While at sea there was no communication from us to the outside world for the duration of the patrol, unless there was a catastrophic failure that would leave the submarine in peril, or perhaps a serious illness or injury on board that required better surgical procedures than were available to us. I’m not sure the boat could have handled surgery of any but the most basic kind; it would have been akin to performing an operation in a dank, dark basement of a seedy Shoreditch pub.
Once a week I was able to receive a familygram from my nominated next of kin, my father, telling me what was going on in the outside world. Like all our other communications these family missives came via Submarine Command in Northwood, and they could be no longer than 40 words. Nor could they contain any bad news, as this would be weeded out before transmission when they were checked and probably read by the radio operators, and then by the captain, so I’d be reading them third-hand. Dad usually kept it pretty formal, as he was aware the familygrams were scrutinised before being sent and were read by others at the receiving end. His messages were all run-of-the-mill stuff about what he and the family had been up to, peppered with the latest world news and sports results. He was able to pack a surprising amount of information into 40 words. These missives were in many ways a lifesaver, for they gave me a sense that someone outside of the boat cared about my welfare. I suppose in many ways they stopped me from cracking up – receiving conversation, albeit one-way, from family who had put some thought into what they were writing. The arrival of the familygram was something to look forward to, and the day they arrived everybody would feel more upbeat knowing they were a week closer to being back alongside in Faslane.
Some people needed familygrams more than others; the married men on board, for instance, were on tenterhooks every week for the next message from the wife and kids. It was the big moment of the week for them, and many used to carry the message around for a couple of days, re-reading it at regular intervals. Even catastrophically bad news was kept from the crew member concerned, until the submarine was close to coming back to port. There were deaths in the family on some of my patrols, involving parents and close family members. The fact that such tragic news was withheld illustrated the seriousness of the times, for deterrent patrols stopped for no one – it wasn’t a game, and we were effectively in a state of war. So the captain had to deal with bad news as best as he saw fit, but it wasn’t in any way going to upset the patrol cycle. The crew member wouldn’t be airlifted off; he wouldn’t be told what had happened until he’d nearly made it home to what he thought was going to be a happy reunion.