his admiral. I suspect they were very much alike in many ways,
and they were good friends, often a disadvantage in such circumstances.
Directly involved with his admiral and with the communications
between all captains under his command, the flag lieutenant was often closer
than any one to him.
Ships, particularly the larger men-of-war, depended
on clear and precise signals when manoeuvring in close company. Whether
these signals were acted upon instantly or obeyed in succession allowing
for the wind and the possible presence of an enemy, had to be kept uppermost
in any admiral's mind. His aide, no matter how junior, had to be
prepared to challenge any decision which he might consider a waste of valuable
time or difficult for the ships furthest away from the Flag to interpret.
Pasco, Victory's flag lieutenant at Trafalgar,
understood his admiral very well. With the Franco-Spanish fleet approaching
in all its terrible splendour, and the English sailors forced to contain
their nerves and endure casualties from the first, long-ranging shots,
Nelson was determined to make a signal which would inspire every man in
his fleet. That signal is so famous that most schoolchildren know
it by heart …. or did. Nelson wanted, “England confides that…”, but
Lieutenant Pasco, who was using the original Home Popham's Telegraph Code,
substituted expects, as he considered that the word confides would have
to be spelled out letter by letter, and would take too long. Luckily
for Mr. Pasco and for history, the little admiral agreed.
To order ships under his admiral's command to alter
course, to make more sail, or even to anchor, the flag lieutenant could
usually manage with single or paired flags. This was the fastest
way to signal instructions to the fleet even up until the Second World
War. I have seen destroyers turning as one in response to the dip
of a single flag, when semaphore or light would have taken far longer.
In fiction as in real life, and I find them difficult
to separate, those closest to Richard Bolitho have become well known, as
individual people rather than as parts of the chain of command.
His flag captains have been several and varied.
Who can forget Thomas Herrick's stubborn and sometimes maddening refusal
to bend the rules? Equally, we must not overlook his compassion when
he carried the news of Cheney's death to Bolitho. The loyal and eager
Inch, and Keen, who matures from midshipman to flag rank in Bolitho's shadow,
and with his example to follow. Captain James Tyacke, who finds the
strength to rise above a terrible disfigurement, because of Bolitho, and
for Bolitho. And his words after a bitter and hard-won victory, “And
for what? ” It rings so true with people like me, who still wonder
“why? ”
And finally Adam Bolitho, who has served as both
flag captain and flag lieutenant, and will perhaps carry the weight of
all that he has seen, and learned from his beloved uncle. A frigate
captain above all else, and one who has known the importance of communications
at sea, when even a slight delay or a misunderstanding can lead to a court-martial
or worse. Given time, he will learn, like Bolitho, that enemies can
be forged in envy as much as in war.
There is nothing in the Fleet Signal Book for that.
He will stand alone. He is quite alone.
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IV
Sword of Honour
 In
March of 1814, Sir Richard Bolitho returns to England from several months'
rigorous patrolling off the North American coast. The bitter and
inconclusive war with the United States has not yet ended, but the news
of Napoleon's defeat and abdication has stunned a navy and a nation bled
by years of European conflict. Victory has been the impossible
dream, and now, for Bolitho, a vision of the future and a more personal
peace seems attainable.
He remains, however, an admiral of England, and an
unsympathetic Admiralty dispatches him to Malta. Perhaps this appointment
is a compliment, perhaps a malicious ploy to keep him from the woman he
loves and the freedom for which he craves. He cannot know, but the
voice of duty speaks more insistently even than the voice of the heart,
and in this familiar sea where glory and tragedy have touched his life,
Bolitho must confront the future, the renaissance of a hated tyrant, and
the fulfillment of destiny.
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