by James Hanley
'Mr. Bradshaw, I am going below for an hour. Send for me if the slightest unusual thing happens.' He went away, hands to his head. He had a splitting headache. The anxiety! That's what it was. The anxiety. He left Bradshaw to the control, and to certain memories of his that came shooting up as he thought over what Dunford had said. Let me see. There were landings near De Totto Battery, at Beach X, at Beach W, at Morto Bay. How long ago it all seemed. Like centuries. Ghosts. Unspeakable ghosts. When he looked ahead he saw a shape. That would be the Hartspill. They would lie on her stern quarter in the morning. Wait again. Perhaps whilst those responsible tried to remember the last order they had given. Well, he'd better laugh. Laugh it into oblivion, and get oneself ready for eventualities big and little, comic or tragic, useful or useless. He went to Ericson. He half lay over the bridge, elbows resting upon it, head in his hands.
'What are you thinking about?' asked Bradshaw. He nudged him.
'Nothing,' Ericson said, without moving.
'Well, that's a healthy sign, anyhow. Listen, when we get to Alex, we must go ashore and have a beano. A damn good tuck in. And we'll see one of those priceless shows they stage there.'
'Will we?' Ericson said. 'Oh, that'll be fine. Hurry up, war. Hurry up, Alexandria,' he said, laughing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
'EVENIN', mates.' These two words were smothered and lost in the concourse of sounds that whirled about the hold. 'Evenin', mates.' The speaker stood leaning against a stanchion, legs spread apart, hands in his pockets. He gave a short laugh. Hee, hee! And said again: 'Evenin', mates.' He looked round. Everywhere faces. Bunks creaked, men talked, water ran from traps, tins rattled. In a corner somebody sang. The man against the stanchion said, 'And what about the lucky old sergeant-major, mate? What say?' He laughed. Hee, hee!
Soldiers sat in groups talking, some lay flat, a sickly yellow light shone down on them. He stood watching them, saying nothing. Some were writing letters. Others were going through packs, making inventories of their belongings. Some were isolated, prisoned in dark corners. But the man against the stanchion did not notice them. He was listening now. Listening very intently, for he thought he heard a voice, a well-known voice, talking, punctuating this with laughter. Suddenly he moved away, walking aft, and stopped by a ladder. There was a man standing there. He seemed to be studying his feet, he stared at them so intently. He was not one with the others, he was adrift.
'Listen, cancer-face, I thought you were keeping douse in this bloody joint!' The speaker shook the man. He seemed to be drunk. 'What's the matter with you? I thought you were keeping douse.'
The man addressed made to move into the light but the other pushed him back. 'Goddam, don't you know that fox is on the next deck? I heard him. Vesuvius, or Mr. Bloody Herring, whatever you like to call yourself, this is the last chance we'll have. These fellers are saying ta-ta bloody soon! I can't open up unless that sod clears out. I can hear him now. Laughing.'
Williams whispered in the other's ear. 'We've a chance of picking up a few quid. You know how the land lies. Well, poxy face, you can always get their temperature! It's the last night aboard. They won't give a hand. They'll lay like hell! But what are we going to do about Walters? He's stuck in that goddam pantry selling his muck to these fellers. Well?'
'I'll go along,' Vesuvius said. 'I'll get him out of here somehow.' He went away.
Williams walked back to B deck, leaned against the stanchion. Said: 'Evenin', mates. Anybody for the sailor's hook to-night?' He had a dice in his pocket. He rattled it in the match-box. Men sat up in bunks, looked across at him. When are we landing in Turkey?' one asked.
'Any old bloody minute, mate,' Williams said. 'And now's your chance to pick up something from the lucky old sergeant-major, and buy yourself Turkish cigars.' He withdrew the canvas sheet from his pocket and spread it out upon the iron deck. He said in a kind of frightened whisper: 'Come on, my lucky lads. The fireman's friend is lucky to-night.' He pointed with his finger to the square where the spade lay. But he did not see this – nor hear the murmurous sounds that rose and fell like a sea about him. He saw only Mr. Walters, heard his laugh. That was two bells. Nine o'clock already. Goddam! And they had to be on deck at twelve. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. Vesuvius had come back. He knelt beside Williams and, whilst affecting to flatten out the canvas, said in a low voice: 'Walters had gone up. I'm going to the ladder and I'll sit there for half an hour. Then I'm coming back.'
'Come on, my lucky lads, who's for the sailor's hook to-night?' He pushed Vesuvius aside, ignored him, looked up at the soldiers who one by one were coming forward, making a great circle round him. He took the dice from the match-box and shook it in his hand. 'Lay, my lucky bloody lads.'
Long faces, short faces, smiling, unsmiling, old, young, red, white like chalk, a confused patterning, but to the man kneeling at the board just one face. Somebody dropped sixpence on the club. 'Come on, for Christ's sake. Be a pauper or a millionaire, and goddam, in this joint you only got to die once.' He shook the dice. Only a single sixpence lay upon the canvas. He tossed the dice from hand to hand, threw it in the air, shook it savagely in his cupped hands. 'Come on now! Hang it, mates! It's your last chance.' More money fell, but he did not throw. He waited, looking up at them, into every face. 'Christ! Mates, this isn't a funeral.' They crowded round him. More money was thrown down. With a set face Williams threw the dice. Heart! Not a single coin lay upon the heart. 'Hard luck, soldier,' he said, and began gathering the silver and coppers, dropping them into his pocket. 'Ah! She's all right soon as she gets warmed up. Hey, what, my lads!' He began laughing then, in periodic bursts. 'Hee. Hee!' Pause. 'Hee. Hee!' The cluster swung, its light swung pendulum-like, flashed upon faces, transfigured them for a moment. Wind blew down the ventilator.
'Oh – my bloody leg!'
'Ha. Ha! Just listen to that beggar, Boles. Showin' his leg off to-night.'
Who's for the heart? Lucky old heart. Lay it down, my lucky lads. Thick and heavy! Thick and heavy! Turkish cigars for the brave, me lads!' Again he tossed the dice. Again there came to his ears the moan from the starboard corner. Voices rose in chorus there.
'Oo – Christ!'
'Come on for Jesus' sake! Soldier! This board never poisoned anybody. Who's for the lucky old heart? The lucky old bloody heart! Lay it down. And down she goes, my hearties!' He spat, rubbing this with his foot. 'Down she goes.' Heavy breathings of men, hands touching pockets, uncertainty written upon faces, and from the dark corner: 'Oh – bloody leg!'
'Shut it, for Christ's sake! Goddam, we all know you were wounded at Saint— but shut it – shut it.'
'Lay it down, goddam, lay it down. Any more for any more?' He raised his voice, his eyes followed movements of hands, looked into the corners, but all was dark there.
'Every sod in the ship must have seen his beggaring wound by now.'
'Who's for the sergeant-major! Nobody for the sergeant-major?' Williams sighed and his mind cried, 'Fast and furious, thick and heavy, you tight-fisted lot of bastards! – Who's for the fireman's friend? Nobody for the fireman's friend?'
'Let her go, sailorman! Let her bloody well go.'
'Oo – Christ! It ain't arf swole to-night. You'll lose your bloody leg, mate.' The speaker came into the ray of light. Two others came. They held the arms of a fourth. 'Look at this feller's leg, mate. Like a socking pudding. Ugh!' And the light fell upon the wound. 'God, it stinks! You can't go ashore—'
'Damn and blast that leg, that beggaring bloody wound!' someone shouted. 'Hey, you sailorman! Shake the damned dice, Rat-face.'
Laughs. The dice was thrown again. 'Shamrock! Lucky old shamrock!'
Ten yards away Vesuvius sat. He smoked a cigarette. He was half hidden in the darkness. Past him – up and down, up and down – went soldiers. They said 'Beggar me. Sorry, mate!' said nothing, some laughed, one said: 'It's like a blinking dungeon up there, nothing but water, water, water, and the silly cows up there looking over the rails. Watching for land. My h
oly blithering aunt. Land!'
Their words fell like pellets from their mouths. Their words floated in air, circled round Vesuvius. He smoked, saying nothing, watching. He heard money clink on the board, heard Williams's voice. Well, it hadn't been a bad trip after all. They'd probably end up with a couple of quid apiece. He pulled his soldier's cap farther down, the peak covered his eyes, the upper part of his nose. Somebody sang. He looked upwards. Dark sky. All darkness. The bell rang. The engines' low hum made the ladder vibrate. Soon he would join his mate. A soldier sat on the stair, put his head in his hands. Vesuvius heard his heavy breathings. Their bodies touched. They were both silent. Darkness covered them. 'Well, I don't know, I don't know,' the soldier began to mutter. Vesuvius sat quite still. After a while the soldier got up and walked away. They hadn't noticed each other. They were like pieces of stone. There was no meaning for them. They were wrapped up in themselves.
'Well, I guess I'll get along now,' Vesuvius thought, 'and see what that rat-faced bastard is doing.'
He got up and walked slowly along, hands folded behind his back. He stopped by the stanchion, then looked down. The deck could not be seen. Khaki flooded it. He saw bare heads, bent backs. He saw Williams put more money in his pocket. He saw him take pound notes from another pocket, fold each note in half, lay them between fingers; they were spread like a fan; heard him call 'Away she goes.' He saw a bare leg, a wound, men looking at this. It was nothing to him., A bare leg. 'You'll lose that bloody leg, matey,' a voice said.
'I'm here,' Vesuvius said, bending down and kneeling behind Williams. 'How's she goin', mate?' He crossed his legs, sat on his heels, spat the stump of his cigarette out, and leaning forward watched the money flung on the board. Williams was kneeling, his body partly over the board. He gave one the impression of some queer priest intoning over an altar. His arms were spread out, one clenched fist held the dice, the other hand was open, clutching notes.
'Lay her down, my lucky lads. Thick and heavy she goes.' Money lay thick upon the board. 'All the more the merrier! Any more for any more?'
'Say, will somebody take that bloody ass out of it? – Him and his goddam wound.'
'Come on! Never mind the leg, my lucky lads. If it's a girl's leg, well, come on, nobody on the lucky crown? Nobody on the lucky crown? Who's for the lucky crown? Goddam it, mates! – nobody for the lucky sergeant-major?'
'Four bells have just rung,' Vesuvius said in Williams's ear. 'Four bells.'
Bells! – 'Any more for any more?' His arms began threshing the air. 'No more for any more. Then off she goes. Off she goes, sir.'
'One minute you're in an oven, the next you're blinkin' well freezing.'
'Up she comes – Lucky old spade!' His hand, which in the yellowish light resembled a claw, lay flat upon the board. He drew the money towards him, it lay piled against his knees. He picked some coins up, paid out on the 'fireman's friend' and dropped the remainder in his pocket. His face could not be seen, his head was bent forward upon his breast. 'Once again, mates! Once again! What say for the old mud-hook? The lucky old mud-hook.' He shook the dice up in his hands. 'All for the mud-hook. Two bob on the anchor there. Two on the old mud-hook. Two it is. Any more for any more? Come on, my lucky lads.'
He leaned farther across the board, the notes spread fan wise in his hands crinkled as he moved his fingers. Vesuvius looked on, silent, thoughtful. The laying was bad. The laying was lousy! Mean lot of swine they were. 'You won't want money tomorrow, mates, but you will on Sunday. Lay her down, lay her down.' Williams's voice trailed off into a sort of sigh. And the sudden silence made way for the sullen roar which the confusion of sounds – men's voices' and breathings, singing and snoring – wafting in air, poured through the five holds of A.10.
Suddenly Williams looked up. 'Submarine! Submarine, fellers!' a voice was calling from the ladder in A deck. The mass of life became rigid, nobody spoke. An awed silence.
'Beggar the submarine! Some soft bastard playing a joke! Come on, my lucky lads. Lay it down there, thick and heavy. What about a spot on the lucky old sergeant-major? Come on, my lads! Be a pauper or a millionaire. One for the sergeant-major. Good. Two for the mud-hook. Strike me bloody pink, five bob on the lucky old spade! That's the style, soldiers, that's the style! Get it down, thick and heavy!' He leaned back, Vesuvius took the weight of his body, but so far as Williams was concerned, it was just something he was leaning against, he had forgotten his mate, forgotten the time, Mr. Walters, he had forgotten everything. The world lay below him. Was bounded by khaki-clad bodies – the world was oblong in shape, a piece of canvas with six divisions, six symbols stitched upon it, but now he could not see them. They were buried in coins. Silver and copper, two notes, but that was not enough! The laying was simply rotten. There was money somewhere, piles of the bloody stuff, but it wasn't on that board. No, sir, it was in the soldiers' pockets. 'Lay it down, my lads! Nobody for the spade! The lucky old spade. Then off she goes again. Yes, sir, off she goes again.' He wiped his nose upon his sleeve, a violent action, then shook the dice. He kept on shaking.
'Let her go! Let the bloody thing go, sailor!' the soldiers cried.
'Sure!' Williams said. 'End up she bloody well comes. Well, I'll be—, lucky old club again, and not a stinking penny on her. Well—' He made a peculiar sound in his throat, put out both hands and drew the money towards him, making a greater pile at his knees. 'Hard lines, my lucky lads! But what did I tell you? What did I say? Nobody for the lucky old club? No more for no more! And Christ, up she comes! Come on, my lads! Come on, soldiers, get it down thick and heavy, and don't forget the lucky old club this time. Hee, hee— Hee! Hee! All luck! Come on, now, any more for any more?'
He flung his arms in the air as in a gesture of despair. 'Money for jam! Money for bloody jam!' He crouched there, waiting.
Men drew closer together – and just above them others lay flat upon hatch-tops. Others wrote home. Others washed, shaved, emptied bladders. Once Williams looked up. It was black darkness above! It meant nothing except that it was night. Men were continually coming and going. There had been a concerted rush at the word submarine, but now even they were back, and those who had been unnerved looked wise, schooled as it were by that calm, indifferent face before them, that sailor wearing a uniform of the Australian Light Horse, who bent over his board, dice in hand – still waiting for the flood.
'I'm cutting along to see how things are going. And you—' he spoke in the other's ear – 'you shake these fellers up. They've got the dough all right but they're lazy, just lazy, that's all.' He got to his feet. He fell in with a crush of soldiers going to number four hold, for rumour had it that food was available, food from a mysterious source. Vesuvius elbowed his way clear, and passed along.
A deck was silent like the tomb. Everybody seemed to have turned in. He went up on deck. Well, you couldn't really measure the stink down there until you went up on deck and got the fresh air in your face. 'God love me, but it's dark,' he said. Soldiers everywhere. He walked on them, bumped into them, said 'Sorry, mate,' but received no reply. He went aft, returned down a ladder. He might as well go right through. He didn't like Mr. Walters, he was afraid of him. And he was certain that in the end Williams would be caught. That could mean but one thing. No good time for them. He walked slowly along – eyes everywhere, but no sign of the steward. Well and good. Here was B deck again and there was Williams. 'My, what a bloody crowd! Gosh!' He forced his way through and stood behind Williams. The man had a cigarette clutched between the fingers that held the fan-shaped pound notes, the stump of another he held in his mouth. He was very hot and excited, the money kept dropping on the board, he spoke through his teeth. He ignored Vesuvius. Never even glanced his way. 'Lay it down thick and heavy.' His voice, his whole attitude carried something of triumph in it and the spell of great excitement held him tense, nervous, he could see nothing now, not even the board. He saw only the falling shower of coins. Six bells. Hang the bells. Let them ring. Here was money! Money. Beggar the s
hip, and the bloody war; and as for the submarines, here was money. Money for nothing! 'Ten bob on the major! Lucky major!' He spat out the cigarette end, put the other one in his mouth. 'Get it down there.'
'Light, sailor?'
A lighted cigarette was thrust at him. He gave two big draws.
'Thanks, soldier! An' how've you done to-night? Twelve bob. H'm! Hard lines, mate. All right, you goddam sons of your mothers, any more for any more? I say any more for any more? Jesus!' he shouted. 'Jesus! Just look at that! An elephant's pile and not a damn cent on the mud-hook! What about a spot on the old mud-hook? Good Christ, soldiers. The lucky old mud-hook! The sailor's song in the chain-locker. Hey!'
And the coins fell, hands shook, faces tensed, the air became electric, charged with thrill, the flushed face of Williams bent lower over the board. And the coins showered down. 'Any more for any more?'
Mr. Hump and Mr. Walters had returned to the latter's room. The door was shut. For some reason or other Mr. Walters had turned the key in the lock. They sat facing each other across the table. There was a bottle of dinner ale on the table, an open packet of cigarettes. Mr. Walters puffed a pipe.