The most important aspect of a submariner’s stint at sea is the standard and quality of the food he eats, and the chefs have it in their power to influence morale like no other department in the boat. I found it was always prudent to keep on the right side of the chefs; for any hungry sailor, they were as important as the captain. Meals were the one break in the chain that stopped us feeling permanently at sea. A nuclear submarine then – as now – is essentially a living being. It maintains its own life-support systems for oxygen, clean air, getting rid of CO2 and making its own water, and generates power through the use of a reactor that could run almost for ever, give or take. The only thing preventing it from being at sea indefinitely is the crew’s need for food, or ‘scran’, as it was known
The taste and smell of good food meant everything to us, each meal being one of the high points of the day, and when you found yourselves as cut off from the rest of the world as we were, the importance of food was magnified many times over. Three times a day the junior and senior rates’ mess and the wardroom came alive, abuzz with the joy of this great ritual of communal living. And while the wardroom enjoyed the luxury of silver service, served to them by the stewards, we all ate the same food and drank the same alcohol. Mealtimes were crucial in bonding all those who worked on the boat, instilling a sense of morale, purpose and togetherness that was essential in creating an atmosphere where the submarine could operate to its full potential.
The supply officer and the PO chef chose all the food from a core list of produce that was almost identical each patrol: meat, fish, vegetables, fresh fruit and salad for the first fortnight of patrol before the food went off, then various dried foodstuffs, tinned or frozen food and fruit, flour, UHT milk cartons, confectionary, eggs, flour and so on for the much longer period thereafter. Plus, not least, the booze; tens of thousands of cans of beer and lager, together with bottles of wine and beer kegs all had to be loaded on board. Then there would be a luxury list – including fillet steak or racks of lamb, with some mighty fine French or Italian red wines – for the three formal mess dinners and the special slap-up meal that took place once on every patrol.
What was absolutely essential was that the food numbers were correct. Woe betide any cock-ups with the numbers. Running out of food once led to the crew spending the last couple of weeks of patrol moaning every mealtime, and on one patrol we had to stay out an extra three weeks because HMS Revenge had some mechanical problem, again. By the last week we were down to a single meal per day, and there were a lot of thin, pasty-faced and pissed-off-looking submariners on the casing as we headed back up the gangplank.
The scran and booze all had to be loaded up on board the boat over a period of usually two to three days when we were alongside. Lorries would turn up in the order that the supplies needed to be loaded onto the boat. Before my days as quartermaster I was involved in storing the ship for sea, like most people who lived and worked forward of the missile compartment. It was a major challenge, for while submarines are among the most technically advanced bits of machinery in the world, not a single one of them has any major access points into which big cranes can swing a load containing the stores that the boat relies on. As a result there was nothing mechanical about the process – it was just good old hard manual labour and sheer brute force that got everything on board, and it all had to pass through the main access hatch, whose diameter was around 30 inches.
When the storing was complete, the submarine would be holding food in the dry-storage room, fridge space, the freezers and indeed any other spare nook and cranny that could be found – there was enough food to feed a family of four for up to five years. By the time of morning departure for a patrol, supplies might include 1,600 kilos of beef, 2,300 kilos of potatoes, 10,000 eggs, 1,000 chickens, 2 miles of sausages, 4,900 pints of milk, 1 tonne of beans, 60,000 tea bags and around 5,000 toilet rolls – possibly the most essential bit of kit and really not something to even consider getting your calculations wrong about.
Before my first patrol I was in the unenviable position of being first on the ladder through the main access hatch, so I enjoyed the full force and weight of all the heavy boxes being passed down to me. I would then have to somehow twist and counterbalance my weight under the load and pass the boxes down, while also trying not to fall on the next guy in line in the hatch. It was extremely awkward space-wise, so much so that my forearms and biceps would be black and blue by the end of the day, and copping any number of big clunks to the head would be commonplace.
Occasionally, things would get out of hand, with the ship’s company falling out because somebody hadn’t passed a box down properly. It sounds childish, but it was just the tension gathering with an impending long spell at sea looming heavily over us. Once sorted out, it was everyone back to it, with great kegs of beer being stuffed into spare space in the walls of the senior rates’ mess or used as stools, toilet rolls wedged in at the end of bunks, food fitted within little compartments under the seats in the senior rates’ mess and the wardroom, while the provisions store was full to the gills with food that didn’t need to be frozen or chilled. False decks were installed by the chefs in the store room, where non-perishable tins would be stacked on top of each other to eke out every little bit of valuable extra space.
The physical impact that loading had on the crew was massive. After three days solid, perched on a ladder humping stores from dusk till dawn, I was always completely wasted. The same was going on back aft, with the engineers stocking up on screws, valve replacements and spare parts, because if any major works were needed when something went wrong on the submarine, things could get out of hand and become fatal pretty quickly without adequate tools or spare equipment to fix the problem. To keep the naval class structure well and truly in place, storing ship was the job of the junior rates. I do remember some of the warfare branch NCOs helping, and the PO chef himself would occasionally muck in, but mainly it was the junior rates doing all the heavy lifting.
The chefs and the supply officer would be down below, heading up the packing in the various areas, notably the dry store room, fridge and refrigerator space. It was essential these were packed by them, because they had to access the food in the correct order it would be used on patrol.
Food was paramount in helping establish the routine of the submarine, in particular the weekly calendar when certain days became synonymous with various meals – I could invariably tell which day of the week it was just by the smells wafting from the galley. Wednesday was curry night, for example, Friday fish night, Saturday steak night and Sunday roast dinner followed by pizza. Tuesday evenings we might have a theme, say Italian night, so it would be spaghetti bolognese, or chilli con carne on Mexican night (minus the sombreros).
The role of chef could be a lonely one; whereas most other departments go on and off watch en masse, as well as eating and sharing entertainment time together, the chefs – especially at night – tended to keep solo shifts. I always used to make a point of going down for a chat and a cuppa in the early hours as the chef was prepping breakfast or making fresh bread. Time could drag for him otherwise. I know we all like a bit of solitary time, but not having anyone around for hours at a time can quite quickly lead to depression.
The galley itself was on 2 Deck, at the bottom of the ladder from 1 Deck, and was around the size of a kitchen you’d find in a studio flat. Every day, 429 separate meals were cooked here, and on a 70-day patrol around 30,030 individual meals would be prepared, plus the three mess dinners, which took place towards the end of the trip. Incredible. The conditions in the galley were some of the worst on the boat in terms of pure heat; it could get seriously oppressive in there, up to 40°C. Snacks were also served most days, in the morning around ten, and then at four in the afternoon, when biscuits, cakes or caramel slices were made available.
I was at a chef’s-table dinner at Claridge’s in my present job, and found myself in the bowels of the hotel outside their kitchen, and it reminded me of the basics of a submarine galley in terms of its look and feel – stainless steel all the way, ovens and ranges, hot plates, potato peeler, meat slicers and, of course, a deep-fat fryer for fish and chips. Preparation areas were few and far between on board, so the chefs made do with what space they could, everything compacted to the inch.
Microwaves were not allowed as they were high-powered electrical items and could cause an emergency somewhere else if fuses were tripped. If the boat had to rapidly change depth, or went to and from periscope depth, then what were known as ‘lock-in bars’ in the galley could be attached to the stoves to stop pots of food flying around. These also worked well if we were caught on the surface in foul weather with the boat rolling around. And although many of the crew wouldn’t have eaten anything in such circumstances, you can bet your life a chef would be in situ in the galley, cooking up a storm regardless of the weather up top.
It was just as important in the galley, as anywhere else in the boat, to be aware of making too much noise to avoid detection. In many ways the galley was just another bit of kit that had to be well looked after and treated delicately; food preparation needed to be chilled and cool, with no wild swings of the steak tenderiser or the meat slicers – any loud noise could have had an effect on the acoustic footprint given off by the submarine.
I was once lucky enough to meet the late, great American chef Anthony Bourdain, who likened his kitchens to a submarine galley: lifeless air, cramped and hot, with the staff holding outsiders in contempt. He told me he employed a couple of ex-submariner chefs as they could put up with any conditions and still deliver service on time and with a smile. Fair dos.
Unlike conventional kitchens, the galley had to be aware of the ship’s atmospheric composition before preparing and cooking certain foods. If, for example, the CO2 levels on board were too high, the full English breakfast that everyone was waiting for, or fish night on a Friday, would have to be put on hold as CO2 levels rise rapidly when frying – limiting CO2 production always trumped bacon and sausage or fish and chips. The other main difference to a professional kitchen was the use of water. Water was not in such abundant supply in a submarine and was used principally for maintaining life-support and engineering services back aft – what little was left was used for cooking, showers, shaving and teeth-brushing. The galley therefore had a limited amount of water to prepare and wash food, as well as to clean all the pots, pans and plates. Washing up crockery and cutlery after mealtimes was done in something that quickly resembled soup; this was tolerable if you were first to finish and you could use water that looked vaguely fresh, but if you were a late finisher, your plate usually came out dirtier than when you’d finished eating.
Submariners are a pretty lazy bunch in terms of food experimentation; we like things traditional and simple, so chefs would follow their military instruction manuals to the letter. That said, Elizabeth David and Larousse Gastronomique usually made it onto patrol, just in case any culinary extravagances were to be attempted (usually on mess dinner nights).
Breakfast consisted of an artery-hardening fry-up, with all the trimmings: fried bread, tins of beans, tins of tomatoes, black pudding and eggs made to order, as well as fresh bread baked overnight. Kidneys on fried bread (‘shit on a raft’, as it was known) was another option, but not for the faint-hearted; having the constitution of an ox was a prerequisite, otherwise an uncomfortable morning lay ahead playing tag-team with Trap 2 in the toilet. The meal was accompanied by fresh fruit and orange juice for the first couple of weeks; it was essential to build up vitamin C levels before the fresh fruit ran out, after which we resorted to tins of grapefruit, fruit cocktail or mandarin segments.
Lunch would be a choice from two of the following options: filled baked potatoes; corned beef hash; Welsh rarebit with a slice of ham, topped off with a fried egg, known as ‘cheesy hammy eggy’ – a naval staple (I always had mine with Worcester sauce); pasta provençal; ‘Nellie’s wellies’ – spam fritters that looked like an elephant’s footprint; ‘snorker pie’ – sausage mince with beans in a pie, ‘snorker’ being a naval term for sausage; casserole – usually sausages; toad-in-the-hole; spaghetti in tomato sauce; chicken satay; pies – mince beef or chicken; sweet chilli chicken with rice; filled baguettes; pasta bake of the day; macaroni pudding; and salad – just the basics: lettuce, peppers, cucumbers and tomatoes, no danger of an avocado – for the first two weeks of patrol until it all went off.
The high point of every day was dinner, a veritable feast of gout-inducing pleasure to be savoured and enjoyed, especially if I was coming off watch with a 12-hour break before my next one. A few jokes with the boys and some back and forth with the chefs, it would be the equivalent of going out for dinner at a restaurant, followed by a few beers; the only thing missing being the company of women, though the leading weapons engineer could suffice after a few drinks. The meal was a varied and brilliant selection under the circumstances, and like lunch it would be a mixture of fresh and frozen food, until all the fresh ran out – then it would be just tinned and frozen mixed together.
Dinner was where the day’s most satisfying conversations took place, as it brought the crew together in a shared bonding experience during which the latest developments on patrol could be discussed: last night’s film, the latest round of football results we’d picked up off the World Service or ‘Isn’t that newbie officer a bell-end?’ It was communal living like no other in the British military. Even though the conditions were challenging, being together as one under the world’s oceans felt special, and I really didn’t care if we were down to powdered egg or UHT milk. They were the best of times.
Apart from our extended and much-regretted excursion on one patrol, I never said or heard a bad word about the food. Everybody knew the chefs did their best under very difficult working conditions, and to make any kind of snide comment was just fucking rude, a major no-no. I heard tales from other submariners, moaning about the food that they got on their boats. That was sacrilege. I always loved the food, although I had to work out a lot, otherwise I could easily finish patrol having put on 20 pounds. You’ll see why in a moment.
Dinner would take the form of the following, each and every week, in no particular order: minted lamb, chicken pie or lamb stew, with roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, roast carrots and broccoli; battered cod with chips, mushy pea and curry sauce; chicken curry, beef Madras or chicken korma with naan bread, poppadoms and saffron rice; chilli con carne with sour cream and grated cheese; sirloin steak; chicken Kiev. Sunday was roast, with either gammon, beef or lamb, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots and gravy, and the choice on pizza night was ham and mushroom or pineapple and pepperoni.
If all of that hasn’t got you racing out in search of the nearest defibrillator, the following list of desserts just might: jam roly poly; lemon meringue pie; fresh fruit salad (or tinned with evaporated milk, depending on how far into patrol we were); rice pudding with sultanas and jam sauce; apple or mixed fruit crumble and custard; key lime pie; jam and coconut sponge and custard; blancmange; Angel Delight (‘ballerina shit’, as it was known); and various cakes and gateaux.
It was a constant battle to resist gorging myself over the duration of the entire trip, although a few did succumb and ended up looking like heart attacks waiting to happen. Indeed, there are a number of people I’ve known, from captain down to able seaman, who’ve worked on nuclear submarines and have experienced cardiac problems at a fairly young age. It might have been the extreme working conditions – or maybe just one too many jam roly polys.
I’m sure much has changed in the modern era, but a submarine used to be no place for vegetarians. I decided to go veggie on one patrol, mainly down to my love of The Smiths, and Morrissey in particular. My parents had also recently become vegetarians, more for health reasons than any fondness for Manchester’s favourite sons, although my mum has always loved ‘Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now’.
It wasn’t a particularly well-planned move, as I’d informed neither the supply officer nor the PO chef of my newfound vegetarianism before they’d stored for sea. So I spent most days having fruit seggies for breakfast and spaghetti in tomato sauce for lunch. The killer came at dinner, where meat dominated, and I had to make do with a desultory plate of cauliflower cheese. I lasted about two weeks and, having soon shed half a stone from my already slim frame, I resembled a golf club. I was also particularly irritable and generally annoying, digging at crewmates at every opportunity, effing and blinding – I’d turned into the boat’s grouch. Luckily for me, a mate shoved a steak and kidney pie in front of me and basically stood there until I ate it. I felt it oozing through my body, and slowly I regained my strength. Doubtless it’s different now, but going veggie on deterrent patrol in the Cold War was probably not the wisest of choices.
I loved the smell of food on board, as it brought back memories of being back on land. Food was one of two things – along with the weekly familygrams – that kept the crew from going batshit. As most of the time I was breathing in stale, recycled air mixed with body odour, cigarette smoke, farts and various electrical and engineering smells, my sense of smell had become desensitised. What kicked it back into shape were those heavenly aromas emanating from the galley, a premonition of what was to follow …
The chefs would also help out on ship control, assisting with steering the boat either at dived depth or when returning to periscope depth for a BRN pass to establish our position. They were hard-working but played equally hard, much to the rest of the crew’s enjoyment – boy, did they like a drink, smoke and a good laugh.
Towards the latter stages of patrol, the submarine held mess dinners for the wardroom, senior and junior rates’ messes, to break up the monotony and return the crew to a civilised way of life, if only for a few hours. The senior and junior rates in particular bonded and showed a sense of togetherness, with the junior rates serving the senior rates their food, then vice versa. It was the nearest the sub ever got to equality and a night off from the strict hierarchy that otherwise prevailed. Two or three of the crew had fathers and families who’d suffered in the recent miners’ strike and, dessert over, they used to sing old pit songs that they’d grown up with as children. Poignantly, even though their families and way of life had been ravaged by the strike, they were the first in line when it came to serving their country, as was ever the case with British working-class communities.
The chefs excelled themselves for the mess dinner, pulling out all the stops and dishing up nothing less than the best: prawn cocktail to start, followed by fillet steak or beef Wellington, topped off with a baked Alaska or Black Forest gateau, all washed down with some of the finest Beaujolais, sherry and then port. The final chapter usually involved being carried to your bunk on a stretcher to sleep it off. Having been used to beer at sea for three months, the dinner could mean some seriously sore heads the following day, leaving many sailors a jibbering wreck. Thank Christ a lot of senior rates would volunteer to cover watches so we’d have recovery time in our racks before breakfast.