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dominant figure, literally and figuratively, that he tended to shape to the whole
social milieu. I had actually got on well with him myself, but he had a reputation
for being obsessively particular (chart pencils had to be not only perfectly
sharpened, but lined up with military precision, his binoculars and bridge chair
had to be exactly in place at all times, bridge lights had to be lighted exactly as
brightly as he wished, and one should not ignore the marmalade!). He could also
get very angry, I was told, but set against that, he was regarded as a fair man, and
as the Master of a ship usually ‘at sea’, steaming from one port to another, and
thus a person almost uniquely answerable only to God, an unreasonable Captain
could easily become the worst of martinets.

We soon learned that Captain Cowan was made of very different stuff, and
frankly a very charming man. A good seaman and, I guessed, more generally
experienced than Basil, he had an ease of manner that one could recognise as a
man who probably knew little about tankers (and likely did not much appreciate
being given command of such a vessel) but knew that it was a well-run ship and
such a vessel needed only occasional assistance from himself, essentially only
when arriving and leaving port and when ship’s inspections were necessary. Basil
seemed to enjoy visits to the wardroom, especially on Sundays, when he could
talk with – or, more accurately, at – his officers. Cowan, however, did not obtrude
into the personal space of others, and I do not actually recollect his coming down
to the wardroom to converse. This is not to say that he did not do so, but that he
made no effort to be ‘the senior officer’. The upshot of these factors is whether
Mantua can be said to have been a ‘happy’ ship. Khyber, in its own way, was, but
Basil tended to make the whole ship’s atmosphere uneasy, the officers’ mess being
permanently ‘on edge’; our new Captain seemed to appreciate that each man was
an island and wished to remain that way. The atmosphere was ‘contented’.
Bahrein, as can be seen quickly on the map, is a very long way from Durban,
a port very largely unknown to P&O officers. More to the point, however, I was
now beginning to realise the differences between cargo-ship sailors and their
tanker counterparts. The tanker, when fully loaded, is a fairly indolent beast;
mostly, it ploughs ahead slowly, usually for voyages longer than those of cargo
vessels, and with destinations mostly of very little interest. Few join tankers to
see the world. Thus, life comprised keeping watches, the taking of sights twice a
day, and accommodating to life on a ship that in comparison with my previously
limited experience was very routine, and truth be told, could be quite dull. There
was afternoon tea following the post-lunch nap (a tradition acquired, certainly in
P&O, from the time-worn habit of life in India, where, as Noel Coward observed,
“Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun”; an afternoon snooze
was also one of Churchill’s habits, gained, of course, during his service in India)
and usually a pre-dinner and sometimes pre-lunch ‘pour-out’, where a few officers
got together for a beer or two, or something stronger, though I still maintained
at that time that scotch was almost undrinkable. Just as popular was the Pink

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