The Cruel Sea

by Nicholas Monsarrat

  There wasn’t a great deal left of Dock Road: the two corner houses just beside them had gone, and three more farther down, and then there was a great hole in the centre of the roadway, and then, farther down still, a ragged heap of rubble where another house had sprawled into the street. It must have been a stick of bombs, as neatly placed as the buttonholes in a dress . . . Tallow looked at the farthest point of destruction, sick and hurt: he said, somewhere between surprise and a fatalistic calm: ‘That’s the one, Jim, I know it is,’ and he started foolishly to run. Watts, possessed by the same urgency, kept pace with him, and they went at a steady jog-trot down the street: past the first lot of wrecked houses, past the second, past the crater in the roadway, and up to the last shattered corner. Number 27 was half-ruined by blast: so was Number 31. Number 29 had taken the full force of a direct hit.

  Number 29 Dock Road . . . Under the bright afternoon sunshine the wreck of the little houses seemed mean and tawdry; there was flayed wallpaper flapping in the wind, and half a staircase set at a drunken angle, and a kitchen sink rising like some crude domestic altar from a heap of brickwork. The house had collapsed upon itself, and then overflowed into the garden and the roadway: the broken glass and the rubble slurred under their feet as they came to a halt before it. It was not a house any more, this place where, between voyages, Tallow had been so comfortable and content, and Watts had stumbled out a halting proposal of marriage, and Gladys had made a warm cheerful haven for them all; it was simply a shapeless mass slopping over from its own foundation, a heap of dirt and rubbish over which drifted, like a final curse, the smell of burnt-out fire.

  Some men – a rescue squad in dusty blue overalls – were picking over the ruins like scavengers who did not know what they were seeking.

  After a moment of hesitation Tallow accosted the nearest of them, a big man in a white steel helmet.

  ‘How did it happen?’ he asked.

  Scarcely looking at him, the rescue man said: ‘Don’t ask bloody silly questions. I’m busy.’

  ‘It’s my house,’ said Tallow, without expression.

  ‘Oh . . .’ The rescue man straightened up. ‘Sorry, mate . . . We get more bloody fools hanging round these jobs than I ever saw in my life.’ He looked at Tallow with rough compassion. ‘Direct hit, this one. Middle of the raids – about five days ago. You been away?’

  ‘Yes. Just got back.’

  By his side, Watts said: ‘We didn’t know about this.’

  There was silence, while the dust stirred and settled. With an effort, Tallow put his question: ‘How about the people inside, then?’

  The rescue man looked away from him, and across the street. ‘You’d better ask at the warden’s post, down there.’ He pointed. ‘They see to all that.’

  ‘But what about them?’ said Tallow roughly. ‘Do you know or don’t you?’

  This time the rescue man looked directly at him, searching for words as he stared. ‘You can’t expect much, mate, not after this. We got them out. Two women. Don’t know their names. Ask over there, at the warden’s post. They’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘Were they dead?’ asked Tallow.

  A moment of hesitation; then: ‘Yes, they were dead.’

  On their way across the street towards the warden’s post, Tallow said: ‘It was probably Mrs Crossley. She used to sit with Gladys in the evening.’

  Inside the warden’s post, a brick shelter on the street corner, three men were sitting at a table playing cards. Two were young, and one was an oldish man with grey hair. As Tallow and Watts entered, stooping under the low doorway, one of the young men glanced up and called out in mock alarm: ‘Look out, lads – the Navy’s here!’

  The oldish man put down his cards and said: ‘Just in time for a cup of tea. Always glad to see the Navy.’

  ‘Name of Tallow,’ said Tallow briefly. ‘Number 29 Dock Road.’ He jerked his head back. ‘You know – the one across the street. What happened?’

  There was a long, shocked silence, while the three men stared at Tallow, the smiles fading from their faces, the cheerful welcome evaporating into shame. Then the old man stuttered and spoke: ‘Mr Tallow – yes. That was your house, wasn’t it? I’m very sorry, very sorry indeed.’ He fumbled with some papers on the rough deal table, concealing his raw embarrassment. ‘Mr Tallow . . . I reported it to the Town Hall, of course. Two casualties – yes, I’ve got it down here. Mrs Bell, Mrs Crossley . . . Didn’t they notify you?’

  ‘We’ve only just got in. Been at sea for a fortnight. When did it happen?’ ‘May the fifth. That’s five days ago, isn’t it?’ He read the names again. ‘Mrs Bell, Mrs Crossley. Would they be relatives of yours?’

  Tallow swallowed. ‘Mrs Bell was my sister. Mrs Crossley was a friend.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry to hear it. If there’s any help we can give—’

  ‘What did they do with—’

  One of the young men, the one who had greeted them so cheerfully, stood up suddenly. ‘Take it easy, chum,’ he said quietly. ‘Here – sit down for a minute.’

  ‘When was the funeral?’ asked Tallow. He did not sit down.

  ‘Two days ago.’ The young man coughed. ‘There were some others, you know. Twenty-one altogether.’

  ‘Twenty-one? All from Dock Road?’

  ‘Yes. It was a bad night.’

  Standing in the entrance behind Tallow, Watts stirred suddenly. ‘Where was it? The funeral, I mean.’

  ‘Croft Road Cemetery.’ The old man answered this time. ‘It was very tasteful, I can assure you of that. The Mayor and Corporation attended. They were all together in one big grave, and the floral tributes—’ He paused, and his tone altered suddenly. ‘They can’t have known anything, Mr Tallow. It was all over in a minute – in a second. They can’t have suffered at all.’

  ‘No,’ said Tallow. ‘I see that.’

  ‘It’s a sort of comfort,’ said the old man gently.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tallow. ‘Thank you. I’ll come back in a day or two.’

  Outside, the sunshine was very bright after the gloom of the warden’s post. The two men stood side by side, not looking at each other, staring at the house and the men climbing over the rubble. Some children were playing in the front garden, setting up a wall of bricks and then knocking it down. A dusty and desolate peace lay over everything.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bob,’ said Watts after a pause. ‘Real sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, Jim. On your account, I mean. I know how you felt. We’ve both lost—’ Tallow straightened his shoulders suddenly. ‘Well, that’s that, anyway. Let’s make a move.’ He began to walk slowly up Dock Road, and Watts fell into step beside him. ‘It’s funny,’ said Tallow as they were passing the jagged crater, ‘but I still can’t hardly believe it.’ He looked up at the sky, the innocent treacherous sky. ‘It doesn’t make sense, really,’ he went on, astonishment and pain in his voice. ‘You come in from sea, feeling real glad to be back, and then you go home and find that people you thought were alive and happy, were really dead and buried while you were still two days out . . . It doesn’t make sense,’ he repeated vaguely. ‘Jim, I think I want a drink.’

  6

  They did four more convoys, of the rough nervous character that marked most convoys nowadays; and then, at high summer, they were given what they had been looking forward to for many months – a refit, with the long leave that went with it, the first long leave since Compass Rose was commissioned. They had all wanted that leave: many of them needed it badly: life on Atlantic convoys was a matter of slowly increasing strain, strain still mounting towards a crucial point which could not yet be foreseen, and it took its toll of men’s nerves and patience, as surely as of ships. It showed itself in small ways – leave-breaking that had no hope of escaping punishment, quarrelling in the wardroom, an outbreak of petty thieving in the mess decks – and its only cure was a proper rest, free of routine, free of danger, free of discipline. As long as that rest was granted, th
ey could take on the burden again, and sweat it out to the end; but without such a pause, irritation and inefficiency could gain ground at a startling pace.

  Not less than her crew, Compass Rose herself needed the respite. It was the first substantial break in service since she had left the Clyde, nearly two years before: apart from necessary minor repairs, designs had altered, weapons improved, and personnel increased, and there was a lot to be done to bring her up to date with the newest corvettes. She was due for an entirely new bridge, roomier and better protected, with the mast tucked away behind it in authentic naval fashion: she could now have a properly equipped sickbay, new depth-charge rails and throwers, and a superior asdic set that would do everything except tell them the name of the opposing U-boat. The total list of alterations and additions was a substantial one; and Compass Rose, sinking back gratefully in the hands of the shipyard, turned her face from the sea and settled down to a six weeks’ course of rejuvenation.

  With two-thirds of the ship’s company on leave, and only Baker to keep him company in the wardroom, Lockhart was very conscious of this slacking-off process. He had postponed his own leave in order to see Compass Rose’s refit properly launched – that was specifically his job – and as he wandered round the ship, checking over what had to be done from the long complicated defect list, he felt a curious sense of disappointment to see how swiftly Compass Rose had ground down to a full stop. She should have held on longer than this . . . A few days before, she had come in from sea as a going concern, and a good one – smart, efficient, controlled by a routine which, after two years, had no loose ends of any sort; now, at a stroke, the routine was broken, and she had relapsed into a hulk, a dead ship tied to the jetty – dirty and untidy, her boilers cold, her men gone, her mainspring run down. He could hardly believe that she could deteriorate so quickly and completely.

  He watched the workmen removing great chunks of the bridge with acetylene-cutters, he watched the sparks falling on the useless gun mounting from which the gun had been removed; he wandered aft, disconsolate, to where the welders, busy on the new depth-charge rails, had bent the old ones into fantastic and unusable shapes. He knew that Compass Rose would come back stronger, stronger and better than ever; but at this moment of dissolution it was sad to see a ship, which had been so taut and trim, lose the name of action over a single weekend.

  There were other things during those first days of the refit which he liked even less. He could not help contrasting the disciplined and cheerful crew of Compass Rose, and the infinitely hard work which, day after day, they took as a matter of course, with what passed for the war effort among the dockyard workers. Perhaps this was a bad shipyard; but good or bad, the contrast was obvious, with unpleasant implications as well. Some of them worked hard and honestly, most did not: most of them jogged along at a take-it-or-leave-it pace, talked and shirked in corners half a dozen times a day, and knocked off with so great a punctuality that when the whistle went they were already streaming across the gangway, homeward bound. Many times Lockhart interrupted card games, down in the engine room out of sight of the foreman: there was one hardy poker school which assembled every afternoon in the asdic compartment, locked the door on the inside, and played out time till five o’clock, deaf to everyone but the dealer . . . Considering that these men led a protected life, free of discipline or compulsion, that they had their homes to go to at the end of every day, that the calls on their labour were restricted to set hours, and that they were paid a great deal more than any rating on board, it was difficult not to feel impatience and contempt at their grumbling, grudging contribution. They were among the people whom sailors fought and died for; at close quarters, they hardly seemed to deserve it.

  On one occasion, Tallow came to Lockhart in a high state of indignation. ‘Just come and look at this, sir,’ he said, hardly able to get the words out, and led the way up to the boat deck. Alongside the boats were the Carley floats – safety rafts each equipped with paddles, a keg of water, and a watertight tin of provisions sufficient to last for a week or so. There were two Carleys, and there should have been two tins of food: now, after a week in dockyard hands, there were none.

  ‘Those bloody dockies!’ said Tallow, allowing himself an unusual freedom. ‘Stealing food that might keep a man alive after he’s been torpedoed . . . By God, I’d like to put some of them on a raft in the middle of the Atlantic, and let them work it out for themselves! Isn’t there anything we can do, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Lockhart surveyed the rifled Carley floats with melancholy calm. He had learnt a lot of things during the past few days. ‘We can complain, of course – I’ll see the dockyard superintendent about it – but it won’t bring the stuff back and it won’t teach people what an appalling thing this is to do.’ He looked at Tallow. ‘They just haven’t got the same idea, coxswain, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘It’s time they were taught it,’ muttered Tallow angrily. ‘And these are the chaps who go on strike whenever they feel like it – more pay, less work, and no cross words from the foreman. I wish they could swop jobs with us, just for one trip. They’d know when they were well off, then.’

  Newspaper accounts of strikes, which they would read when they returned to harbour, made sailors, indeed, sometimes wonder what on earth they were fighting for . . . It really seemed a reversal of common sense, to put it no higher, that once he was in uniform a man had to do exactly what he was told, without arguing, for an infinitesimal wage and in extreme discomfort, while the man from the house next door, in civilian clothes but with the same stake in the war, could hold the country up to ransom until he got exactly what he wanted. Sailors did not talk much about it, because they were busy and preoccupied with what they had to do, and were not very vocal anyway; but it was there in the background, tied up with the black market, with people who wangled extra food and wasted petrol which had cost men’s lives on its journey to England: it was part of the whole rotten minority racket which, in moments of frustration, could induce a rage so wild that it poisoned all pleasure in the job, and all pride in its fulfilment.

  Normally, Ericson would have spent a good deal of time on board during the refit: the temptation to prowl round continuously, while so many strange things were being done to Compass Rose, would have been irresistible. But for the first time since the war started, his leave had coincided with his son’s, and he found himself eager to spend as much time as he could at home, making the most of a meeting which chance might not bring round again for a long time, and another sort of chance might destroy altogether. Young John Ericson, out of his apprenticeship, was now a Fourth Officer: the blue uniform with its single gold stripe sat oddly on his awkward, boyish figure, and Ericson, watching him covertly as he sat on the sofa which, a few years before, he had scrambled over or used as a rocking horse, could hardly believe that the boy was now entitled to wear the man’s rig. He had grown up so fast, almost while Ericson’s back was turned, and, most fantastic of all, he was doing the same job as his father . . .

  In the evening, the family circle round the fireside had a touch of unreality about it. Ericson sat in his usual armchair, reading or talking: Grace knitted busily at one end of the sofa, and young John, miraculously adult sat puffing a shiny new pipe at the other. Opposite Ericson, in the other armchair, the old lady did the crosswords and impressed her will on them all. Grace’s mother had mellowed a little, Ericson decided, but not much: she still tried to rule the roost, she still behaved as if she were the only grown-up in a houseful of children. It was lucky that he himself was home so seldom, and that he had Compass Rose to retreat to when things got on his nerves. For the old lady, spider-like, was not going to move now – that was obvious: she was installed for the duration, and the household had to be regrouped round her, in a way which the captain of one of His Majesty’s ships-of-war could hardly accept as natural.

  Part of the unreality lay in their conversation: they talked of everything but what was uppermost in their mi
nds, the force which had brought them all together and might separate them again at any moment – the war. Both Ericson and his son, indeed, were ready enough to talk of it, but before the women they were curiously shy: sitting round the fireside, they remembered enough of the job they were sharing to know that it could not be put into fireside words. When they did come anywhere near the subject, it was simply to chaff each other in the traditional Royal and Merchant Navy rivalry: the only things that could be mentioned about their partnership were frivolous variations on the surface – the different helm orders, the different rates of pay, the things that mattered least of all. And then, breaking in on their talk, Grace would say: ‘I’m sure it doesn’t make any difference how fast a corvette can go. You all have to go along together, don’t you?’ And the old lady, scratching away at the evening paper, would mumble: ‘What’s a word of eleven letters meaning “futility”?’ and the whole family would unite to solve this major problem . . . So they sat on, night after night: two men, two women, closely bound, yet far apart: feeling the weight of war, and disregarding it in favour of the lightest alternative they could think of.

  Once during that meeting, Ericson and his son did talk. It was towards the end of John’s leave, when Ericson, moved by a hunger for close companionship which he could scarcely define, proposed a bus ride into the country and a long walk over the Cheshire moors. The bus took them inland, through the unlovely Birkenhead suburbs and the ribbon-development that lay beyond; and then, leaving the bus, they struck north-westwards on foot, and walked towards the sea. They walked steadily for four hours, under the warm sunshine, meeting the breeze that blew in from the Irish Sea and the Atlantic itself: their isolation, in these wild surroundings, part of an England they knew and loved, brought them close together and they talked as they might have talked at sea, sharing a watch on a calm night. They talked of the job they were doing, the matter that lay in the forefront of their minds: the things that were happening to the convoys, the ships and friends they had lost, the truth behind the statistics and the bald or misleading newspaper announcements. But it was not until the late afternoon, when they reached the north-west coast and lay on a hillside sloping to the sea, and watched, on the horizon, a line of ships heading out into the Atlantic, that they spoke at last without reservation and without shyness, acknowledging their secret feelings.