by James Hanley
Mr. Walters turned crimson. As much as to say that he, Walters, was a liar. Unthinkable! He picked up his cap. Very well! He had done his duty. He had made his complaint. That was that. There was no more to be said. The man was like a wooden dummy. Yes, a bloody dummy. He went to the door, pulling it open. He was dissatisfied, disgruntled. It was giving way to the crew. A disgraceful thing to do. 'You'll hear other complaints soon, Mr. Dunford, but not from me,' was his parting shot. 'Good afternoon, sir.'
When he had gone Dunford threw his arms into the air and yawned.
'What a greedy voice the fellow has,' he thought. 'I knew it was that. Naturally it's rather a nuisance. It makes one sick. How could one stop human beings from being greedy – from being callous? Well, I'll see to this.' He put on hat and coat and went out. He stood behind the dodger for a few minutes, watching the shimmering surface of water; he felt the hot sun on his neck and shoulders. How warm it was getting. And he saw that the soldiers had been posted.
'Good,' he thought. 'Ringed round with everything but security.' He went down into the saloon. It was deserted. Looking out through the port-hole he could see officers parading up and down the deck. They were laughing – making jokes. Scraps of conversation came to him through the open port, the voices rising to a swell as they passed. Women. The war. Women. He sat down at a table. He heard voices and laughter from the smoke-room. Perhaps he had better dine here to-night. Establish proper contact. Be sociable! It wouldn't last long – a couple of days at the most. Swift birds of passage. He'd glimpse. No more. They'd be gone – taking with them the children from below. Children. What else could he call them? There was a crescendo of laughs from the smoke-room. Somebody must be telling funny stories. I wonder if we will call at Oran? Certainly not for coal – 'Coal.' He smiled – code word for something not so bulky and dirty, maybe. Ah! Yes. He must think about that. And about mines, and those underground toys. Christ! A little sweat of a fellow comes to him crying about his principles – about food. Damn the man for his impertinence.
'I wonder what they expect to do with us, when we have landed these men?' He supposed they'd hang around waiting for orders. He immediately left the room – went straight aft and rudely disturbed one of the two naval ratings occupied with a razor, his red face taut, as though shaving were an ordeal, and the blade as blunt as butter.
The other rating immediately jumped to his feet, saluted and clicked his heels like a clockwork soldier. He came out on deck and stood in front of Mr. Dunford. His mate wiped his face, threw on his jumper, and joined him.
'You are having gun-drill at three o'clock?'
'Yes, sir.' This from the disturbed shaver. 'Three o'clock, sir. That's correct.'
'Are the crew satisfactory?'
'Quoite, sir! They kin 'endle things orl right, sir! My mate says so.'
'Where do you mess?'
'Here, sir! We brings our own grub from the galley, sir. We don't never go for'ard, sir.'
'Damned snobs,' Dunford thought. 'I shall be here for the practice.'
'Yes, sir! Very good, sir!'
'Now you can uncover,' said Dunford. And he watched the men remove the hoods from the six-inch gun. It swung round noiselessly. It shone, the sunlight caught it, it was like silver. It was long, sinister-looking. 'Where's your ammunition?' asked Dunford. He knew where this was in any case. This they uncovered, too. 'You keep it well covered from water?' He looked from one to the other of the ratings. It was easy to see they were astonished. In fact at that moment the word 'simpleton' seemed prominent in their minds. They both wanted to hide their faces and laugh. Bloody old gentleman sailor – and so that's all he knew about guns, eh! And the bloody Navy, they supposed, was just algebra to him – h'm! Standing there ' 'igh and mighty' giving his orders. 'Don't wet your shells. Christ a'mighty.' Dunford was walking away when the elder of the two ratings went up to him.
'Excuse me, sir, may I make a suggestion to you, sir?'
'Certainly! What is it?' Dunford leaned on one leg, blowing his nose into a large black handkerchief. 'Fire away, man. What is it?'
'If I my sigh so, sir, I think we ought to have extra drill. Yer see, sir, none of the men for'ard don't even understand the first principle – "lay, load, fire." They are not what I call very intelligent men, sir.'
Dunford replied, 'The Government pay you for your intelligence. But those men for'ard – no! You see, it is not really their work. They've never done it before. I think the drills are well provided for. If you have any other observations to make, you will get your opportunity when we call at Oran. Your gun will be thoroughly examined by the gunnery officer. Is there anything else?'
'No, sir.'
They watched him walk away. Ought to have been a bloody schoolmaster.
And one returned to his shaving, the other to his year-old copy of The Herald Tribune. Well, they at least knew their job. So, indeed, their expressions seemed to say. In a world where very few people knew their right job, and their right duty, the two ratings appeared perfect. The only flaw was certain grievances they had. Not a day passed but found them comparing the wages paid for ability and sheer inability.
'It's a caution, you know. Bloody caution. Here I gits eighteen something a week to send 'ome to my wife, and lucky to have a few bob for a razzle in port, touching wood, and the likes of them blighters, aye, the likes of them blighters getting pounds and pounds a month. Bloody shop-boys, clerks, and what not, and danger money chucked in an' all. Strike me bloody pink. And when I see them arsing about here doing their gun-drill, holy smoke, I wonder what'll 'appen, supposing a bloody sub came up right now – well—'
'Aye!' said the other. 'Equal pay for equal work. And 'sides that they got to rely on us to get them through. Yes, my bloody sir. They know how important we are – though they hate to admit it. That skipper for instance, he still thinks he's on a cruise. I'll bet he hates being Navy.'
These two men lived a secluded life. They took no part in the life of the ship. They kept to themselves, living exclusively in the area of the poop. They never went for'ard. The men hated them. They only saw each other during wash-down or painting, or the usual gun-drill. They were always so clean, faces and buttons shining, almost rivalling the sun for sheer brilliance, always spick and span. Something quite alien to the ordinary crew. Dirt in the Navy couldn't be honest dirt. Yes sir, the whole fo'c'sle seemed to say – very superior persons. The bosun felt quite incompetent beside them, though he could at least put an eye-splice in wire. These two gunners were for ever cropping up in the conversation. 'They're gunners,' said the bosun, 'We're sailors. When they see a submarine they lay their gun and fire. That's all. And we clean up the ship.' Of course they didn't like the captain much. Everybody realized that.
'Too bloody old-fashioned for them I reckon,' Turner said, 'and he's not in reserve, you know.'
They had their audiences on occasion, however. There was always an interested group of young soldiers on the poop watching the gun being polished. The gunners hardly ever spoke. Perhaps they were too conscious of the superiority of the senior service. Not that the soldiers minded. Their world at the moment was an exciting one – each day brought new surprises, and new hopes. Life was not so monotonous aboard ship, especially when you were on the crest of such exciting possibilities. They crowded the rails on the first clang of any bell, though occasionally there was nothing to be seen, as when the bells were rung and they rushed to the bulwarks just the same. They lay, sat, leaned, smoked, spat, sang, swore, all to the detriment of the oncoming watch who, when they had taken refuge at last in the holds, began cleaning the decks of the rubbish. A special scupper man had been provided to clean out tins, empty cigarette packets, discarded rags that were once handkerchiefs, chocolate wrappers, mineral-water bottles, pieces of chewing-gum. All these things fell from the soldier's hand as he leaned against the bulwarks and surveyed the waste of waters. Dropped from hands with an almost charming nonchalance, when by a slight movement he might have flung his rubbish into
the sea. And as the men washed down the now deserted decks, the low murmur of hundreds of voices came up through the open hatch. It sounded like the sotto voce of many hidden choirs. The heat was getting unbearable. If one looked down the hold a strange sight met one's eyes. A forest of movement, creakings of wood and wire, and emanating from below an almost pesty smell, a smell of sweat and urine and bodies massed together, a crowd of writhing and tortured insects squirming under the almost hidden light, a kind of hell. Stiff like ramrods silhouetted against the skyline, the figures of soldiers on sentry, loaded rifles at the order, four hours alone, divorced from the life of the ship, the orbit of their world, water, immensurable distance, unseen horizons. Their eyes watching for lights, as though in black darkness they might see carved in the very silence their inevitable fate. This sentry-keeping every twenty yards became a joke with the crew, and an affront to the lookout men posted on fo'c'sle-head nest, monkey-bridge and poop. What could they see in the dark? A periscope, the steel finger of a hidden rage? All right in the light of day, but in black darkness?
Mr. Dunford, walking slowly towards his room, decided that now he would turn in. Bradshaw relieved Ericson. Ericson went straight to the mess, had a good dinner, then turned in. A mind unblemished by worry, a body physically tired. He fell asleep almost at once, like a child. Mr. Deveney, still unable to resume duties, was sitting in his stuffy room, coat-collar fastened about his neck. He was reading Alice in Wonderland. His head was clouded by smoke, very thick blue smoke from Barney's No.1 cut. He was feeling much more himself. But for the rhythmic monotony of the throb of the engines he hardly realized he was on ship at all. In any case he was too far away with the White Rabbit even to bother. He hoped to be about his duty in no short time. For'ard, two quartermasters temporarily inflicted with insomnia played draughts. Another stood motionless in the wheel-house. The fourth sat aft very much alone and very conscious of the relief that was due in half an hour. Mr. Tyrer's mate was already out of his amorous adventures. One-half the fo'c'sle snored – the other half were scattered about the deck doing their various jobs—sugi-mugi, painting, cleaning winches, turning ventilators. Soldiers played 'house'—fell into groups, sang, talked, were silent. They stewed in the heat below. Watches came on and off, emerging or entering that mysterious steel door, firemen passing along her decks, some stooped, some erect, garbed in silence that seemed as mysterious amidst the welter of noise and babble as that grey steel door. They passed for'ard tired, looking filthy; they emerged clean, their pasty faces a mockery upon the hundreds about them. Their fo'c'sle alleyway, its bulwarks coated with coal-dust and grease, was in perpetual darkness; the lavatory door hanging on one hinge creaked with every movement of the ship. It swung, crashed, was still for a moment, then crashed again. Men were indifferent. Once they had climbed out of comfortable bunks to run and fasten it. Not now. Nothing short of desperation coupled with a desire to tear it from its hinges and hurl it into the sea could move them. The wind was a surprise. It swung the fo'c'sle door but it also swung something like wine into the ship's cabins and fo'c'sles down into the cavernous 'tween-decks, and it mingled with the odour of sweat and urine and carbolic and was devoured by miraculous wind. But that would not last for long. The ventilators yawned open over the hatches would again lie limp in the calm.
Mr. Walters was sitting on a tin chest in the store-room thinking of nothing in particular except his recent interview with Mr. Dunford, and that had ceased to be particular. Fool that he had been ever to make a complaint! But now he would put a stop to this grumbling business. He would see, too, that his orders were carried out. Failing which he would sack every steward he had. Yes, sir. Every one. Then they'd have to go in the bloody army. Then they'd go out to fight. Aye. That was the bloody fun of it.
The chief engineer snored, dead pipe still in his hand, the day's reckoning lying on the floor outside his bunk.
And up in the nest, Rochdale kept his eyes open, and tried in odd moments to give a thought to Rosie and Annie.
Rochdale was at this very moment smilingly contemplating a present – two presents – to be bought at Oran or Salonika and sent home by the first available ship. He felt the letter in his pocket, written five days now and to be posted at the first port. He was saying to himself that this precious message had better be handed over to Mr. Walters, the chief steward, the official mail-man of A.10. It was getting all rubbed and creased in his pocket. From where he stood he would see everything. Turning he could sweep the ship, the decks, the bridge. He saw officers playing cards at table on the saloon-deck. The shouts of 'Kelly's eye' and 'Clickety-click' came up to his ears. He saw two sailors at number four winch cleaning it. They looked like black insects to him. But nothing amused, the eye became weary of sameness, better the look-ahead over the face of the waters. For here was something simple in pattern, calm and reassuring, a cloudless sky, a hot sun, and the music of lapping water against the plates; and in this set pattern lay the fruit of all the senses, an imperishable smell associated with all the waters of the seven seas, an incessant murmuring sound in their ceaseless roll, and beneath them, well, anything – a submarine, a mine floating or fixed, the eye fashioned its power from the throb of thought; the throb-throb, clockwise, of this thought – 'Look out. Here!' And these were hidden in depth, and below that was nothing. The horizon beckoning always. Mirages of smoke – puffs and spirals of smoke, of ships long and short, tall and small. A.10. moved smoothly through the waters. A floating world where tensity held rein, pursuing and pursued – the one hidden, the one revealed. Space – water – sky. And Rochdale thought of Rochdale and of his wife and child, of his tobacco shop – and it seemed a great gulf separated them. He always had been at sea. But this was different. Yes! This was different. Everybody was different, even his mates. Well, damn his bloody soul, but he knew what he would like to do to the man who started the war. Give him a damn good kick in the bloody pants. Yes, sir! The world of the ship, the life of the ship, moved on. Men slept, ate, worked. Tempers were short, nerves frayed. The danger zone. Men sobbed. Some cried. Rochdale had seen one. A boy. Probably crying for his mother.
'Poor sods! Poor bloody sods!' Rochdale thought. 'Half starved, treated like dirt. How can men stand it?' What made him say that? He didn't know. This ceaseless watching for something you never saw, only felt when you were least expecting it, well, it did get on one's nerves. No! He didn't blame Williams and Turner or O'Grady for washing the left grub under the tap and making sandwiches for the soft, hungry fools who were too hungry or too thick to see the sheer greed and robbery of it. But perhaps it was worse on a 'bleeder', as Williams had said. He ought to know. Rochdale thought it a funny name to give a hospital-ship: still, all in all, he supposed he'd have to agree it was better seeing something funny in it. Like the feller shot in the behind getting away from the River Elydi. Well, you had to laugh or go bloody balmy.
They'd be up to the neck in it in two days' time. No doubt about it at all. The last time out this way they had got a nasty packet in the fo'c'sle head, killing five men. At least you could do something with a gun. 'Beggar it, anyhow! Here you are ninety feet in the air, staring at nothing save bloody stupid water. Well, you have to amuse yourself some way.'
'Hey ho! Hey ho!' Rochdale looked down. There was the relief almost on top of him. 'Seen anything?'
'Nowt! Not even a cotton-reel!' Rochdale said. 'Better luck to you, but don't forget to call us if you feel a bump. I sleep like an ox.' As he stepped down on to the deck he was confronted by a soldier.
'I say!' Rochdale exclaimed. 'What's up! Have you transferred?' It was Williams dressed up in soldier's uniform.
'I'm going below,' he said. 'O'Grady and Turner are already down there. We've got a Crown and Anchor board, are you coming?'
'I've already said "no"!' replied Rochdale. 'I'm going to my bunk. To sleep. If you fellers get caught you'll know about it.'
Williams laughed, showing his dirty, greenish teeth.
'They've got money. The
y'll never have a chance to spend it. Besides, we'll make money. Like Walters. And think of Salonika. Wouldn't you like to sleep with the Queen of Greece? Now's your bloody chance, man.'
'Hell!' said Rochdale, and went on to the fo'c'sle.
The heat put him off his food. He drank some lime-juice. The fo'c'sle was crawling with bugs, flies buzzed. Not a breath of wind. If one could open a port – but that was impossible, with the damned lead-lights screwed down. Half the watch off were absent. Down below with the others. Making their little bit. Well, the war was a cake-walk with some people. But he wasn't in on it, no, not even the thought of a bloody pub after the war was over, not even that would tempt. He had his nine-pounds-ten a month. The soldiers had a bob a day. And Williams wants all the bobs he can get. Well, he could have them. He undressed. The starboard watch came in, said, 'Hallo Rochdale', one after the other – one collected cigarettes, another a pipe, another took a sip at the lime-juice. They drifted out again. Rochdale had just climbed into his bunk when there was a terrific clanging of the bell, followed by A.10's whistle. 'All hands out! All hands out!'
CHAPTER FIVE
'WHO is the mail-man this trip?' Rochdale was asking. Dog-watch in the fo'c'sle.
'We can't be far off Anywhere and that's where we're going, my lucky, bloody lads, for they're jabbing 'em like hell with the needle. Three cheers for the Salvation Army!'
'I say, does anybody know who the mail-man is this trip?' asked Rochdale.
'They're having a swell dinner to-night. Celebrating, I suppose. Old man will be there, too, and all the officers and the engineers. Walters has lost a pound in weight already. "And they'll take the Pen-in-su-la. The bloody Pen-in-su-la!" Lord Jesus Christ! I thought I heard a shot then, but perhaps it's Mr. Walters breaking wind. This day will certainly break his heart. Well, my lucky lads, bunko for bloody me!'