Salt Water

by Josep Pla

  “We reached a spot with berths up against the ribs of the vessel. There were three to the ceiling on each side and nearly all were taken. I could hear one lad snoring evenly. The commander pointed me to one that was empty and left. I stripped off and climbed in. The bunk was narrow and gave little room for movement. But I was so tired I was soon sleeping the sleep of the just.

  “When I woke up the next morning, I didn’t feel at all well. My head felt heavy. My senses seemed to have sunk into some peculiarly thick morass. It was an effort to sit up. As if my whole body was surrendering to some invisible, spongy pressure that was both heavy and suffocating. I was surprised how long it took to get a clear grasp on my surroundings. I felt poisoned by a kind of air I’d never breathed before, one that had spread through my body tissue via my lungs. Yes, that was it: I was being poisoned by air that was stale, if not exactly polluted. I was used to the open-air life and have always been sensitive to everything that comes in via the nose. My sense of smell appeared to be compromised by a gas that had entered my innermost cells and sent me to sleep. The faint, hazy light floating in that iron cylinder was unreal. With a great effort, I dressed and walked toward the turret. As I drew nearer, the air became purer and the light brighter. The turret was open. The submarine was sailing above water. I climbed up the iron ladder and poked my head outside. Some sailors were on guard duty. It was a dull, gray day with a very low sky; the odd drop of rain fell. The horizon had closed in; there was no wind and the sea was still calm. I tried to figure out where we were, but with no sight of land that was impossible. With its engines turned down, the submarine was making slow progress. It was on patrol. Evidently expecting something to happen. Now and then I thought I must be on board a smugglers’ boat waiting for the fateful hour to head to an exact spot along the coast to unload.

  “Contact with fresh air cleared my head and the drowsy buzz in my head slowly faded. When I felt more in control, I went back down inside. That was when my pituitary gave me a real sense of the air floating there. It was not the fetid smell of decomposing matter. On the contrary, all was tidy and sterilized. But it was air I had never breathed before. It was air charged with the fumes from fuel oil, lubricants, mineral oils, human odors, greasy flock and the acrid stink from the engine room and all that iron plating. I’d never breathed an atmosphere like that and couldn’t possibly describe the smell. Perhaps if life had led me to work in a place with machines, I might be able to give you an idea of that air, though I doubt it. I’d always been a woodcock that could tell wild pine from cultivated pine, and that stench was so new to me and so repellent I could never have got used to it. It was worse than fetid. It was air I couldn’t adapt to.

  “The commander reappeared and ushered me into his small cabin. A tiny table had been laid. He sat on his bunk and asked me to sit by the table. We spoke at length. He said we were patrolling twenty-five miles off the coast between Sant Sebastià and Cape Creus, and if nothing changed, we would stay in these waters for several days. He seemed much calmer than on the previous night. He gave the impression that he was absolutely confident in what he was doing and couldn’t even imagine that danger was round the corner. He was a pleasant, really nice fellow. He laughed and said that way of life was soporific, but he was sure we could stay on the surface for several days, and that was always better than being under water. He asked me if I played chess, but as I play only draughts, he promised to challenge me to a few games of draughts. I told him the air in his vessel gave me headaches and that sometimes I felt strangely queasy. He laughed and replied that I should ignore it; it was nothing to worry about.

  “Then a sailor served lunch. A mug of hot broth, boiled greens and a slice of salt fish that had been soaked, and stewed plums. Beer to drink. I wasn’t hungry, but I’d not eaten for so long I knew I had to eat something. It was all well presented and cooked, but I couldn’t say what it tasted of. Rather: it all tasted the same, a taste that was completely impregnated by the foul air floating inside that submarine. The commander said the bread was excellent. It was served in very thin slices, a somber toasted color, with a crust that was practically black. I tried it dry and then buttered. I didn’t like it either way. To be frank, the butter seemed to consist of a substance that was the greasy essence of the whole lunch. I can’t say I’ve ever eaten a lot of butter. But I’m sure that stuff had nothing in common, in terms of taste, with what they sell in this country. It tasted of axle grease. It was disgusting. The commander, who saw I was forcing a slice of bread down, told me I didn’t have to. At the end of the meal, smiling as broadly as ever, he poured me a glass of cognac. It was the only thing that didn’t seem impregnated. I left the table with quite an empty stomach. That was the least of it. I had an extremely unpleasant sense of physical discomfort – as if I’d eaten something so alien my body couldn’t digest it. I felt that indigestibility above all in my sense of smell.

  “After lunch we went up on deck and spent a long time in the open air. I immediately felt better and much perkier. The vessel was moving slowly. It was using as little fuel as possible. The weather was unchanged, perhaps everything was a little lighter and less closed in. We couldn’t see land but the commander said we were off Cape Norfeu and sailing toward the edge of the Gulf of Lion. ‘We’ll carry on like this for another three hours,’ he added, ‘then we’ll turn our back on the gulf and head south. All we have to do is keep a watch on this expanse of water…’

  “Then he asked me lots of questions, particularly about the ships we’d see near the coast. I told him what I’d seen, the truth, I mean: lots of small coastal traffic with France. And that these vessels plied close to land. That there wasn’t much in the way of big ships; it was rare to see a lone steamer sail by. ‘On the other hand, from time to time,’ I added, ‘convoys of quite large vessels do come through.’ The commander barely seemed to be listening, as if he knew all that.

  “The natural feel of our conversation led me to ask if lack of visibility was an advantage or not. He said that right then it didn’t matter either way, because they weren’t expecting anything immediately. He added that he was expecting something big, but it wouldn’t show up for several days. ‘When the time comes,’ he added quite matter-of-factly, ‘we shall go closer inshore and see what happens. For the moment we can enjoy a few days of peace and quiet. It’s all about being patient and waiting. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed…’

  “He didn’t laugh when he said that. He said it – no doubt reluctantly – with a taut, nervous expression on his face.”

  * * *

  —

  “I don’t know how many days went by. The monotony of life aboard made me lose all idea of time. The fact that I had nothing to do made me sluggish. Life in this place wasn’t exactly great fun, but I could’ve put up with that. What I felt was disgusting from the very first was the air we breathed below deck and the dearth of tasty food. I made an effort to adapt. It was impossible. I visibly wilted. My clothes were too big on me. My body felt drowsy, then queasy. I spent as long as possible on deck, breathing in the fresh air. It was my only nourishment.

  “I missed one other thing: conversation. I could make myself understood with the sailors only by way of signs, and they’d viewed me with suspicion from the beginning. Some knew the odd word of Spanish, but such words only helped to make their gestures more obscure rather than to shed any light on them. I sometimes spoke to the commander but he was very busy and I spent days on end without saying a word. I couldn’t seek out the commander if he didn’t summon me. It was very tiresome communicating with the others with gestures. When I felt like saying something, I’d start to whistle or hum, though never too loudly.

  “Discipline on board was remarkable. Everybody knew what he had to do and jumped to it mechanically. I saw sad faces, resigned faces, dead faces. I never saw one that expressed violence or indignation. I don’t think anyone on board was unaware of the dangers of that way of life. Perhaps I was t
he most unaware. Beneath that dull silence of interment and demeaning discipline, a hidden current of understanding ran between the crew and their commander. Life at sea creates a kind of tame resignation and tendency to daydream, both of which were much in evidence on that vessel. These qualities of reservation and dreaminess were also compatible with outbreaks of crazy violence. They composed a robotic, listless state; a nervous depression that hid simmering explosiveness; quiet, duly regulated expectations before the ever-imminent eruption of an incident that could decide one’s life. When the sailors heard me whistling or humming on deck, they looked wide eyed in amazement at the way I expressed my feelings.

  “We had fair weather that whole time. Though it was midwinter, every day was fine. Some were splendid. January usually sees bright days, gentle breezes, placid seas, clear skies and no rain. The benign January waters never fail: they always return. Of course, there are the usual blasts from a northwesterly that made us toss and turn a little, but they were short-lived and never vicious. If it hadn’t been for the cold they brought – a cold that made me abandon deck and ask for extra overcoats – it would have been hardly noticeable. After this cold spell, I found the gray days, low skies and humid, light southwesterly much more unpleasant. There’s nothing so irksome as being wet and icy when everything around you is also sopping and freezing cold.

  “We stayed twenty to thirty miles from the coast over that time. The ships we saw as we kept watch were of no interest – the smallest kind of coastal traffic. Though we almost always sailed above water, I don’t think we were visible from the coast. If we ever moved closer to land it was to take advantage of the dawn’s or twilight’s unsteady glow, or nighttime.”

  * * *

  —

  “It must have been around 20 January and early morning. The eight o’clock watch had been relieved. We were a long way from land, and as it was clear and bright, we could see the Sant Sebastià lighthouse across the water. All the signs were that we would swing round at any minute and once again make for the waters off Cape Creus. The commander, with his binoculars, was leaning on the turret and scrutinizing the sea to the southwest. At first sight, the sea by Cape Tossa seemed deserted. But the intent look on his face suggested that might change. As the sky was cloudless, I was surprised to see something like a slightly darker brushstroke on the sea near the spot where the commander was training his binoculars. Time passed and I registered that no order was being given to turn round as was usually the case; I decided that something had indeed changed. Another half an hour went by. Then the order was issued for the vessel to point its prow westward and to land. What had seemed an almost invisible brushstroke mere minutes ago now looked like smoke from a steamer’s funnel or perhaps from a number of steamers. It was obvious: we could see the front of a large convoy coming from the southwest and probably heading toward Marseille. The commander didn’t seem at all surprised by that sight. He was clearly expecting it. The discovery made him nervous, and though he kept his nerves under control, they were apparent enough.

  “We cruised above water for almost an hour. Meanwhile, everyone took up his position and the silence seemed denser. Preparations were made to go down. The convoy was still a long way away, but the silhouettes of the first ships were clearly outlined against and beyond the Tossa promontory. We submerged without a snag. At first it didn’t seem any different from sailing on the surface. However, as time passed, the air stewed and thickened, the temperature rocketed and the stench in the air seemed more unpleasant than ever. My shirt felt tight, and my clothes sticky and uncomfortable.

  “Now the commander was rooted by the sights of the periscope, with an admiralty chart spread out next to him and his system of communicating with the services on board all at the ready. As we moved closer inshore he beckoned to me and pointed several times at a spot on the map that really seemed to be bothering him. They were the tiny, insignificant Formigues Islands. They were still many miles away, but as we know, when real sailors see a rock, they start to quake. We now began to get a proper perspective on the convoy, even though we were hugging the coast and could see a line of over twenty large ships. Most were camouflaged. Whenever I could, I looked at the sights out of the corner of an eye so I could interpret the commander’s reactions. It was my impression – my first surprise – that the convoy was under heavy escort. The first twenty or twenty-five merchant ships were being patrolled by at least four large anti-torpedo boats on either side. That made the commander repeatedly moisten his lips. The second surprise came when I saw that the vessels, against usual custom, weren’t sailing within or beside jurisdictional waters; they were quite far off from them and that gave them much greater freedom of movement. I also thought that if we attempted any kind of attack from a position close to land, we would be lethally trapped. We recognized the sense of security the presence of a heavy escort gave that long procession of vessels – more than thirty were now visible – as the distance between us closed. We were as near as we could be. Not a soul was to be seen on their decks, except for the watch on the bridge. Not a soul manned the cannon on prow or poop. We even noticed that some had been covered. It was now clear that those men believed themselves safe. They probably thought the danger was over, as far as they were concerned, that the worst patch was behind them and closeness to French seas justified their complete self-confidence.

  “As the convoy drew nearer and became easier to see, the strength of their escort also became evident. We counted over eight anti-torpedo boats. The commander reluctantly issued the order for our submarine to slow down. The absolute inequality of firepower between that fleet and our small submarine was all too obvious. Was there anything we could do? The convoy, which was now level with us, proceeded slowly, but their escort vessels were frantic. These boats reconnoitered inshore and on the open sea, crazily speeding from the front to the center of the convoy. The submarine continued in parallel for a long time – three or four miles away with a firm eye on their gunboats. Meanwhile, I watched all the officers pay the commander’s cabin a visit. I didn’t understand a word of what was said. In effect there was no attack. The inequality of firepower clinched it. When the front of the convoy drew level with Cape Sant Sebastià it veered off toward Marseille. You couldn’t ask for better proof of how safe those people felt they were.

  “The peculiarly painted procession filed past: more than forty large cargo boats and eight to ten anti-torpedo boats. The officers watched them pass through their sights with rage on their faces. But could they do anything? I don’t think so. The commander was simply acknowledging their immense superiority.

  “So I thought that must be the end to our little adventure – it was past one p.m., with glorious weather and visibility, and the cloud of smoke from the convoy was disappearing over the eastern horizon, when a vessel suddenly came into view in the same manner as the fleet had done that morning. Orders went out to go full steam ahead. Within the hour we could see it perfectly. It was evidently a hostile ship – an American tramp of some eight thousand tons (said the commander) – and it belonged to the previous group but had gotten delayed for some reason or other. Perhaps it hadn’t joined them at the agreed time. In any case, it was making extremely slow progress and seemed damaged. It was a magnificent four-master, the like of which we rarely see in these waters. When we were close enough for the commander to get a precise look, he burst out laughing. There didn’t seem to be any watch; it was a ship without defenses, one hit and…

  “From that moment on it all happened amazingly quickly. We maneuvered close and took up a position where we had perfect freedom of movement. We were ten or twelve miles off Sant Sebastià. They noticed nothing until they heard the crisp, simultaneous, shattering impact of two torpedoes on iron panels at the float line. The submarine surfaced almost at once. I had a perfect view of what happened from the bridge. The vessel lurched slightly twice on the side where it had been hit and very soon began to keel over. Meanwhile, hordes of
people appeared on deck amid the predictable confusion and uproar. Nobody went near the cannons; everyone headed for the lifeboats. However, we hardly heard any of the human hue and cry because of a din from the bilge that made your hair stand on end. The frenzied neighing and whinnying of three, four or five hundred horses – I probably underestimate – inexorably trapped within the dying ship rose above the majestic sea. Their chilling neighs were followed by a dull, heavy, terrible clatter, as if the cargo of horses was trying to break through the iron plating with their legs, teeth and whole bodies. The horrific din, high-pitched shrieks rent with explosions of sound, made a deep impression on me. I started to cry like a child. And through a veil of tears, like a vision in a dream, I suddenly saw the great breaches in the hull packed with a frenzied succession of terrified horses hurling themselves into the sea. Our crew watched the tragic exodus as if they were at some sporting event. The animals churned up the water as they swam, heads and manes windswept, kicking up their front legs as if about to take flight at any moment. But the ship continued to keel over and water soon engulfed the gaping holes. The last horse to get out seemed to erupt from the depths of the sea. Then the ship went slowly down – not that the frenzy and neighing ceased for a moment. The vessel slipped down solemnly like a lead weight. Peace was restored. We could see the crew rowing strongly toward land. When we departed, the horses were still swimming tirelessly. The pinkish-yellow glow of a wintry twilight – cold, pure and stark – touched the foamy broiling water churned by the horses’ legs…”