On Home Service

He flung the battleship grey DBIII through the inevitable traffic crawl of Rochester and Chatham, the inseparable conjoined twins with their beautiful historic centres despoiled by the sprawling mess of modern dockyards and light industry. The engine muttered a protest about going so slowly, the twin exhausts spluttering when they should be roaring.

He reached for the gunmetal case on the leather bucket seat next to his, pulled out one of the Morland cigarettes made to his own blend, and lit it from the dashboard. He was eager to get away from this suburban mess, down to the Channel Packet at Ramsgate. He liked the little harbour, used only by older sailors and smugglers and the efficient boats of the Thames pilots, in preference to the bigger dock away to his left at Chatham or the busy gateway port at Dover ahead of him. He would take the A2, pass that house at Reculver where he had started to pull the thread that unravelled one madman’s plans only a year previously. Then he would coast across the Isle of Thanet, over the Manston plateau where the USAF Super Sabres would rip open the sky above him, and down to Ramsgate. 

The detour down to the south coast would add an extra day to this job – but what was that, in this prolonged pause between actions? He felt stale, tired of all the hardness, had seen too much death close-up after seven years in the section. So the Chief of Staff, sensing the dryness and disregard and the indifference in the corners of the room creeping in, had him working on home research – which he knew, if truth be told, was as important as the work on the range or in the service’s well-equipped gymnasium. To work on home ground meant, of course, special permission from the Prime Minister, so this was no garden leave. 

He was free to fill his time, exploring the corners of the country he didn’t know, visiting factories and research establishments to update his own knowledge and the files at HQ. And he was prepared to listen to anyone who was the master of their subject, on any subject. In the last fortnight he had heard about developments in ceramics and their use in electronics at the British Ceramic Research Association Headquarter and Laboratories in Stoke-on-Trent. He had found out about the latest techniques in photographic printing at the Kodak Works in Harrow from a pale-skinned man with the twitching eyes of one who spent too much time in a dark-room. And he had travelled to an industrial estate just outside the bland sprawl of deadly Worthing – it must be deadly, as so many people went there and died, he had decided – to find out about developments in amplification and loudspeakers from a small, private company.

While he listened and learned, filing away little facts that might help him in future, it rather bored him, so today he was acting out this little rebellion. And for this little respite, this extra day – for no more reason than he wanted to see Ramsgate again – he did feel slightly guilty. But tomorrow he would drive up through Kent, to the Bowaters paper mills outside Sittingbourne. The irony was not lost on him, that five years earlier it had been one of Bowaters’ huge eight-wheeled AEC Diesel carriers carrying 14 tons of rolled newsprint that nearly killed him. And while he had survived, his beautiful 1930 Blower Bentley had not – the very reason he was driving this works’ car today!

He had booked his favourite room, a double on the top floor of the Channel Packet with its own bathroom. He liked this building, built after the war to replace the older hotel destroyed by enemy action, but very much in pre-war style, with its white walls and jade green glazed tiles. He disliked the newer hotels, despised the internationalism of the modernist buildings with their anonymous glazed facades. And to carry on his rebellion he would eat on expenses at the little Italian on the terrace below his hotel, fresh-caught cod puttanesca on a bed of spinach & spaghetti. A chilled bottle of Piesporter Goldtröpfchen ’53 – they had that on his last visit – with a view across the inner harbour and out by the lighthouse to the dangerous stretch of coast by the Goodwins. And then tomorrow he would drive up through Kent the long way, maybe stopping at Royal St Marks at Sandwich to ask Alfred Blacking’s advice on the best grips for his drivers –  and then on to Sittingbourne for his afternoon appointment, to find out about the latest developments in paper-making.

The next morning, driving up from Ramsgate and following the smaller roads across the Garden of England, he had finally been able to let the DBIII have a proper run The Lagonda straight-6 engine had roared after a day of being stuck in endless traffic, and the Laycock-de Normanville overdrive performed perfectly. Grudgingly, he was coming to realise that he liked this car as much as his own old Bentley. Enjoying the drive, he hadn’t stopped on the way, but headed straight up to the town on the Swale Estuary.

At the entrance to the Bowaters paper-mill in Sittingbourne, he was greeted by a gruff old Regimental Sergeant Major-type of the kind often found at the gates of factories and other works. The officiousness put his back up, so he used his rank – Commander – to prefix his name. It worked, he got a grudging salute, and the big sky-blue iron gates swung open one after the other and he was waved towards a reserved parking space near the front door of the office building. 

But his mild annoyance dissipated when a short, cheerful man walked out of the building to greet him. He had a soft, round face with pale, freckled skin and a hand pushed forwards eagerly. He had obviously been waiting for his guest, watching from inside.

“I’m Sands, Stephen Sands- welcome, Mr Bo–”

“James … just James,” he said, and shook the outstretched hand. He instinctively liked this man. He followed him through the door, up a flight of stairs, and into a well-furnished, though not overly large, office. Miller waved him into one of two comfortable dark green armchairs, either side of an oval coffee table, with a Greek Key pattern inlaid in marquetry around the edge. A secretary followed them into the room, with a tray containing a Wedgwood ‘Mercury’ coffee pot, cups, jug and sugar-bowl.

“Your office said you’d prefer coffee over tea, James – so I took the liberty!” James was impressed by the man’s attention to detail. He loathed tea – the mud that had led to the downfall of  the British Empire. So happily took the cup Sands poured for him. Black, unsweetend. He took a sip. It was a good blend, not as good as the Blue Mountain blend he bought from De Bry in New Oxford Street, the most delicious in the world, but good enough. And better for being served in Wedgwood bone china. Today, he thought, might be a better day than he’d imagined. 

“So,” he said, and sat back in the comfortable chair, “tell me about paper, Stephen.”

“Thank you. I will, And thank you for coming today. I’m glad somebody is interested in our work, from your department. I have often worried. Nobody takes paper seriously – it is such an everyday thing that we just assume there is an endless supply. But imagine if there wasn’t. We produce 500,000 tons of newsprint alone every year, more than sixty per cent of all the newsprint used in the UK. We have enough put by in store for a day or two, but it’s used quickly and in quantity, so if production was halted and the presses stopped, the impact on the country would be huge. Businesses would struggle, the theatres and cinemas would empty, and your government would be unable to talk to the people effectively.”

“And I see two threats. The first is the obvious one – an interruption to our machinery. We have good security on site, but nothing a determined adversary couldn’t breach. I was in charge of a supply depot in the war, and even with soldiers in wartime it was impossible to keep the place completely secure! But our machinery could also be stopped by an interruption to our power supply. We have our own power plant along the river at Kemsley – I’ll take you there later, we run steam under pressure two and half miles back down to here – but we still reply on some power from the National Grid. And we have our own water supply. Our water tower holds 100,000 gallons, because papermaking is a very wet job.”

“But the bigger threat from a foreign country wishing to do us damage would be an economic war, restricting our supply line of raw materials. Back in 1937, when I ran one of the machines at the wet end, powerful foreign cartels of pulp exporters put pressure on us. Mechanical pulp went from £4.12.6d a dry ton to £8.4.0d, and sulphite pulp doubled in price! We rely on a supply of good-quality pulp, and on Esparto Grass, brought into our dockyard at Ridham. Without that constant flow of material, we’d soon be in trouble.”

“Now, I have talked about newsprint but I am sure you are aware of our other work. During the war we invented a paper-and-resin mix that could be used to hold fuel. Our paper drop tanks meant the USAAF could provide fighter escorts for the bomber fleets. We made more than 42,000 of them. And we made more than 17,000,000 Kraft cases for 3.7” anti-aircraft shells and for Bofors ammunition, too. While we’ve moved Kraft production to Ellesmere Port, our technical facilities are still here – and we have done some very interesting and specialist jobs for some of your … colleagues.”

“So I hope you understand, we are a site of some national importance. Now, I’d like to give you a tour, then back here for lunch. We have our own narrow-gauge railway, and I’ve arranged for a special to take us out to the far end of our site, at Kemsley Marshes. I thought you’d appreciate a ride behind Premier, one of our steam locos, been on the site since 1905. So – shall we?”