HMS Marlborough Will Enter Harbour (1947)

by Monsarrat, Nicholas

  Now for the course. The magnetic course, it must be: the master gyro-compass had been wrecked, and they would have to depend on the magnetic compasses, trusting that the explosion and the shifting of ballast had not put them out. South-east would do it. South-east for four days. Butt of Lewis was a good mark for them (he checked it on the chart): a flashing light, visible fourteen miles. That would bring them in all right. And what a landfall ...

  When he finally laid down his pencil he was still in the same state of exaltation as had possessed him when he saw the lights come on. The desire to sleep had vanished: impelled to some sort of activity, he left the shelter of the asdic hut and began to pace up and down outside. By God, once they got going there would be no stopping them … What did four days matter? – they could keep going for four weeks if it meant Marlborough making harbour in the end. There was no depression now, no morbid brooding about sacrifices or the cost in men. It was Marlborough against the sea and the enemy, and tomorrow would see her cheating them both. He looked up at the sky, clear and frosty: a night for action, for steering small, for laughing and killing at the same time. The first night of 1943. And tomorrow they would sail into the new year like a prizefighter going in for the finish. Nothing was going to stop them now.

  Midday found them still drifting, still powerless. A succession of minor breakdowns involving in turn the fans and the steering engine held up everything during the morning: at noon a defect in one of the oil pumps led to more delay. The suspended activity, the anticlimax after the first rush of feeling, was a severe test of patience: it was with difficulty that the Captain, walking the upper deck, managed to exhibit a normal confidence. Part of the morning was taken up with the burying of two more men who had died during the night, but for the remainder he had little to occupy him; and as the afternoon advanced and the light declined, a dull stupor, matching his own indolence, seemed to envelop the ship. Stricken with the curse of immobility, she accepted the dusk as if it were all that her languor deserved.

  Then, as swiftly as that first torpedo strike, the good news came. Chief, presenting himself in the wardroom with a cheerful grin announced that his repairs were complete: he used the classic formula, ‘Ready to proceed, sir!’ and he seemed to shed ten years in saying it. The Captain got up slowly, smiling in answer.

  ‘Thank you, Chief … A remarkable effort.’

  ‘We’re all touching wood, sir.’ But he was almost boyish in his good humour.

  ‘I want to start very gently. Twenty or thirty revs, not more. Will you put a reliable hand on the bulkhead?’

  ‘I’ll go myself, sir. The Chief ERA can take charge in the engine room.’

  ‘All right.’ The Captain raised his voice. ‘Pantry!’

  The leading steward appeared.

  ‘Ask Petty Officer Adams to come up to the bridge.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘I’ll just ring “Slow ahead” when I’m ready, Chief. We can do the rest by voice-pipe. If you hear anything at all from the bulkhead, stop engine straight away, of your own accord.’

  Within a minute or so he was on the bridge, the signalman by his side, Adams in the wheelhouse below. Leaning across the faintly lit compass he called down the voice-pipe: ‘How’s her head down there?’

  ‘South, eighty west, sir.’

  The two compasses were in agreement. ‘Right … Our course is south-east, Adams. Bring her round very slowly when we begin to move.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Adams’s voice, like the signalman’s hard breathing at his elbow, reflected the tension that was binding them all.

  The Captain took a deep breath. ‘Slow ahead starboard.’

  ‘Slow ahead starboard, sir.’

  The telegraph rang. There was a pause, then a slight tremor, then the beginning of a smooth pulsation. Very slowly Marlborough began to move. A thin ripple of bow wave stood out in the luminous twilight: then another. In the compass bowl the floating disc stirred, edging away to the right. The ship started her turn, a slow, barely perceptible turn, 125 degrees to port in a wide half-circle nearly a mile across.

  Presently he called down the voice-pipe: ‘Steering all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Five degrees of port wheel on.’

  The engine room bell rang, and he bent to the voice-pipe, his throat constricted. ‘What is it?’

  From the background of noise below an anonymous voice said: ‘Message from the engineer, sir. “Nothing to report”.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  A long pause, with nothing but smooth sliding movement. Then from Adams, suddenly: ‘Course – south-east, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  They were started. Forty-eight hours after the torpedoing: two days and two nights adrift. Course south-east.

  The wind, now growing cold on his cheek, was like a caress.

  That first night, those first fourteen hours of darkness on the bridge, had the intensity and the disquiet of personal dedication. It was as if he were taking hold of Marlborough – a sick, uncertain, but brave accomplice – and nursing her through the beginnings of a desperate convalescence. He rarely stirred from his chair, because he could see all he wanted from there – the sagging fo’c’sle, the still rigid bows – and he could hear and feel all the subtleties of her movement forward: but occasionally he stepped to the wing of the bridge and glanced aft, where their pale wake glittered and spread. Of all that his eyes could rest on, that was the most heartening … Then back to his chair, and the stealthy advance of the bows, and the perpetual humming undercurrent that came from the engine room voice-pipe, as comforting as the steady beat of an aircraft engine in mid-ocean. He was not in the least tired: sustained by love and hope, he felt ready to lend to Marlborough all his reserves of endurance.

  At midnight the Chief came up to join him. His report was good: the engine had settled down, the bulkhead seemed unaffected by their forward movement. They discussed the idea of increasing speed, and decided against it: the log showed a steady three knots, sufficient for his plans.

  ‘There’s no point in taking bigger chances,’ said the Captain finally. ‘She’s settled down so well that it would be stupid to fool about with the revs. I think we’ll leave things as they are.’

  ‘Suits me, sir. I’ll be a lot easier, seeing how short-handed we are down there.’

  ‘You’re working watch-and-watch, I suppose?’

  ‘Got to, sir, with only two ERAs. I’d stand a watch myself, but there’s all the auxiliary machinery to look after.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘How about you, sir? Shall I give you a spell?’

  ‘No, I’m all right, thanks, Chief. You turn in now, and get some sleep.’ The Captain smiled. ‘I always seem to be saying that to you. I hope you’re doing it.’

  Chief smiled back. ‘Trust me, sir. Good night.’

  Presently, up the voice-pipe, came Adams’s voice: ‘All right to hand over, sir?’

  ‘Who’s taking the wheel?’

  ‘Leading Seaman Tapper, sir.’

  ‘All right, Adams. What does the steering feel like now?’

  ‘A bit lumpy, sir. It takes a lot to bring her round if she starts swinging off. But it’s nothing out of the way, really.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone except you or Tapper to take the wheel until daylight.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  It meant a long trick at the wheel for both these two; but inexpert steering might put too great a strain on the hull, and he wanted its endurance to be fully demonstrated before running any risks.

  A moment later he heard the confirmatory ‘Course southeast – starboard engine slow ahead – Leading Seaman Tapper on the wheel,’ as Adams was relieved. Then the bridge settled down to its overall watchful tranquillity again.

  Indeed, his only other visitor, save for Bridger with a two-hourly relay of cocoa, was the doctor, who came up to tell him that the midshipman was dead. It was news which he had been waiting for, news with no element of surprise in it; but coming at a time of tensio
n and weariness, towards the dawn, when he was cold and stiff and his eyes felt rimmed with tiredness, it was profoundly depressing. The midshipman, as Captain’s secretary, had spent a great deal of time with him: he was a cheerful, still irresponsible young man who had the makings of a first-class sailor. Now, at daylight, they would be burying him – and that only after alternate periods of agony and stupor, which had robbed death of every dignity. This, the latest and the most touching of the sacrifices that had been demanded of them, destroyed for the moment all the night’s achievement.

  Dawn restored it: a grey sunless dawn, only a lightening of the dull arch above them: but the new and blessed day for all that. As the gloom round them retreated and he was able to see, first the full outline of Marlborough’s hull, then the shades of colour in the water, and then the horizon all round them, the triumph of the moment grew and warmed within him, dissolving all other feeling. By God, he thought, we can keep going forever like this … They were forty miles to the good already: there were only 260 more – three more nights, three more heartening dawns such as this: and Marlborough, creeping ahead over the smooth, paling sea, was as strong as ever. If they could hold on to that (he touched the wood of his chair) then they were home.

  At eight o’clock, the change of the watch, he called Leading Seaman Tapper to the bridge, and told him to turn over the wheel to the regular quartermaster and to take over as officer of the watch. It was irregular (he smiled as he realized how irregular), but he had to get some rest and there was no one else available to take his place: Chief was owed many hours of sleep, the doctor had been up all night with the midshipman. Adams had been on the wheel since four o’clock. It simply could not be helped.

  He lay down at the back of the bridge, drew the hood of his duffle coat over his face, and closed his eyes against the frosty light. It was such bliss to relax at last, to sink away from care, and he found himself grinning foolishly. Fourteen hours on the bridge: and God knows how many the night before … He would have to watch that. Might get the doc. to fix him up. Leading Seaman Tapper – Acting Leading Seaman Tapper … No, it couldn’t be helped. In any case there was nothing to guard, nothing to watch for, nothing for them to fight with. Now, they had simply to endure.

  Chapter Four

  It was at midday that the wind began to freshen, from the south.

  The noise, slight as it was, woke the Captain. It began as no more than an occasional wave-slap against the bows, and a gentle lifting to the increased swell; but into his deep drugged sleep it stabbed like a sliver of ice. He lay still for a moment, getting the feel of the ship again, guessing at what had happened: by the way Marlborough was moving, the wind was slightly off the bow, and already blowing crisply. Then he stood up, shook off his blankets, and walked to the front of the bridge.

  It was as he had thought: a fresh breeze, curling the wavetop, was now meeting them, about twenty degrees off the starboard bow. Of the two, that was the better side, as it kept the torpedoed area under shelter: but the angle was still bad, it could still impart to their progress a twisting movement which might become a severe strain. While he was considering it, Adams came up to relieve Tapper, and they all three stood in silence for a moment, watching the waves as they slapped and broke against Marlborough’s lowered bows.

  ‘You’d better go back, on the wheel, Adams,’ said the Captain presently. ‘If this gets any worse we’ll have to turn directly into it, and slow down.’

  It did get worse, in the next hour he spent in his chair, and when the first wave, breaking right over the bows, splashed the fo’c’sle itself, he rang the bell to the engine room. Chief himself answered.

  ‘I’ll have to take the revs off, Chief, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It’s getting too lively altogether. What are they now?’

  ‘Thirty-five, sir.’

  ‘Make that twenty. Have you got a hand on the bulkhead?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ll put one on.’

  ‘Right.’ He turned to the wheelhouse voice-pipe. ‘Steer south, twenty-five east, Adams. And tell me if she’s losing steerage way. I want to keep the wind dead ahead.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The alteration, and the decrease in speed, served them well for an hour: then it suddenly seemed to lose its effect, and their movements became thoroughly strained and awkward. He decreased speed again, to fifteen revolutions – bare steerage way – but still the awkwardness and the distress persisted: it became a steady thumping as each wave hit them, a recurrent lift-and-crunch which might have been specially designed to threaten their weakest point. It was now blowing steadily and strongly from the south: he listened to the wind rising with a murderous attention. At about half past three it backed suddenly to the south-east, and he followed it: it meant they were heading for home again – the sole good point in a situation rapidly deteriorating. He looked at the seas running swiftly past them, and felt the ones breaking at the bows, and he knew that all their advantage was ebbing away from them. This was how it had been when he had been ready to abandon ship, three nights ago; it was this that was going to destroy them.

  Quick steps rang on the bridge ladder, and he turned. It was the Chief: in the failing light his face looked grey and defeated.

  ‘That bulkhead can’t take this, sir,’ he began immediately. ‘I’ve been in to have a look, and it’s started working again – there’s the same leak down that seam. We’ll have to stop.’

  The Captain shook his head. ‘That’s no good, Chief. If we stop in this sea, we’ll just bang ourselves to bits.’ A big wave hit them as he spoke, breaking down on the bows, driving them under. Marlborough came up from it very slowly indeed. ‘We’ve got to keep head to wind, at all costs.’

  ‘Can we go any slower, sir?’

  ‘No. She’ll barely steer as it is.’

  Another wave took them fair and square on the fo’c’sle, sweeping along the upper deck as Marlborough sagged into the trough. The wind tugged at them. It was as if the deathbed scene were starting all over again.

  The Chief looked swiftly at the Captain. ‘Could we go astern into it?’

  ‘Probably pull the bows off, Chief.’

  ‘Better than this, sir. This is just murder.’

  ‘Yes … All right … She may not come round.’ He leant over to the voice-pipe. ‘Stop starboard.’

  ‘Stop starboard, sir.’ The telegraph clanged.

  ‘Adams, I’m going astern, and up into the wind stern first. Put the wheel over hard a-starboard.’

  ‘Hard a-starboard, sir.’

  ‘Slow astern starboard.’

  The bell clanged again. ‘Starboard engine slow astern, wheel hard a-starboard, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  They waited. Those few minutes before Marlborough gathered stern way were horrible. She seemed to be standing in the jaws of the wind and sea, mutely undergoing a wild torture. She came down upon one wave with so solid a crash that it seemed impossible that the whole bows should not be wrenched off: a second, with a cruelty and malice almost deliberate, hit them a treacherous slewing blow on the port side. Slowly Marlborough backed away, shaking and staggering as if from a mortal thrust. The compass faltered, and started very slowly to turn: then as the wind caught the bows she began to swing sharply. He called out: ‘Watch it, Adams! Meet her! Bring her head on to north-west,’ and his hands as he gripped the pedestal were as white as the compass-card. The last few moments, before Marlborough was safely balanced with her stern into the teeth of the wind, were like the sweating end of a nightmare.

  Behind him the Chief sighed deeply. ‘Thank God for that. What revs do you want, sir?’

  ‘We’ll try twenty.’

  It was by now almost dark. Marlborough settled down to her awkward progress: both Adams and then Tapper wrestled steadily to keep her stern to the wind, while the waves mounted and steepened and broke solidly upon the quarter-deck. That whole night, which the Captain spent on the bridge, had a desperate quality of unrelieved distress. All the
time the wind blew with great force from the south-east, all the time the seas ran against them as if powered by a living hate, and the vicious spray lashed the funnel and the bridge structure. At first light it began to snow: the driving clouds settled and lay thick all over them, crusting the upper deck in total icy whiteness. Marlborough might have been sailing backwards off a Christmas cake … but still, with unending, hopeless persistence, she butted her way southwards.

  Five days later – one hundred and twenty-one hours – she was still doing it. The snow was gone, and the gale had eased to a stiff southerly breeze; but the sea was still running too high for them to risk turning their bows into it, and so they maintained, stern first, their ludicrous progress. The whole afterpart of the ship had been drenched with water ever since they turned; the wardroom had been made uninhabitable by a leaking skylight, the alleyway in which the men slept was six inches awash with a frothy residue of spray. It was hardly to be wondered at, thought the Captain as he slopped through it on his way back to the bridge: poor old Marlborough hadn’t been designed for this sort of thing.

  He was very tired. He had hardly had two consecutive hours of sleep in the last five days; the strain had settled in his face like a tight and ugly mask. The doctor had done his best to relieve him, by taking an occasional spell on the bridge when the remaining four serious patients could be left: but even this seemed of no avail – his weariness, and the hours of concentration on Marlborough’s foolish movements, pursued him like a hypnosis, twitching his eyelids when he sought sleep, making his scalp prickle and the brain inside flutter. Hope of rest was destroyed by a twanging tension such as sometimes made him want to scream aloud. When he sat down in his chair on the fifth night of sternway – the ninth since they were torpedoed – and hunched his stiff shoulders against the cold, he was conscious of nothing save an appalling lassitude. Even to stare and search ahead, in quest of those shorelights that never showed themselves, was effort enough to make him feel sick in doing it.