I was employed as a civilian in the Simon’s Town naval dockyard on two occasions. The first was in 1971 when I was 20. I served as an Assistant Storeman for four months before quitting. Then in 1976, I returned as a Stores Verification Officer for five months.
It would be inaccurate to say I worked in the Dockyard. In all the time I was there I cannot remember doing anything more useful or meaningful than playing the part of a man pretending to be busy with the efficient running of a naval store. Although the experience provided me with valuable material as a writer, I found the interminable hours of every day insufferably boring.
After digesting the experience for over thirty years, I decided to give it value by incorporating it in my semi-autobiographical novel, The Life of Henry Fuckit. In the following extract, Henry (my alter ego) is inducted into the absurd world of the Dockyard.
"The wholesale squandering of human, financial and material resources is condoned by the authorities as an unavoidable price to be paid in order to maintain a defensive capability. Should war break out, the facilities must be in place and the personnel must be there to man them. In the meantime, in the absence of war, nobody really expects us to do much more than keep up pretences. So, Fundamental Reality number one: very little is required of us."
"That sounds not merely realistic but downright philanthropic." Henry sipped his aromatic tea and sat back, well disposed towards hearing more of what seemed to him like good common sense. "What's Fundamental Reality number two?"
"Fundamental Reality number two is that we are reluctant to perform even the barest minimum of work. The disparity between the expectations of the authorities and those of the workers gives rise to a certain dramatic tension without which the Dockyard would not be able to function at all." He paused to finish his coffee and glance at his notes.
"How many Fundamental Realities are there?"
"Three. Fundamental Reality number three is that we all know exactly what's going on. We know that they know that we know what's going on. And…"
"And I suppose they know that we know that they know that we're all a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing cocksuckers?"
When I stand here looking out, I often feel I'm on the bridge of a great ocean-going vessel. I can survey the entire Dockyard, all of Simon's Bay, the sweep of mountains right round to Muizenberg and to the east a large expanse of False Bay. I mark the sun's passage across the sky and the infinite variety of colour and light. I watch the seasons come and go; I never tire of the ever-changing weather.
I use a telescope mainly to study human behaviour. There are a lot of men working in this dockyard and there's a lot of strange goings-on to be followed. I can spend hours at a time engrossed in the scurrying and scuttling, clambering, creeping and crawling of artisans and labourers, not to mention sailors and officers." And so saying he fixed his eye on something taking place in the Dry Dock. The SAS Kruger had been brought in for a refit early that morning and the pumps had nearly completed their task of emptying out the dock. A sizeable crowd of men had gathered on the caisson and adjacent quaysides. All were looking downward in rapt concentration.
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