Here is the complete description and full text transcription of the short story published in The Sphere magazine on November 9, 1962.
🎨 Visual Description of the Article Illustrations
The story is spread across three pages, featuring multiple black-and-white ink drawings by illustrator Geoffrey Whittam:
- First Page Illustration: Depicts a dramatic scene on the deck of a naval vessel during a dark night or stormy evening. A man in uniform looks through a telescope or spyglass, while another sailor stands by nearby. In the background, industrial crane structures and dockyards line the coast.
- Second Page Illustration: A view looking down into the tightly packed, circular hatchway or companionway of a ship. Two sailors stand below deck, talking near machinery and structural frames.
- Third Page (Top Illustration): A lively scene inside a cramped submarine crew mess deck. Several sailors are gathered around a central table, celebrating, laughing, and gesturing widely. One man points excitedly at a table strewn with currency and small tokens.
- Third Page (Bottom Strip): A horizontal, cinematic panel showing a man in civilian clothes peering out through a doorway or dynamic opening, looking toward a domestic dining area.
đź“ť Full Text Transcription
(Note: The text spans across several columns across pages 35, 36, 37, and 38. The second and third images are oriented upside down in the source photos; they have been fully transcribed in reading order below.)
[Page 35]
THE SPHERE — NOVEMBER 9, 1962
SOMETHING ALWAYS HAPPENS ON CHRISTMAS DAY
by Gilbert Hackforth-Jones
Illustrations by Geoffrey Whittam
On the depot-ship: “Joe ran up on to Santiago’s bridge from which Sheldrake’s upper works were just visible. Borrowing the duty signalman’s telescope…”
On the depot-ship “Joe” ran up on to Santiago’s bridge from which Sheldrake’s upper works were just visible. Borrowing the duty signalman’s telescope... It was as if the ancient gods and spirits, whose festival it had been for millenniums before the birth of Christ, resented the wholesale adoption of their feastday and had put mischievous spokes in the wheels of Christian behaviour whenever it was possible.
The Christmas of 1941 was a typical example. Joe had recently been appointed first-lieutenant of Sheldrake, a modern or modernish submarine which was completing a refit in the small dockyard at Eastport. Three-quarters of the crew were on extended leave. Joe and a handful of old hands, including the holocaust of 1940, beating about during a new bow, the old one having been blown off by a mine. Her return to harbour, escorted by half the fleet, had been something of an epic. Her captain, Joe, and three or four other decoration medals were flung by the hand-ful among the crew and the then first-lieutenant was raised to the Periscope School in recognition of his cool courage. In a few weeks he expected to command a boat of his own.
To step into such a man's shoes was difficult anyhow, and was not made easier by the fact that Joe was wearing the wavy stripes of the Royal Naval Reserve. He could see that when the time came to go Sheldrake going again there would be a struggle to get level with the past; these boys, seasoned veterans, proud of their captain, and not a little cocky about it all. Joe Garton they regarded as something that came after the Lord Mayor’s Show—a high-flying civilian who knew a good deal but half the submarines were naturally on patrol. The utmost possible leave had been given to the crews of the vessels in harbour, a mere handful of caretakers remaining in the flotilla to carry out look-out duties.
Sheldrake, lying some half a mile away from the submarine jetty, was manned by a party of six. When Joe had seen their names on the list, he had deferred just what sort of a time would be. He was a dvel-in-the-wool "stripey," whose conduct-sheet made excellent light reading. Long past his time for pension, a veteran of almost uncountable submarines against every regulation in the subject, Leading Flannagan was the hard kernel of the ship’s morale; in harbour he not only went astray himself, but took many with him. As long as no one was seriously hurt he was generally handled by his captain, who took caution the fact that he had volunteered to take Christmas Day on was in itself ominous. And so it was to turn out.
At half-past nine a uniformed sergeant of the dockyard police arrived on board the depot ship and asked to speak to the commanding officer of H.M.S. Sheldrake.
Joe stubbed out his cigarette and went out on to the quarter-deck where his caller waited, a high-coloured man with a flat chest, a wispy mustache and a resentful expression. He was wearing the medals of the 1914 war, and clearly meant business. With note-book in hand he launched into his story.
"Sometime last night, sir," he said, the NAAFI wine-store had been broken into and a case of Johnnie Walker had been abstracted. There was reason to believe that this act of larceny was committed by a member (or members) of H.M.S. Sheldrake.
"Why?" asked Joe.
(Continued on following pages)
[Page 36]
"Leading Seaman Flannagan was on dock to meet them. He was a large man..."
"We will, sir."
"Aren't you rather jumping to conclusions?"
"Not when Leading Seaman Flannagan's aboard your boat. Him and me have known each other a long time—" He coughed significantly and changed the subject. "Something always happens on Christmas Day."
Leading Seaman Flannagan was on deck to greet them. He was a large man; he had been with most Irishmen in their cups he relapsed into musical-comedy accent. He wished them the top of the morning, and a very happy Christmas and hoped that on this beautiful morning, when all men were bound together in the mystic union of the birth of the Son of God with all most most Irishmen in their cups he relapsed into musical-comedy accent. He wished them the top of the morning, and a very happy Christmas and hoped that on this beautiful morning, when all men were bound together in the mystic union of the birth of the Son of God with a variety of strong tobacco, peppermint and stale alcohol. As with most Irishmen from the direction of his mouth flowed a various mixed effluvia of strong tobacco, peppermint and stale alcohol.
Flannagan held up his hands. "Ah, the poor fellows," he cried, "to think that they should be doing that on this Day of Days! 'Tis a hard life a policeman, but if I see that sergeant's face a-gleaming when the sun over the fore-ends. See that the tin-magazine and the line-coils are opened up..."
The trio clattered down the fore-hatch ladder into the torpedo compartment, gaunt and empty and littered with dockyard workmen's tool-boxes which the sergeant eyed with suspicion before lifting each one and shaking it for the sound of clinking glass. Then he strode into the torpedo tube space and stood frowning at the six great watertight rear doors of the tubes. Joe noticed Flannagan's fingers twitching as he prepared himself to resist the better the fluid nonsense of a charge which had not been made, Joe hastily intervened.
"The police," he said, "have reason to believe that a case of whisky which was stolen from the NAAFI store last night was brought aboard Sheldrake."
"Glory be to the blessed Saints—" said Flannagan piously, "and why should they be after thinking that?"
"Why indeed," said Joe dryly. "This officer," he went on, "has asked permission to search the ship from stem to stern, and since I am convinced of your innocence, Flannagan, I have given him permission to do so. Furthermore, he'd suspected you of being more obvious. From the direction of his look, Joe had been kept on these hatches in order that the police may satisfy themselves that nothing has come aboard, or leaves this vessel without being seen."
"That's the best you could do." The figure on the apparatus on the distant island asked him to flash a greeting signal, followed by "do not leave out print ration until further notice."
With the utmost speed, Joe worked the heavy machinery. He wished the duty signalman to the d-l-o, searchlight which was used for long-distance signalling. From the direction of the island he had noticed a light. By now his telescope, as he surveyed over the top of the bridge from which Sheldrake's upper works were just visible. Borrowing the duty signalman's telescope...
"Half-past, Joe," said his mind working out a calculation, "by now the sergeant must have got to the end of his tether down there, and then..." This should be reported to the flotilla captain—but would he look down at a wait in the wardroom? The sergeant gave the sub a final search. "I'll go below," said Joe, "and see what is outside because section commander isn't on board." He walked back to the jetty and boarded the submarine.
"Half-past, Joe," said his mind working out a calculation, "by now the sergeant must have got to the end of his tether down there, and then..." This should be reported to the flotilla captain—but would he look down at a wait in the wardroom? The sergeant gave the sub a final search. "I'll go below," said Joe, "and see what is outside because section commander isn't on board." He walked back to the jetty and boarded the submarine.
They went down the gangway and walked along the timbered jetty.
"Merry Christmas, Sergeant, no sign of the Aborigines this morning?" went on the sergeant.
"Probably," said the duty signalman.
"We're to carry on," said Joe.
"I spoke to the duty commanding officer—"
Sergeant Mathers was definitely impatient by the time they reached the gangway of the boat.
"Where's the control room?" he asked. "And what did your commanding officer say?"
"He said that you could look where you liked, but that he expected a case of trousers from you if you didn't find anything," said Joe, inventively. "And what do you propose to do?" he asked, trying to introduce a more pleasant atmosphere.
"Search the boat," said the sergeant, abstracting the commanding officer.
"Very good, then. Let's go below."
[Page 37]
"Flannagan turned to him. 'You'll be after forgetting something, sir. There's no bow-cap wrappers been fitted as yet—the tubes are open to the sea.' As he spoke he leaned forward and pushed the small pet-cock on the tube door immediately facing the sergeant. A thin pencil of water, under considerable pressure, shot out to catch the policeman between the eyes. 'You see!' explained Flannagan as he shut the cock and wiped the sergeant down with a bit of cotton-waste. Mathers took the treatment with that same stoicism with which policemen show when dealing with civil-disobedience. He addressed himself to Joe.
'Did you know those tubes were flooded, sir?'
'You can't expect a new officer to know everything,' interposed Flannagan. 'It was the air pad two weeks back. The rubber floor was bitzed and the bow-cap rubbers were all destroyed.'
The sergeant made a note in his book and turned away. He was very thorough and while on deck his two myrmidons were rummaging the submarine's casing.
Steadily the search went on—the other members of the Duty Watch supported themselves at various intervals throughout the boat, breathing out fumes of liquor and peppermint drops. It was obvious that they all had concealed hangovers, but where was the proof that they were caused by Johnnie Walker.
When every locker had been searched and every possible cache examined, the morning was well advanced."
"A thin pencil of water, under considerable pressure, shot out..."
[Page 38]
THE SPHERE — NOVEMBER 9, 1962
SOMETHING ALWAYS HAPPENS ON CHRISTMAS DAY
(Continued from previous page)
was well advanced. Joe took the sergeant into the little wardroom and offered him a drink which was refused. "Christmas or no Christmas," said Mathers, "it's my duty to report that I found the crew of this vessel, with the exception of the commanding officer, to be under the influence of drink. Furthermore, from the compounding of their breath, I imagine they're happy to enjoy, if need be, those torpedo tubes—and just in case they're or ever if I'll have divers down to see what's in the bottom—just in case they were able to ditch them before we boarded. I require you, sir, to keep the forward and aft hatches shut, and allow me to place a man aboard on the bridge until the search party leaves the vessel."
Flannagan and Joe followed the policeman's departure in silence. When he was gone, Joe said, "You'd better come clean, Flannagan, only for your sake, where are they?"
"You've nothing to worry about, sir. They'll never find a trace. It'll be Himself as will be coming along cap-in-hand thus own cap at that, not something he picked up off the head of a manager, but as long as I had a drop too much, it'd be for the first-lieutenant to look out for foul suspicions. And now, sir, you'll do well to be seen going ashore at once, otherwise for all the world like a criminal, your order (if they come) will be keepers the outmost of a something. The top of the morning, sir, and request permission to serve out spirits?"
And that was that. It wasn't until the following Christmas when Joe had established himself in the hearts of his crew and was commanding his own boat, that he received a command that he was to take his own boat into refit. "Strategy," said Flannagan. "Since discovery of the sergeant, you see, was convinced that the case of whisky was hidden down in the depth of the torpedo tubes and that there were no rubbers on the doors. But I find out that that was true, but he couldn't have time to dispose of it in the past. That gave us time to dispose of it while the search was on."
"Where were they while the search was on?" asked Joe.
"Each man had a bottle lashed to the calf of his leg," said Flannagan without blinking. "Then, as soon as you and Sergeant Nosey were gone we broke the bottles up after emptying them into convenient receptacles, of course, and by morning there wasn't a clue that there was at all night. Then we put it down the lavatory pans and blew it over the side."
Joe guessed as much," said Joe. "I noticed that you were particularly long-working on 'Boxing Day morning'. He looked at his watch. "Three hundred and sixty shillings divided by the six men went to"—"you each owe me three pounds."
"You mean to say you gave the NAAFI the money for the drink?" asked Flannagan in astonished disgust.
"Not exactly," said Joe. "I squared my conscience by sending it anonymously to the NAAFI wine-store. But here in the Gordians, and now, my friends, you can square yours."
He reached into the table that was littered with pound notes, pocketed his own share, finished his drink and went on deck.
© Gilbert Hackforth-Jones 1962. The story is an excerpt from the author's novel "I am the Captain" to be published by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.
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