His standard arrangements required no more than the briefest acknowledgement. With the arrival of the 3rd Mate, Stephen handed the watch over to him, and told him to speak to the Mate on deck – via the walkie-talkie radio – if he needed advice. Meeting Johnny in oilskins and hard-hat a few minutes later, Stephen said he would be relieved on deck at midnight.
He checked his watch: twenty-five minutes to seven and it was time to have his dinner and go to bed. At midnight he would take over the bridge-watch for six hours, while the Second Mate took over the tank-cleaning. They would each work six on, six off, until the job was finished. Nor could the engineers go to bed and rest: after working round the clock in port, they must continue to man the engine control room until the job was done. Not an easy time for anybody, and Mac’s men were as tired as his own.
Stephen ate with Mac in the saloon, mostly in silence. They were both too weary for small-talk, too used to the harassment of Karachi even to comment on it. As though by mutual consent they made short work of the meal and rose from the table together. The ship was rolling heavily, and the climb up several flights of stairs was an effort. By the time Stephen reached his cabin he had the beginnings of a headache.
He lifted the heavy typewriter from his office desk and set it on the floor, siding paperwork away, and locking drawers and cupboards for safety; in his dayroom, he retrieved a handful of music-tapes that had already found their way to the deck. Having made sure nothing else could wake him with bangs and crashes, he switched on some music, dimmed the lights, poured himself a large measure of whisky, and raised the blind on the forward window. It was too dark to see much, but he could just make out white-tipped spray, rising in sheets from the port bow, and a glimmer of torches on the starboard side. With a sigh he lowered the blind, dragged off his damp shirt and sat down to read his mail.
Joan’s letter was full of Zoe’s visit to York, and the fact that there had been a reply, at long last, from the Australian War Memorial. Months ago, Stephen had persuaded her to write to Canberra regarding Liam’s war record, and the reply, apparently, had been well worth the wait. Very sad, Joan’s letter said, and she had shed a few tears over it, but Zoe thought he would be pleased by the detail, and was sending on copies.
Pleased was the wrong word, he thought, but he turned again to Zoe’s letter, as disappointed now as he had been earlier. The account of her trip to York was much briefer than Joan’s, expanding only to mention the hunch which had led her to check the old visitors’ book at his flat.
‘But I didn’t stay long, the place felt very empty and strange without you...’
For some reason that disturbed him. It seemed to stress his current sense of unreality, and made him even more aware that his life was lived in separate boxes, that each journey between the two required him to assume another identity. Inevitably, there was an awkwardness about that, particularly going home, a feeling of dissociation until he found again the requisite colour and character to blend in with his surroundings. From here, in this situation, he could scarcely recall the man who lived in York, the man who, for a few short weeks, had been so absolutely happy in the company of a young woman called Zoe Clifford. And he had been happy; she had made him feel light-hearted and young, as though the world still had something to offer, something worth striving for. Looking back, it seemed so strange, he began to wonder whether he had imagined it; worse, that this other half of him had sunk without trace.
He read the letter through again and sighed over it, over the change in tone, the change in her. At first she had written in an easy, conversational style that evoked voice, humour, enthusiasm; and yes, her affection, too, which came through the lines to warm him in a silent embrace. Of late, however, her letters had become rather stilted, very much confined to the research she was doing. The rest of her life was barely mentioned. He wondered why. Perhaps she thought he was no longer interested; perhaps there was someone else. Zoe had closed a door somewhere, and the view was now restricted.
But perhaps, Stephen reasoned, the fault was not all hers. He suspected he was equally to blame, that in his dogged determination to stick to his own rules, he had managed to alienate her affection. And anyway, he asked himself, what did he write about these days? Not his own emotions, that was for sure; they were shackled to a wall in some remote dungeon of his soul, and would not be released until he was home and free. The lacerating stress of these weekly voyages between Kuwait and Karachi was another topic he avoided, which left his correspondence as unadorned as extracts from the log-book.
Even his response to the research was lacking in vitality, and yet he would read her letters, logging opinions and assumptions along with every new discovery, and feel a tingle of excitement. When it came to setting it down on paper, however, his enthusiasm seemed to wane. It was a new and unwelcome phenomenon to one who had always enjoyed writing as a form of communication, and the weary thought, ‘I’ll tell her when I see her...’ had become a habit.
He felt as dry and barren as the desert, and across the harsh landscape of his inner vision, Zoe appeared with no more substance than a mirage.
Glancing at the first page of those photocopied sheets, he saw the heading Australian War Memorial, and knew a deep reluctance to read further. His eyes were dry with fatigue, head aching with the increasingly violent motion of the ship. He should get to bed, get some sleep. And yet...
The letter stated that there were five eye-witness reports to Corporal Elliott’s death in the Red Cross files, which made Stephen think that someone must have queried the facts, either because his body was never found, or someone did not believe the manner of his death. Perhaps Robin, to whom that tale of a bullet through the head must have sounded exceedingly suspect; yet despite being a convenient fiction for the poor souls who were literally blown to bits, some men had to die like that, cleanly, with all their limbs intact. But his body was never found: ergo, the Red Cross enquiry.
What a hell of a job, Stephen thought, mind unable to grasp the extent of such a task, if all the thousands upon thousands of missing were investigated to that extent. Tracing five eye witnesses for one man’s death... and from the dates of those statements, taken up to eighteen months later, from Grantham in Lincolnshire to the State of Victoria, the size and scope of the investigation was almost incredible.
After that, he had to read the statements, just to see how well they tallied with that first account, given by a sergeant at Grantham in March 1918. Apart from one, who seemed to be out with regard to location, they tallied very well, too well to be making things up for the benefit of anybody’s sensibilities. But even though he had steeled himself to read those accounts, Stephen found himself unbearably moved by the personal detail.
‘He was a tall man, well-built, fair, about 25 years of age…’
‘He was known as Bill...’
‘I knew him – I saw him killed... I have already written to his people about it...’
‘I was 20 yards away at the time – I saw his body a few minutes later…’
‘He was buried on the battlefield…’
It was enough; he did not want to read more. The rest could wait for another time. Bracing himself against the motion of the ship, he poured himself another drink, knowing it must be the last, he really had to get some sleep. He sipped the measure of twelve-year-old malt slowly, savouring its smoothness, letting his mind drift on the question of Liam’s death and the enigma of his relationship with Georgina. What must she have felt? In the next moment he was thinking about Zoe, trying to imagine what her reaction would be, if...
But that made him shiver. There were too many similarities for comfort, too many coincidences that would never be explained, and he did not want to make one more. Please God, let there be no stray bullets for him!
He sank the rest of the whisky in one gulp, tucked the empty glass against a protecting cushion, and lurched across to his bedroom, not even slightly drunk. From a cupboard he rescued his bright orange lifejacket, and lifting t
he mattress of his double-bunk, stuffed it underneath, making a well between the raised edge and the wall.
His bunk ran fore and aft, a bad design fault, but wedged into that small valley, Stephen was prevented from rolling side-to-side; it did not prevent the other motion, that tipping from head-to-toe, like some fairground swing-boat. The ship pitched and lifted with every wave, an unpleasant corkscrew motion made worse by the lack of cargo. With weight in those massive tanks, the Damaris was not a bad old girl; but light, she could perform somersaults on a wet facecloth, of that Stephen was convinced. He tensed, listening as the bow plunged into those heavy seas and the stern lifted beneath him, right out of the water. The noise rose to a scream as the propeller raced; then came the unearthly groan and shudder as the stern slammed down and the prop bit deep. Everything quaked and trembled, steel decks and bulkheads, interior walls, cupboards, fittings, and in the darkness the noise and vibration seemed worse, as though the ship were being physically wrenched apart.
The ship surged across to port, forcing his back against the wall, pitched forward with a rising shriek, rolled again to starboard and slammed back with a particularly violent shuddering groan... a bad one, that.
Searching for the rhythm, trying to relax with it, Stephen found himself thinking of Ruth. Storms had always unnerved her, and the typhoon they had met off Japan that time had seen her in a state of terror, convinced with every pounding wave that death was no more than minutes away. When the corrugated awnings were torn off the aft accommodation, she had dissolved into helpless, hysterical tears, and the sight of the foredeck bending under the strain of wind and sea finished her completely. It availed nothing to explain that the ship was designed to bend, that if it did not, it would break in two... Ruth had been huddled in a lifejacket, deaf to all reason.
Stephen had been ashamed of her. He could admit that now. He had been Mate at the time, Ruth the only wife aboard. He would never forget the pitying glances of the other officers. They had tried to be kind, but he knew what they were thinking, and the Master had rapidly lost all patience, ordering her off his bridge where she was starting to unnerve him. It had been a humiliating experience, made worse by a genuinely worrying situation. With the unpredictability of typhoons, that one had turned and caught them in its new path, just as they were running away from it. And it had been particularly violent, Force 12 and more.
And then he thought of another such incident, a few years later when he was Master. The Mate’s daughter, on holiday from school, had been giggling with glee as enormous green seas broke over the foredeck, swamping the fully-loaded ship. Laughing with her, he had remarked on her bravery.
‘I used to be scared at night,’ she admitted airily to Stephen, ‘thinking we were sinking and we were all going to die any minute. But you know you can’t escape, so you just have to accept it. I’m not scared of dying any more...’
How old had she been? Thirteen, fourteen? No more than that. Out of the mouths of babes, he thought, recalling her guts and her wisdom, and knowing she was right. Living with the thought of dying made the idea lose all its terrors, inducing a certain fatalism, a readiness to accept the worst.
Had Liam felt like that?
Or had he felt, like Stephen, that it was not the idea of death that was frightening, but the endurance required to survive?
Called at midnight, he finished his watch at six in the morning. Over the sea, the pitch-black murk became grey, then pink and orange, and finally a sickly yellow, like thick industrial pollution. The dust was so fine it was almost like talcum, collected by winds blowing with the force of hurricanes across North Africa and the Arabian Desert. It found its way through every crack and crevice, leaving its evidence across charts and instruments, blearing the windows with muck and salt, so that it was necessary to peer through spinning, clear-view screens and consult the radar every few minutes.
The Damaris was still punching those seas, sending up great walls of water over the port bow; as she rose, they came tumbling back over the foredeck, to swirl against the accommodation. Standing on the central cat-walk, Johnny and the 2nd Mate were soaked by spray. Stephen watched them shouting against the wind, bright yellow oilskins glistening as they turned and parted. Clinging to the rails, the Mate made his way forward, while young Paul, after six hours on deck, staggered inside to breakfast and his bunk.
Stephen went down to his office, timing his descent of the steps with the roll of the ship. He spent an uncomfortable hour at his desk in an attempt to make some impression upon the paperwork, then went down for breakfast in the saloon. After that he retired to his bunk, sleeping solidly for four hours before returning to the bridge at twelve. The gas-freeing was completed by eight that evening, but the weather was still too bad to increase speed. By the time they reached the vicinity of Fujairah, an hour before dawn of the third day, it was too late to reach Hormuz with any degree of safety.
As though gunboats and helicopters were not enough to contend with, Stephen had received warning of mines in the approaches to the Kuwaiti terminals. Only a few days before, on the BBC World Service, had come reports of an American supertanker, the Texaco Caribbean, hitting a mine in the Gulf of Oman, eight miles off Fujairah. It was thought to be a stray, drifting down from the Straits, but no one could be sure.
It was a daunting prospect, but as Stephen had said to his senior officers at the time, a tanker is a very difficult vessel to sink. With buoyancy retained by all those sealed compartments, providing the vessel was hit in the bows – the most obvious place under way – then little damage would be sustained. A hefty claim on the insurance, into Dubai for repairs, and with any luck at all, the company would fly most of them home.
Brave words, cheerfully said. But in the teeth of that still-howling gale, with visibility down to a couple of hundred yards, Stephen’s nerves were twitching. Never yet had he damaged a ship, and he did not intend to start now. Damage was damage, however slight, and there was always the unnerving possibility of someone being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He could do without that on his conscience.
In the pre-dawn darkness he was glad they were late, glad of some necessary hours at the deep-water anchorage off Fujairah. It meant a much-needed rest. As they came slowly within the shelter afforded by the land, the wind lessened appreciably. In the wheelhouse, studying the charts, it was suddenly possible to stand without clinging on, and to move about with some degree of ease.
The broad sweep of the radar revealed dozens of ships at anchor and the protecting ridge of land to the west. With their speed reduced to a half, he found a suitable area, checked it against the radar, and plotted a position where it was possible to swing with ease. Marking the place on the chart he gave directions to the 3rd Mate and the helmsman at the wheel. As he checked the depth of water – 45 fathoms – against the echo-sounder, the crackle of his walkie-talkie radio told him the Mate was out on deck with the anchor-party.
Responding, Stephen picked up the telephone to ask the duty engineer for Dead Slow Ahead. As the revs and the ship’s speed came right down, he spoke on the radio.
‘She’s down to 3 knots, walk the anchor back to 1 shackle...’
He could see the flash of torches on the fo’c’sle, hear the creaks and groans of the port anchor being slowly lowered by winch, the dull clunks of that massive chain going out over the side. In this depth of water, just to let go would be to burn out the windlass. Slowly, slowly, was the trick...
A couple of minutes, and the Mate’s voice came back: ‘One shackle and holding...’
‘Hold till we’re in position.’ He glanced at the helmsman on the wheel, and the 3rd Mate moving between chart and radar. On the Mate’s signal, Stephen took the telegraph, rang down to Stop, and then to Slow Astern. He dashed out to the bridge-wing to watch the action of the propeller-wash against the ship’s side. When it was just coming back and passing him, he knew the ship was stopped in the water.
‘OK she’s stopped,’ he said into radio. ‘Just wal
k the anchor out, and let me know how she’s leading.’
He listened to the Mate’s voice, counting each shackle off as it descended those 45 fathoms to the sea-bed below. After three shackles, Johnny said, ‘Cable starting to lead astern...’
‘OK.’ The anchor was down, the cable starting to lay along the sea-bed.
‘Four shackles, cable leading astern...’
Stephen turned and shouted to the 3rd Mate. ‘Stop Engines.’
‘Five shackles, cable up and down...’
He waited, hearing creaks and groans from the windlass. It might be time to give that cable a bit of assistance, rather than let it fall in a heap round the anchor.
‘Six shackles, cable beginning to lead ahead...’
‘OK, we’ll pull her back a bit.’ He shouted to the 3rd Mate, ‘Ring down for Slow Astern.’
‘Slow Astern it is, Captain.’
He leaned over the port side, watching those flickering torches on the fo’c’sle. The weather was clearing, ahead and to port he could see the misted lights of other ships. He glanced at his watch: almost half-past five, not long to daybreak.
With the familiar crackle that preceded the Mate’s regular report, there was suddenly an almighty flash from somewhere below and astern, and a simultaneous explosion that knocked Stephen sideways.
Stunned, deafened, his ears ringing from the blast, for a second or two he lay on the deck wondering why the night should be glowing like November 5th, and what the hell had gone wrong in the engine-room.
He tried to get up, pushing with his right hand against the step of the compass – and cried out as pain shot like red-hot steel through his shoulder to chest and spine and wrist. For a moment, he almost passed out. Fending off the 3rd Mate’s assistance, he took a painful breath and demanded to know what had happened.
Liam's Story Page 59
