This story is taken from a book called THE SEAMAN’S WORLD by the Marine Society in London, published in 1982.  The story takes place in 1958 and is recalled by a retired British shipmaster, no doubt very senior.  He is telling about the two best “pump ships” (taking a leak) in his career.  The great man referred to is Churchill.

 

      I was invited to a grand shipping dinner.  The evening started well.  A kind friend had given me a bottle of Burgundy, Chambolle Musigny of an excellent vintage.  I decided to drink it while dressing, carefully arraying myself in full evening dress with miniature medals and campaign stars.

      The effect of the wine was magical, as I found when I emerged from my hotel into the soft golden sunlight of a London summer evening.

      There was ample time before I was due at the banqueting hall and I decided to stroll leisurely down the Strand.  My vinous time machine lifted me gently backward to the eighteenth century and I saw myself in the company of James Boswell as he set off to drink his way across London, eyeing the girls as he went.

      On arrival at my destination, I divested myself of my light coat and top hat and ascended the noble staircase that branched in two directions from its first landing to facilitate protocol.  Concealed lighting illuminated the portraits of remote predecessors who stared haughtily from their golden frames.  After being announced, and shaking hands with my hosts, I passed into the court room to mingle with my fellow guests and sip pre-dinner glasses of sherry; very dry.

      I was dazzled by the row upon row of medals that bedecked the chests of the distinguished company of seafarers and shipping folks and by the galaxy of stars worn nonchalantly upon almost every coat but mine.  The blue and red sashes stood in diagonal splendor across the snow-white background of boiled shirts like some splendid dance of drink-befuddled Union Jacks.

      Presently word went round that we were to be honored by the presence of the great man himself.  He arrived late, delayed no doubt by the affairs of state, and almost at once the mellifluous voice of the master of ceremonies announced: ‘My lords and gentlemen, dinner is served.’

      We entered the subdued light of the magnificent dining hall to the strains of ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’ issuing from the musicians’ gallery.  There was nothing haphazard about our seating.  We all took our places according to a carefully thought out table plan and I discovered myself sandwiched between a rear-admiral and a captain, RN.  The great man, of course, occupied the place of honor at the top table.

      The meal started with clear turtle soup and the first of a battery of glasses was filled with Dry Sack.  Next came half a lobster, to be washed down by Hock Rudesheimer Riesling 1955 Deinhard.  By now we were warming to our gestation and conversation that had begun as a subdued murmur rose to a clamor that vied with the musicians in the gallery. 

      After an exchange of opinions with the admiral, who had served as a Flag Officer in Hong Kong, on the relative merits of athwart ship oriental ladies and their fore and aft occidental sisters, I turned to find myself confronted with enormous sticks of asparagus with melted butter, which in their turn gave place to Tournedos Maitre d’Hotel with French fried potatoes and curettes, the whole accompanied by Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin 1949.  The penultimate gastronomic deflection came in the guise of Millefeuilles Parisiennes served with bumper glasses of Tuke Holdsworth 1924 port.

      The sounds of merriment reached a crescendo and the orchestra, abandoning the unequal struggle, retired gracefully from the gallery.  Our gourmandizing reached its final stage with a veritable cornucopia of exotic fruits, and the meal took on the quality of a dream as we sipped Delamain thirty-year-old cognac which was served alongside our coffee.

      At length, after the fashion of the miraculous abatement of the storm on the sea of Galilee, the master of ceremonies brought silence with his gavel.  There would be a ten-minute interval, he announced before the loyal toast and the speeches.

      I am not aware that my bladder is weaker than the next man’s and so I conclude that it was the Burgundy I had imbibed while dressing that urged me to take full opportunity of this timely respite.  I rose from my chair and made my way towards the ornate doors which pointed the way towards the cloakroom.

      On reaching the point of no return, half way between my seat and the exit, I became aware of an uncanny silence where rightly there should have been a genteel stampede towards the ‘heads’.  I stopped in my tracks and turned, to find to my horror that a hundred pairs of eyes were fixed stonily upon me.  Of all the assembled company, myself apart, only the grand old man was taking this opportunity to make himself comfortable.

      How was I to know that the break in the proceedings had been inserted for his special benefit?  Everyone else seemed to know, and there was I, desperate and alone, standing like an idiot in Limbo.  Every instinct told me to bolt back to my place and pretend I had misunderstood, but with great force of character I subdued this mad idea and proceeded, without haste and all the dignity I could muster, towards the swing doors.

      I waited to hold them open for the most famous war hero since Nelson.  He approached with painful slowness, aided by his stick.  I was engulfed by my self-consciousness, aware that beads of sweat glistened on my face and coursed in rivulets down my body beneath my hard-boiled shirt.  At the appropriate moment I pulled the doors open and he passed down the corridor ahead of me.

      As close as I dared, I took station on his port quarter and adjusted my speed to his shuffling gait until we reached the lavatory door.  Again I took the role of doorman to allow the great man to pass ahead of me.  He emitted the growl of an old bulldog, which I took to mean ‘Thank you’.  Then, side by side, we took our places before the vitreous basins and our ballast splashed down to meet and mingle in the trough at our feet and disappear down a common scupper.  I searched my mind desperately for some bright remark, but concluded that, in the circumstances, conversation was not essential.

      As we washed our hands he spoke.  The voice was old but it was still the voice that lashed our flagging spirits in the 1940s and inspired the effort that secured victory in that great human conflict.  He said: ‘My boy, let me give you some advice.  Always have a pump ship when the opportunity presents itself because you can never be sure of the next one.’

      I thanked him.  Together we made our way back to the banqueting hall, now in line abreast.  I walked to my place and took my seat at the table, and the admiral, leaning over towards me, said, ‘Captain, if you ever write your memoirs don’t forget to include the great WC encounter.’  I include it now – the best pump ship I ever had.