[CW] Any Robert Service fans?

Sat Mar 17 11:26:39 EDT 2012

A few of the pages that I thought were very interesting from the book Vern
recommends are posted in this pdf file:
http://www.qsl.net/n1ea/Raddall_All_Exerpts.pdf

Here's a bit about sending.  Remember we're talking about straight keys and
the pump handle key is a long lever key used by Marconi Company - the
PS213A and other keys like it, later the 365 keys.

Here is I hope an interesting bit from that book.  I'm guessing that
Raddall was imaging Sable Island of the 1930s when he worked there, so "the
War" was WW1, and the mention of "Olympia" the lead ship of the three
ships, Olympia, Titanic, and I guess they didn't build the last one because
of the "iceberg accident" 100 years ago.

Here it comes..

=

One day when Matthew and Sargent had gone for a walk along the beach she
sat at the instruments with Skane, copying word for word with him the
messages of a freighter bound for Boston. There followed a lull in the
phones, one of those dull periods that came in every watch, when all the
ships and shore stations fell silent together as people sometimes do in a
busy room.

"Greg," she begged, "give me another sending test—now, while the others are
out." Obediently he slipped aside one of the phones, and she moved to the
practice key. Skane stared at his wrist watch.
"Okay"

She tapped out a dozen paragraphs of the Handbook, working earnestly, with
the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth. "Well?" she asked eagerly,
looking up.

"An average of sixteen words a minute, I'd say, and perfectly done, all but
the 'c' in 'inductance'—you bungled that. But you've come along.  Gosh, you
really have!"

She flushed with pleasure. "Don't tell the others."

"Why?"

"I'm still not satisfied. What's top speed?"

"About thirty words, on one of these old-pump handle keys anyhow.  That's
fast, mind you. A hundred and fifty letters a minute. When you're doing
that, you're pounding brass and no fooling. Of course you'll find—don't
think I'm being superior— you'll find that fifteen words a minute come
fairly easily once you've learned the code. Then with a bit of practice you
reach twenty. After that every word you add to your
speed comes mighty hard. Mind you, twenty's the minimum for a First Class
ticket and most ship Ops don't go any faster than that. It's different on
busy shore stations and on the big liners, where at times you've got a lot
of traffic to clear off."

"How fast does Matthew send? I mean when he's not rushed?"

"Usually twenty or less. Nobody ever rushed Matt. He's got aneasygoing
style, nothing fancy, a good clear fist that anyone could copy all day."

"What about Sargent?"

"Depends on how he feels. He's a smart kid. Likes to rattle it off at
thirty when he's working a liner like "MC" —that's "Olympia" — where the
ops are top notch. Usually goes along at twenty-five, though. It's much
more comfortable if you've got a lot to send."
"And you?"

"About the same."

"You're modest. Matthew says you and a chap named Merton at Cape Race are
the crack operators on this coast."

Skane regarded his bony hands and long fingers with the wisps of black hair
on their backs. "I can rip it off at thirty, if that's what you mean. But
it's only swank to do that when twenty-five or less will handle the
traffic. Matt used to say there ought to be a printed motto in every
station working ship traffic: —Twenty's Plenty. When you're young like
Sargent you feel the urge to tear it off as fast as you can, and you get a
kick out of it when some poor fumbling Sparks aboard a tramp has to ask for
a repeat. Gives you a superior feeling; and you repeat at a painful fifteen
or twenty, just to show the chap—and anybody else who may be listening—what
a patient wonder you are. It's a game called 'roasting' that every operator
knows.

"I remember when the first German liner appeared in these waters after the
war. We had a young chap here like Sargent, just out of the navy and full
of hot steam and ginger. We had a few messages for the German and our boy
had a fine time roasting the ears off the German's junior op. The chap kept
asking for repeats, and finally our wonder boy cracked off 'Get another
op.' That's the ultimate insult in this business, you understand. Well, the
German fetched his chief, who turned out to be an old hand at the game. He
copied our
messages all right and then announced he had some stuff for retransmission
to New York. His apparatus was one of those Telefunken outfits that warble
like a canary, and he had something liketwo hundred messages, nearly all In
German.

He screwed down his key to the least possible working gap and he zipped
those messages at our hero in bunches of ten, going a blue streak, Clinnett
—the wonder boy—was sweating blood inside five minutes. He couldn't use the
station typewriter because the signals weren't loud enough, so it was
pencil and pad, with a duplicate to be made for every message, a carbon
sheet to be whipped into place for each new message, and the completed
messages to be torn off and marked with the time of receipt—and all that
with the German sailing straight on at about thirty words a minute. I know,
because I was here in the room and so was Matt, and we plugged in to hear
the German's side of the game. The air was quiet. You could sense dozens of
other chaps, ship and shore, listening in—because everyone knew what was up.

"At the end of the fourth or fifth group Clinnett bad to ask for a repeat
—a signature here, a word or two there. At the end of the seventh he was
asking for whole phrases. You could fairly see the German grinning. And
then it came, a curt little service message in perfect English, addressed
to the O-in-C, Marina, demanding 'Please use capable operator.' There was
dead silence in the phones for a moment, and then you could hear ships up
and down the coast piping 'Hi-hi-hi' — the signal for a laugh. And the
laugh was on us, on Marina, you see. Matt was furious, with Clinnett as
much as the Hun."
"What happened?" Isabel asked.

"Matt took over the watch himself, tapping out 'OIC here' in his slow way
and telling the Hun to go on with his messages in groups of ten.

By that time everyone on the coast had stopped to listen, for they all knew
Carney's fist—and they knew what was coming next. A lot of smart ship ops
have been fooled by that fist of Matt's. They think they've got a slow chum
at the other end of the line and they screw down their keys and try to
roast him. Well, Matt's been in this game so long that the code's his
native language—he thinks in dots and dashes. And nothing bothers
him—interference, static, speed— nothing. He can read the stuff by
instinct, and faster than any human hand could send it. Everyone on the
coast knew that, but the German didn't and away he went like greased
lightning with his next ten messages.

"At the end of them Matt gave him 'R' for the lot, and added 'Send faster.'
The German zipped off another group; and again Matt said 'Send faster.' The
Hun was good, mind you; he was sending as fast as any man could go. But he
couldn't keep up that pace His wrist was getting tired When he tried to
cram on a bit more speed it was fatal He began to make mistakes falling all
over himself, going back and repeating Another group, and Matt cracked off,
in that same slow fist,mind you. 'Send much faster. Have other traffic to
clear.' There was a pause, and the German came on again, going at a
terrific rate. But when he got to the third or fourth message in the group
he stumbled badly, went back and repeated, zipped on for a bit, and stumbled
again.

"At the end of the group it was rather pitiful—like watching a good penman
ruin his fist by trying to write too fast. And of course there was nothing
the German could do or say about the speed—he was dealing with a shore
station. and a shore station in its own official range is practically the
Almighty; its word is law. By the time he got to his twelfth group the Hun
was stumbling and fumbling, making a stuttering mess of it; and then Matt
put an end to it, tapping out in his calm way, slow and merciless like the
cold wrath of God, 'Use recognized code or get someone who can.'

"You should have heard the chorus in the phones—every op in the area
snickering out 'Hi-hi-hi.' Even Clinnett laughed, standing there beside
Matt with a pair of phones plugged in. And then in the silence before the
German's junior op came on again. sending at Matt's own rate, a bit over
twenty, no more, Matt got out of the chair and motioned Clinnett towards
the pencil and the message pads. 'Take over,' he said. 'And after this
don't act the damned fool at my key.' Can't you hear him saving that?"

"Yes," Isabel said. "My key, my station, my island—they're all his, really,
aren't they? How that would touch his pride! But it all sounds a bit
childish, if you'll forgive me—like a lot of little boys showing Off and
giggling in a crowded room. I thought this was a serious business."

Skane grinned. "It is, most of the time. That's why we like a bit of fun
now and then."
"Something to do!"    He glanced at her curiously. "You don't like that
expression, do you?"

"No. But I'm beginning to see the point. That's why I want to be able to do
twenty-five on that key."

He chuckled. "Anyone would think you intend to take a watch."

=30=

David J. Ring, Jr., N1EA <http://www.qsl.net/n1ea/>
SOWP <http://www.sowp.org/>, VWOA <http://www.vwoa.org/>,
OOTC<http://www.ootc.us/>,
FISTS <http://www.fists.co.uk/>, CW-Ops <http://www.cwops.org/>,
CFO<http://groups.google.com/group/Chicken-Fat-Operators-Club?hl=en>,
A1-OP <http://www.arrl.org/a-1-op>, ex-FOC 1271 ARRL-LM<http://www.arrl.org/>
 Chat Skype: djringjr MSN: djringjr at msn.com AIM: N1EA icq: 27380609
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Group<http://groups.google.com/group/radio-officers?hl=en>-- Marine
Morse Historic Recordings Page <http://www.qsl.net/n1ea/>

On Sat, Mar 17, 2012 at 10:34 AM, SX-25 <telegrapher at hotmail.com> wrote:

> **
> This one is good!  The Telegraph Operator reads like a suicide note.
>
> 73 K6HTN
>
> -----------------------------------------------
>
> Anyone familiar with Mr. Service's superb poetry is well-acquainted with
> his seemingly eerie fixation on
> mortality. That's not criticism of his work...just an observation. "Face
> on a Barroom Floor" is a masterpiece although
> has nothing to do with telegraphy.
>
> Perhaps the best work I've read about telegraphers is Thomas Raddall's *The
> Nymph and the Lamp*.
> It's outstanding although immature readers probably would find it too
> salacious.
>
>
>
>
>
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> =30=
>
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