Dive, dive, dive - Life on Royal Navy's Vanguard class subs

[Anth]

Life on the subs that never sleep: The Royal Navy's Vanguard class nuclear submarines deploy globally with Trident nuclear missiles, Britain's independent deterrent. Graham Bound of focus magazine was invited to lift the hatch on this secretive world when he sailed aboard HMS Vigilant on sea trials.

Hands on the helm: Sailors watch the depth meter carefully as they adjust the bow and stern hydroplanes controlling our descent
[Picture: Gaz Falkner]

When the crews of nuclear-powered Trident missile submarines go down to the sea, they take a few precious reminders of their life on terra firma. Their pictures of smiling families and seductive girlfriends, pillows that still have a faint aroma of home, and the comfortable old jeans, all say one thing:

“in three months time – maybe a little more, maybe a little less – you’ll be going home.”

I carried no such emotional baggage as I walked across the black hull of Her Majesty’s submarine Vigilant and gripped the ladder to climb down into the hull. In fact I carried no baggage at all. British Airways had managed to lose my suitcase on the flight from London. I was now clad in the cheapest duds that the Asda on the road to Faslane could supply. But who cared? Vigilant was about to slip her mooring at HM Naval Base Clyde to carry out sea trials, and I had been invited to go along for the ride. Jobs do not come much better.

It seemed unlikely to me that this short trip was anything other than a chore to the crew, but if it was, they showed little sign of it. As they tidied up the sub ready for departure, everyone seemed chipper and cheerful, particularly Lieutenant David Crosby, a junior warfare officer who had been assigned to look after me (no doubt making sure that, above all, I didn’t press any buttons).

Bing (inevitably, Bing), had done his time. 17 years to be precise, rising through the ranks to an eventual commission. He, as it happened, was carrying a little more emotional baggage than usual. His next patrol would be his first since the birth of his first child. Bing hoped the twice weekly “familygrams”, just 40 words of news from home, would help.

“The main thing is to know that family and friends are OK and know what my son has been doing,” he said.

Over a mug of tea in the wardroom Bing said that, familygrams notwithstanding, there is a point on any patrol at which spirits reach a low ebb:

“If anyone gets low, we rally around. The submariners’ camaraderie just drags you out of anything.”

Man at the helm: Vigilant's Captain Commander Bob Anstey (in head-phones) supervises a manoeuvre in the control room
[Picture: Gaz Falkner]

We met Connor McLeod, a leading operator maintainer caring for the Spearfish torpedoes. He too said there are emotional thresholds:

“Last year was the first time I have had Christmas and New Year away. Even I had to question whether it was what I really want to do for the rest of my time in the Navy.”

But all submariners are volunteers and it seems few wish to return to the surface fleet before their five-year tour of duty is up. It could be that Britain no longer has ultra-cramped conventional models, and modern ballistic missile “bombers” are much roomier and comfortable than even earlier nuclear boats (a sub is never a ship, by the way, even when it is 150 metres long and displacing some 16,000 tonnes).

But viewing my shelf-like bunk in a nine-man cabin arranged around a very obvious missile launching tube, I realised that the word cramped still applies. Only officers enjoy the luxury of three-man rooms, and their cabins double as offices. And there are further reminders of the Das Boot era when it comes to fresh bathing water: there is not much of it.

Bing introduced me to Gary Nicholson, who talked photographer Gaz Falkner and I through the measures in place to ensure our survival in an emergency.

We learned about the threat posed by airbursts – sudden loss of pressure from the systems that control buoyancy; how to don breathing apparatus should a fire break out, and how to move to evacuation points. Royal Navy submarines have a safety record second to none, but when things go wrong in anyone’s submarine they can go very wrong. We were reminded of the Canadian diesel boat that caught fire in mid-Atlantic in 2004. “The guy who died was just three seconds in a smoke filled compartment, and he couldn’t find a mask.”

We climbed through the conning tower to the tiny bridge where the captain, Commander Bob Anstey, issued concise orders and other officers checked to see that they were being carried out. Clinging to a greasy periscope, I watched the banks of the Clyde slip by and the small boats manned by MOD marine police fuss around us. In this narrow waterway, Vigilant seemed uncomfortable, like a large animal in a cage.

Ready for any possible emergency: The officers' wardroom becomes a crisis management centre as Vigilant prepares to submerge
[Picture: Gaz Falkner]

As we navigated cautiously past a breakwater, a small group of people waved to us from the shore. The captain put down his binoculars, waved and smiled in their direction. They were his children, happy, no doubt, that this time he would be back very soon.

It was cold perched 70 feet or so above the Clyde, so I went to meet the cooks – just four of them catering for 165 men. Leading Chef Graham McCall told me his catering budget is tightly controlled at just £2.05 per man per day, the budget across the Navy.

“So far today we’ve spent £349.42,” he said.

"We’re a bit over, but we try to save most days so that we can put luxuries on occasionally. But fresh fruit and veg do run out and then we only have frozen, dried and tinned food. It would be lovely if we could surface off Rio de Janeiro or wherever and send some men ashore in a rowboat to buy some fruit. But we can’t. I don’t think they’d come back anyway.”

By now we were clear of the Clyde. I stood with Bing in the control room as Commander Anstey presided over another crucial manouvre. Diving is a routine procedure, but on a Trident missile submarine things are routine only in the sense that they have been done before. The nearby wardroom was populated by men fingering thick files of emergency procedures. Telephones had emerged from panels in the ceiling and the men waited for news from remote compartments that might give the slightest indication that all was not going well.

Water was flooding into tanks, reducing our buoyancy. Two men sat at aircraft-like controls concentrating on depth gauges and gradually adjusting the boat’s incline. “Fifteen metres,” the man on the bow plane pronounced loudly. “Twenty metres.” Each time, his voice ascended on the last syllable, suggesting the inevitability of greater depth and raising tension slightly.

Vigilant tilted perceptibly and we slipped further beneath the Irish Sea.

To be continued ...

This article, by Graham Bound, first appeared in Focus - the newspaper for people in defence.

MoD News Link

[Anth]

In the second of our two-part special feature looking at the Royal Navy's Vanguard class nuclear submarines which deploy globally with Trident nuclear missiles, we get the captain's view of life in this secretive world.

Above decks: Crew on the casing as Vigilant leaves the Clyde.
[Picture: LA(Phot) (GAZ) FAULKNER]

At frequent intervals while HMS Vigilant is on patrol, the crew practise a drill which is as chilling as it is routine. The submariners rehearse the procedure they would follow if global security had deteriorated to the extent that nuclear war was imminent and they had been told to prepare to launch nuclear missiles.

The much reduced post-Cold War threat means that the crew of Vigilant and others in the Vanguard class no longer need to be at a few minutes notice to fire.

And the missiles are "detargeted", meaning they are not constantly programmed to hit any particular country. But policy still dictates that potential enemies must know Britain has a credible independent deterrent, and that means the crew of Vigilant must be prepared to do the almost unthinkable quickly and confidently.

That is not to say that Vanguard subs have nothing else to do on patrol. Crews test equipment and also collect hydrographic data. But rehearsing launch sequences eclipses all other tasks.

It would be odd if Vigilant's captain, Commander Bob Anstey, did not take this very seriously indeed. He does, but he is, nevertheless, relaxed and happy to talk about the more normal aspects of life aboard a missile submarine. For example, the challenge of finding presents to take back to your children after a patrol during which no port has been visited (answer; save up all your sweets ration and deluge them with Snickers and Mars Bars).

Bridge work: Vigilant's captain, Commander Bob Anstey supervises departure.
[Picture: LA(Phot) (GAZ) FAULKNER]

He also clearly appreciates the sense of independence that "bomber" commanders enjoy while on patrol. Broad directions for a patrol are made clear before leaving base, but there are tactical benefits to allowing the captain to decide exactly how he will fulfil the requirement.

"We receive daily signals, and from these I can make decisions about our movements," says Commander Anstey. "I know when I’ve got to go, and when I’ve got to come back. The rest of it is pretty much up to us."

Vigilant must maintain radio silence at all times, but radio signals can be received, including morale-boosting twice-weekly "familygrams", 40 words of news from home. The captain screens them all before passing them onto the crew, making sure that they do not contain the kind of distressing information that could be emotionally debilitating to a man with a demanding and sensitive job to do.

"We’ve got to be careful what we allow the guys to see," he says. "And what may look pretty innocuous to us may have a huge significance for them. And of course the non-receipt of a familygram can have a big effect on a guy, especially if he normally receives them twice a week. Some elect not to have familygrams."

Several crew members look out for any dip in spirits among shipmates, and rally around if necessary.

"We have to get on with each other," Cdr Anstey continued.

"The guys who have been around for a while tend to be good agony aunts. And there is a submariner humour which tends to defuse situations."

Signals: Radio operators receive crew familygrams.
[Picture: LA(Phot) (GAZ) FAULKNER]

The obvious question for the captain is how the burden of guarding unimaginable destructive power weighs on him, knowing that he must be able to wield it.

"It’s a horrible thought. It helps that we go through the drills so often. When you start a drill it looks exactly as it would if we were really doing it. That repetition means that people will automatically do what they have been trained to do.

"I’d like to think that we would have an indication of the world situation, and therefore I could justify it to my crew. On a daily basis, I don’t believe they think much about what they have around them and what they are sleeping among."

And the most sensitive question: could he launch a missile without authority? Emphatically no.

"The whole process is very well defined. And there are more people than just me in the chain. We would all have to go collectively mad – and we are selected as people who do not exhibit such tendencies."

This article, by Graham Bound, first appeared in Focus - the newspaper for people in defence.

MoD News Link