The Cruel Sea

by Nicholas Monsarrat

  ‘Was it really two hours ago?’ she asked innocently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Puritanism indeed . . .’

  ‘I refuse to be put in the wrong over that . . .’ Attracted by a new and delicate sound, he turned towards the window. ‘Do you know,’ he asked after a pause, ‘that it is snowing?’

  She raised herself to look out of the window, showing her breast and shoulders a warm glowing white against the coarse sheets. ‘How lovely!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now no one can reach us for days . . .’

  ‘For ever,’ he said. ‘Snow on – we have eggs, we have many things in tins, we have a large ham from Canada . . .’ The isolation which had threatened to be an embarrassment on the previous night, now seemed the prime blessing of their lives. ‘Snow on, snow us up completely. Leave us here in peace.’

  ‘And your war?’

  ‘The war,’ he corrected, ‘need never reach Loch Fyne, and we need never see it again . . . My darling,’ he said, lying back once more, ‘it is now seven o’clock, it is snowing hard. You said: “What shall we do today?” and I said – what did I say?’

  She leant over him, confidingly close again, swiftly warm and alive, as if what she had heard in his voice were linked to something deep within her. ‘I seem to remember,’ she murmured, ‘that you said: “This”.’

  ‘What is “this”?’

  ‘This.’

  She had beckoned him sensually, that first night, and she never ceased to do so, whether it was by a smile or a look or a movement, whether by a motionless ecstasy or some candid intonation of her voice – as when she said, stroking the smooth skin of his chest: ‘You must light lots of fires again – I can’t tell you how few clothes I’m going to wear, during the next nine days . . .’ For it had a deep, an astonishing strength for her, too. Occasionally she would surprise him by her wildness in lovemaking, the tender and tormented clenching of her body. ‘My storm,’ he would whisper at the end – and as if that were a signal, he would feel the engulfing wave of her passion begin to break under him, and as if that were a signal, his own would break with hers, surging together upon the shore of their delight.

  During all those days and nights, the dreamlike haze in which they moved seemed to grow deeper, transfixing, submerging them both. Her eyes, her voice, her cordial body all ravished him; and she also, guiding and submitting at the same time, seemed able to make of his body a weapon for an extreme private rapture.

  They often became, for each other, special people not alive before.

  8

  When, back on the Clyde, they had to part – Julie to her austere office, Lockhart to sea again – he wrote her in farewell a letter of love and deep gratitude, marked here and there by a tender reminiscent carnality – the sort of thoughts he was bound to have, after so moving an interlude. It ended:

  I don’t think there is anything more to write except that you have become incalculably dear to me, and that the things it is grounded in are the things I want above all others. They are NOT all centred round that region of your body, for which I am sure there is some startling piece of Wren’s slang; but it’s idle to deny that they include it, as closely and as happily as it, last night, included me. I now adore you.

  PART SIX

  1944: Winning

  1

  Buckingham Palace was not looking its best on that wet January morning: the bare trees dripped without ceasing, the Royal Standard clung forlornly to its pole, and the fallen masonry and boarded-up windows in the forecourt showed that His Majesty shared with his subjects not only their exposure to the hazards of war, but also their inability to get the after-effects repaired in anything under two years. On Grace Ericson and her mother, however, none of this could have the smallest effect: the day for them was indestructibly bright. They were both decked in every kind of finery: they were there by invitation of the Lord Chamberlain himself; and they were to see their nearest and dearest not only shaking hands with the King, but possibly even talking to him as well. For this Investiture was a personal occasion, arranged (it seemed) almost specifically on their behalf: to it, Commander George Eastwood Ericson, d.s.o., d.s.c., r.n.r., had been bidden, in order to receive the first-named decoration from the King’s own hand.

  It was very crowded: the anteroom was thronged with people, and the queues making for the main Audience Chamber recalled a successful film show. ‘I thought you said there was only two relatives allowed,’ grumbled Grace’s mother, hemmed in by the slowly-moving mass. She looked round her belligerently, standing on her rights as a hero’s mother-in-law. ‘It’s my belief there’s been some shinnanakin’.’

  ‘Hush, mother,’ said Grace, not for the first or the last time. ‘You must behave yourself, really – think of what George would say!’

  The old lady snorted. ‘George wouldn’t like us to be pushed and pulled about like this, that I do know – are you sure you’ve got the tickets?’

  Grace did not reply: for her, though she was as gratified to be there as her mother, this was a different sort of occasion altogether. It was not just a show, not something you queued up for and complained about: it was a triumphant moment and a devout one – and she wasn’t going to share that feeling with anyone and she wasn’t going to have it spoilt either. She was immensely proud of what her husband had done, the more so because she knew what it had cost him: he deserved his medals, he deserved to have the King pin them on himself – and the meeting between him and the King was the sign she had long hoped for, a solemn ceremony to mark their compact, and to acknowledge the fact that George was working himself nearly to death, and was often in terrible danger, and never thought twice about it because the King was party to the bargain . . . She hoped that, behind the scenes, they were already making a real fuss of him. This was his second medal, after all.

  At that moment, as it happened, a very gentlemanly fellow in black breeches was saying briskly to Ericson and the others: ‘D.S.Os and above, fall in, in two lines on the left.’

  The ceremony got under way with precise formality. The audience settled itself, the King appeared on the dais, the vanguard of those who were to be honoured appeared in the doorway, while others pressed behind them. They were a mixed contingent, here and there contrasted in a somewhat moving way: among the leaders, a young airman with a cherubic face received the Victoria Cross, an old grizzled Admiral got some superior sort of knighthood, a soldier with scarred face and dark glasses groped his way forward to receive the George Medal. They came in procession, four deep, rank upon rank of accomplishment and valour and distinction; there were nervous young servicemen whose bravery had clearly petered out far short of this personal appearance, elderly colonels with the ribbons of many other wars upon their breasts, prosperous old Knights recalling Falstaff at his most expansive . . . What a lot of different people, thought Grace Ericson – and why were so many of them in front of George?

  ‘Where is he?’ the old lady grumbled by her side. ‘They’re keeping him back, you mark my words.’

  ‘Hush, mother, do,’ said Grace. ‘He’ll be here in a minute.’

  As she spoke, Ericson appeared round the edge of the doorway, moving forward between an RAF squadron leader and a red-haired, red-faced leading-stoker who was blinking and sweating as if he had just run a hundred yards under bright hot lights. George looked tired and old, thought Grace, staring at him avidly; she felt prouder still now that she saw him standing in the King’s presence, and the D.S.O. and the D.S.C. showed that other people were proud of him too; but the price of her pride was etched all too plainly in his lined face and greying, thinning hair, and she felt like crying as she marked them. For the trouble was that, caught in this endless war, he might go on and on, getting older and older, more and more tired, until – until . . . Even now, there was no final figure set to this price he was paying: the total, the moment of quittance, seemed to recede whenever it was sighted, mocking them both every time the calendar came round again. The hard years of the war still followed one
upon the other, with no respite in view: George was getting on for forty-nine, and he looked sixty – and now it was the start of yet another year – twelve more months to test and drain him. Perhaps this year would be the last one, perhaps not: they said that D-day was coming soon, but they’d been saying that for a long time, and nothing happened except the same war, the same bitter struggle which was using up people like her husband, making them old men a score of years before their time . . . She turned away, blinking, and whispered to her mother: ‘Isn’t he getting old?’

  The old lady reacted with strange fierceness. ‘I’m sure he’s got a right to! Think of all his worries, and so much to do all the time. And then his brother being killed like that, and the Palace being bombed, on top of it all.’

  After a moment, Grace whispered: ‘I mean George, mother.’

  ‘Don’t talk about the King like that,’ returned her mother, more tartly still. ‘You ought to be ashamed!’

  Grace dropped the subject. Other people besides her husband were getting old. And the moment was at hand when neither of them should speak a word.

  They both held their breath as Ericson was honoured.

  2

  The ship worked for some months of the new year, the fifth in the dreary succession of the war; and then, for Saltash and her crew, there came a strange and sudden holiday. They were at St John’s, Newfoundland, waiting between convoys, when the news reached them; the brief signal told them that they were to have a refit, with the long leave that went with it. But they were not to return home for the occasion; they were to dock on the opposite side of the Atlantic, in the Brooklyn Navy Yard in the heart of lower New York, and there enjoy a two month rest.

  ‘New York!’ said Lockhart, when Ericson showed him the signal. ‘What’s wrong with the Clyde?’

  ‘Too crowded, probably,’ answered Ericson. Then he smiled. ‘You can’t have all the luck all the time, you know.’

  Lockhart met the smile, ruefully acknowledging what had been in his mind. ‘I won’t see her for ages,’ he said glumly.

  ‘War is hell,’ said Ericson, with cheerful conviction. He welcomed the prospect of the refit, wherever it was to take place, and the news that they were to spend it in novel and attractive surroundings had put him in a holiday mood already.

  ‘America,’ grumbled Lockhart again, frowning down at the signal. ‘Never heard of the place. What do they know about repairing ships?’

  But that criticism, at least, did not survive their arrival, four days later, off Long Island Sound, and their sailing past the Statue of Liberty, up to the fabulous skyline of New York and the entrance to the East River, and into the teeming maw of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Not less than anyone on board, Lockhart found himself reacting to the first impact of America. The country might, from the English point of view, be rather a long way from the centre of affairs; but, judging by the evidence so far, going by size and noise alone, these people must be able to do things . . . The impression of efficiency was presently confirmed, when Saltash came alongside and was invaded by a horde of quick-moving, entirely silent men who paid no attention to anyone on board, but simply set to work tearing things to bits.

  ‘Now just you take a rest, Commander,’ said one of the dockyard officials, when Lockhart asked some questions about shore lighting. ‘We’ll fix your ship up real pretty . . . Know what I’d do, if I were you?’ he added, with no alteration of his expression. ‘I’d get to hell out, and come back around six weeks from now.’

  ‘It’s so difficult,’ said Lockhart later to Scott-Brown. ‘You don’t even know whether they’re being rude or not . . .’

  ‘It works both ways,’ said Scott-Brown judicially. ‘They don’t know whether our feelings are hurt.’

  As soon as they were docked, and before any shore leave was granted, Ericson addressed his crew on the quarterdeck.

  ‘We’re here,’ he began, ‘primarily because the shipyards at home are too busy to take us for refit, but that doesn’t mean that we’ll do badly out of the exchange. I’m quite sure that this shipyard will look after us just as well as one on the Clyde or at Liverpool – and if anyone thinks otherwise, I want him to keep it to himself. There are two or three things,’ he went on, ‘that I want to say about our stay here. First is that, as soon as we go ashore, we are guests of this country – and guests have to behave themselves especially well, they have to fit into their host’s house and into his habits, even though they don’t find it easy. Anything else is bad manners – and don’t forget that people here will judge England by the way you behave. If you are noisy and rude, that means that England will get the same reputation . . . Secondly, no matter how differently things are done here, don’t criticise them out loud – and above all don’t laugh at them until you’re quite sure that Americans are prepared to laugh at them too. It’s even possible that they do some things better here than they do in England – and even if that’s not true, it doesn’t do any good to make comparisons about different methods and different standards.’ He paused. ‘The other thing I want to mention is your own personal behaviour. I hope you’ll make lots of friends. But don’t try to overdo it, especially where women are concerned. Just because you’re in a foreign country, that doesn’t mean that every woman you meet is a potential prostitute, and that you can treat her like one. Treat women as you would at home – because they are the same as the women at home: there are the good ones and the bad ones, and they’re in exactly the same proportion as they are in London or Glasgow. You’ll find,’ he ended, ‘that the beer here is rather weak, but the whisky’s rather strong – and cheap. If you want to get drunk, do it in private. Don’t fall flat on your face in Fifth Avenue, because that’s liable to get into the newspapers, and’ – he became briefly stern – ‘no one in Royal Navy uniform, and especially no one from this ship, is going to get into the newspapers, in that connexion or in any other.’

  3

  The radio building was large, shiny, and bustling: the studio where Lockhart was being interviewed resembled an aquarium, through whose glass walls other men and women, ridiculously silent, moved their mouths like suppliant fish.

  ‘Just a short talk,’ said the programme organiser, a grey man with a look about him of secret and permanent torture. ‘But plenty of action, of course. Let’s see, now . . . Have you sunk a lot of submarines?’

  ‘Only two,’ said Lockhart.

  ‘Gee, that’s too bad. But we’ll think of something . . . Have you worked with the US Navy at all?’

  ‘We’ve run across one or two of your destroyers. We haven’t worked in a group with them.’

  ‘It’ll come, it’ll come,’ said the other man, with a faint flicker of encouragement. ‘Just as soon as you get yourselves organised . . . How long have you been on combat duty?’

  Lockhart hesitated. ‘What do you mean by combat duty, exactly?’

  The radio man stared. ‘Gee, Commander, you’re out of touch aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lockhart, ‘I’m terribly out of touch.’

  ‘Well, I want to do this programme, anyway. It’s a cinch from the Allied solidarity angle. And they said you gave them a right smart talk yesterday, at – where was it?’

  ‘Women’s Section of the Bundles for Britain organisation.’

  ‘Sounds like Mother’s Day in hell . . . Well, let’s get something down on paper.’

  In a corner of the huge popular restaurant on Times Square, Scott-Brown, the doctor – correct, austere, self-sufficient – was enjoying a singularly tender steak. At his side the waitress, a buxom young woman dressed in frilly apple-green, watched him intently, hand on hip. Each time he conveyed anything to his mouth, her interest seemed to reach a new crescendo.

  When he became aware of the scrutiny, Scott-Brown turned and smiled. The waitress answered the smile, with a ready twist of shoulders and hips.

  ‘You a Britisher?’ she asked, after a pause.

  ‘Yes,’ said Scott-Brown politely, ‘I’m from England.
’

  The waitress nodded, enormously pleased. ‘Can tell you boys a mile away, just as soon as you start on the meat dish. Know why?’

  ‘No,’ said Scott-Brown. ‘How do you recognise us?’

  The waitress pointed at his left hand, then at his right. ‘Knife and fork stuff,’ she answered. ‘Both hands together, like you was driving a team or something. No one else does that. Kills me every time.’

  Midshipman Holt stepped into the automatic elevator behind a large tough-looking woman with blue-white hair. They were alone in the elevator, and there was silence as it began its descent. Then the woman, who had been eyeing the two red patches and the twisted braid, denoting his rank, which marked Holt’s lapels, said suddenly: ‘Say, can you tell me something?’

  ‘Certainly, madam,’ said the midshipman, who had dined well for his age.

  ‘It’s those things on your jacket.’ She pointed to the red collar patches. ‘What’s it mean?’

  ‘I’m not really allowed to tell anyone,’ said the midshipman.

  ‘No kidding?’ said the woman. ‘I think you British are the cutest things.’

  ‘But I’ll tell you,’ said the midshipman, with an alarming leer. ‘It means the secret service – MI5.’

  ‘No kidding?’ said the woman again. She beamed at him. ‘So young, too.’

  The man, a United States marine corporal with a sodden face and two rows of medals, stood in Allingham’s path, swaying slightly. The crowds on the sidewalk moved past them, carefully indifferent to what was going on. There were plenty of such scenes on the streets of downtown New York, and they were good scenes to avoid.