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Sunday Morning

It was at a reunion being held for wartime submariners at the submarine base HMS Dolphin. A shore establishment near Portsmouth, England, home of the Royal Navy Submarine Service, the time shortly after the end of the World War II. The previous night had been a very successful evening and at dinner, officers and men swapped eventful war incidents, remember when was a most used phrase. One could detect a slurring of the voice as the beer and spirits flowed freely. Some even remembered that the next day, it being Sunday, we were to report for a group photo that had been arranged on the parade ground.

Sunday mid-morning, a warmish sunny day, about 180 men were being marshalled into position in readiness for the group photo. While this preparation was going on, I looked over to a small church close by. I noted the Padre standing outside, bible in hand, the surrounding buildings obviously very old, constructed of sturdy granite blocks, castle-like in appearance.

The group photo taken, the submariners dispersed into smallish groups, most intent to partake of a beer or two. The Petty Officers' bar was open to all a few hundred yards away. I also had similar thoughts as I turned to go. There in front of us stood the Padre outside his church. He never spoke, just gazed at a potential congregation, almost willing them to enter his church. At first, I had intended to sidle past him, but I had a compelling desire to accept his silent invitation.

I was possibly in the first dozen ex-submariners to enter the church. Making my way down the centre aisle towards the altar, I had a decision to make: so many empty pews confronted me. Shall I sit on the right side or the left? Down at the front or at the back? I chose the left and half-way down. Shall I sit at the aisle end, or make my way to the end seat against the left wall? I chose left wall. The small church filled quickly. I thought of how the congregation had been snared into entering the church by the silent Padre.

The service in the main was devoted to the submariners who had lost their lives during World War II. This particular church was dedicated to the Submarine Service. In fact, both side walls displayed plaques, names of each submarine lost during the War.

The Padre's voice droned on, as my eyes took in these plaques. It was natural my thoughts were tuned into the particular submarine I had served in, HMS Sickle, that was lost in the Mediterranean shortly after I had been drafted off at Gibraltar. The plaques mentioned were attached to the side walls of the church in an orderly display about shoulder height relative to the sitting position. My eyes searched for a plaque bearing the insignia of a Sickle or scythe (similar to the Russian motif). My eyes searched further around the church walls but I couldn't find the plaque bearing the name of submarine Sickle.

I looked over to the right wall; it was not there. My eyes concentrated on the left side where I was sitting, but with no success initially. The Padre's voice became (or so it seemed to me) rather emotional. Then, looking immediately to my left, close to my shoulder but slightly behind, there, virtually touching my shoulder was the plaque I had been searching for, HMS Sickle. I felt an eerie feeling.

I reflected afterwards how remarkable it was that I had chosen that particular pew. A guiding hand had directed my decision as to where to sit on entering the church that day. The outcome truly was an "eerie feeling" I had experienced.

I feel now compelled to add further to this story, with an incident that occurred within minutes of leaving the church.

As the Padre concluded his service, he invited all to visit a newly opened dedication chapel about 100 yards away. In my now sensitive mood, I was amongst a dozen or so who accepted that offer. The story commences.

The Padre, now outside the church, indicated the dedication chapel with a directed wave of his hand. To obtain entrance one had to climb up a flight of wide granite steps that curved around the castle-like structure. There at the top a sign read "Dedication Chapel". The door open, we entered into a small room. The room consisted of one item of furniture, a heavy looking old oak table. Immediately above was an electrical spot lamp bearing directly downwards onto the table.

On this table was a very large book illuminated by the overhead lamp. The book dealt specifically with the names of submarines lost on war service. It went even further as it also mentioned the individual names of officers and crew who had perished. I found myself automatically turning the huge thick pages over until I came to HMS Sickle, the submarine I had served in. I found the appropriate page, and read down the list of officers and men. I received another "eerie feeling" within an hour of my first. I read my own name, there it was Petty Officer Rose (a reporting of my demise).

On reporting the most obvious inaccuracy, I was informed by the curator that, because I had been drafted off Sickle at the last moment, official records had not been amended accordingly, thus the error. My second "eerie feeling" within an hour.

At a subsequent visit to this chapel, I noted that my name had been deleted, white inked out.

Roll of Honour

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