Richard Humphreys - Under Pressure

This seemed a long way away from cleaning toilet bowls with a toothbrush, ironing shirts and buffing shoes. Fortunately, the days of kit musters, long runs and drill were long gone. It was classroom-based, head down in books-type learning, absorbing the basic principles of nuclear and diesel propulsion. There were various exams after each stage: hydraulic systems, auxiliary vent and blow, electrical systems, the workings of a nuclear reactor, torpedoes and ballistic missiles, CO2 absorption units, the different ventilation states on board, the workings of the periscopes, navigational systems, electronic warfare, and radio and sonar systems – quite enough to fry your brain. This was followed by radar training, which I struggled with; it was all blips and blobs to me, a predetermined mess on a screen. I’m still very much in awe of air-traffic controllers and how they manage flights in and out of the major airports and monitor the sky.

HMS Dolphin was the very first time I saw serving submariners. The base was home to the 1st Submarine Squadron and the ‘Oberon’ class submarines, or O-boats, as they were called; these were diesel-electric submarines, Cold War intelligence gatherers also used for Special Ops drops and pick-ups (usually members of the SBS – the Special Boat Service – doing reconnaissance or covert landings). I’d mosey on down to the jetty and gaze at these sleek, stylish boats with their bulbous front ends where the sonar was mounted, wondering: How do people live on something so small for weeks on end? Sometimes I’d wait until the crew appeared, to get a glimpse at what this way of life might do to me. They always looked rough and greasy, with a deathly pallor about them. Doubtless they stank as well, although I never got close enough to tell.

These men were a throwback to the submariner heroes of the past, a tightly knit crew in their own secret world, all members of the exclusive underwater club, with the golden dolphins badge† to prove it. They may have looked gaunt and unkempt, but it was the swagger of their gait that gave the game way, confident but not cocky, men completely at one with themselves and their crewmates. It seemed like a lot to live up to.

HMS Dolphin was very much like going back to school, punctuated by the odd pint or six in Gosport, or over the water in Pompey town centre, in the footsteps of Admiral Nelson himself. One of the nightclubs, I think it was Joanna’s, was a favourite haunt, treading through sticky, beer-slicked carpets onto the dancefloor, dancing to Barry White, Marvin Gaye, Paul Hardcastle and Madonna, with one-night stands a-plenty – the dirtier the better.

The accommodation at the base was four to a largish room. There were no kit inspections, no hassle from the staff, a complete change from the horrors of Part 1 basic training. It wasn’t without its moments, though. In the room next door a trainee submariner from Aberdeen scared us to death one night, returning back to base well and truly hammered, waving a gun around and threatening to shoot someone. We became scared very quickly, and amid all the screaming and panic I found him with his back to me. I gave him a hefty kick behind his right kneecap and he collapsed like an old block of flats being demolished, straight down in a big heap. As he hit the floor the gun flew out of his hand, and we pinned him down until security arrived and took him off to the detention quarters. Just like CPO Jenkins, he was never seen again.

The final stage of submarine training ended with four pressurised ascents of the 100-foot submarine escape water training tank (SETT), the enormous concrete tower that dominates the skyline on the Gosport side of the Solent as you leave Portsmouth Harbour. All the training had been leading to this point, for this was the test, the ultimate trial of nerve. This section of submarine training in the tank had seen a few deaths over the years, and put the fear of God into every young submariner courageous or stupid enough to attempt it.

Before I started, I had to sit in a decompression chamber that sits near to the tank itself to make sure my ears could endure the pressure I’d shortly experience in 100 feet of water. Then I was bundled into the chamber with around half a dozen other terrified souls and we waited for pressurisation to commence.

No one had told me about the hissing sounds as the air rushed in. I sat there holding my nose, clearing my ears and looking like a startled child, praying that we’d get to the prescribed depth pronto. The air temperature increased and I started feeling exceedingly wary of where this was going. Soon enough we reached the required depth of 100 feet and the air temperature equalised. The instructor announced, after what seemed an eternity of five minutes, that he would slowly release the pressure and that the temperature might drop. We finally returned to normal pressure at sea level and I clambered out disorientated, nauseous and nervous; ‘shitting conkers’ is the expression that comes to mind. Next stop, the tank.

I had to make two free ascents from 30 feet below, one from 60 feet and then, to my horror, an ascent from 100 feet, in a fully pressurised suit out of a cramped, claustrophobic escape-hatch based on the type you’d find aboard a real submarine. My nerves were shot to pieces as I clambered into the first side chamber, contemplating my first free ascent from 30 feet. There were around 20 of us sitting in the chamber, which was about to simulate a rushed escape from a stricken submarine. Trying to listen to the final instructions from members of the teaching staff, my mind wandered back to my childhood in the old Victorian central swimming baths in Wolverhampton; I’d be wearing arm-bands and a rubber ring, being pulled along on a rope by an unimpressed swimming teacher with my father looking on in hideous embarrassment, until he’d up and leave to wait in the car, unable to stand the sight of his limp-bodied son. I can’t say I blamed him. Back then I was scared to death of the water, and if someone had told me I would be free-ascending from the murky depths a decade later, my seven-year-old self would have cried uncontrollably and probably pissed himself.

First off, the 30-foot ascent. The water started to rush into the chamber and I tried to clear my ears as the internal pressure equalised with the external water pressure in the tank (around 15 pounds per square inch) at 30 feet. Dressed in swimming briefs, lifejacket, goggles and nose plug, I was in the middle of the queue to get out. Very soon it would be my turn, and my heart was racing. I couldn’t hear anything with all the noise of the water pouring into the chamber. Quickly, in what felt like seconds, the chamber was flooded, with just a small gap at the top left in which to breathe. Once the pressure equalised, the main hatch to the escape tank would open and it would be time to get it done. I was next in line at the entrance, taking a big, deep breath as one of the instructors pushed me under and out into the vast expanse of the tank. I barely had time to take in the surroundings as I was met by two instructors who seemed to take an eternity to let go of me. I glanced around, they released me and I started the ascent. I knew I had to breathe out all the way up, because the volume of air in your lungs increases as the pressure decreases, and if you held your breath, your lungs would simply burst. I pushed the air out and looked straight ahead as I glided upwards for what seemed like a lifetime before I hit the surface.

Next up came another big test – the free ascent from 60 feet, something that filled me with abject terror. Maintaining exhalation from that depth seemed to me a close call, but the instructor informed me that if I ran out of puff, and if I felt like I couldn’t breathe out anymore, then I needn’t worry – I should just keep blowing, as I’d still have 25 per cent of my lung capacity left. Of course, I didn’t believe him. Water pressure increases the lower you go; at a depth of 60 feet, I’d be experiencing 30 pounds per square inch of pressure on my body. In addition, the greater the pressure, the greater the chance of a burst eardrum while equalising to the pressure in the tank. All of this information turned me into a nervous wreck as the water began to enter the chamber in preparation for the mock escape. I cleared my ears, and then I was next. ‘Take a good, deep breath,’ someone bellowed at me as I ducked down and pushed out into the tank. Within seconds a barrel-chested, slightly pot-bellied instructor appeared from a diving bell in the tank to make sure I was breathing out correctly. Meanwhile, in my head I was screaming: Shit, let go of me before I run out of puff and my lungs give way!