Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  ‘I don’t know, sir!’ His voice was high, panicky. ‘I think something’s blown in the engine-room... the alarms went, then stopped…’

  ‘Well, then, press the manual alarms, for God’s sake – and pass me that bloody radio!’

  ‘Are you all right, Captain?’

  ‘No, but I can manage,’ Stephen insisted, hauling himself to his feet and shouting above the ringing in his head. ‘Alarms, Marcus – now!’

  As the young man ran to obey, Stephen pressed the transmit button to answer the faint, crackling voice of the Mate. ‘No, Johnny, I don’t know for sure – might be the engine, more likely a fucking mine. Start the fire-pump for’ard, and get yourself back here, sharp as you can. Out.’

  He leaned for a moment on the bridge-front, dragging air into his lungs, fighting to conquer the nausea coming in waves. His right arm hurt like hell, and he did not seem able to move it. With his arm hanging useless, he forced himself back to the wheelhouse, ordering the 3rd Mate to his emergency station.

  As he clattered away down an outer ladder, the inner door opened to admit the Chief and the Radio Officer, and a blast of ringing from the alarms. Sparks was only half-dressed, his boots and boiler suit trailing. As he dragged on his gear, Mac fastened a lifejacket and listened to Stephen’s very brief report. His red beard bristled as he set his jaw.

  ‘So both of them were down there? Second and Third? I’d better get down and investigate.’

  ‘Keep me advised, Chief.’

  Armed with torch and radio, Mac went back the way he had come. Watching him descend into darkness, for the first time Stephen realized that all the lights were out, even those that should have been powered by the emergency generator. Familiar with the unlit bridge, he had not noticed before. It must be bad down there, whatever the cause. He switched off the manual alarms, and in the ensuing silence could hear the rattling of feet on steps and steel ladders, and the excited, slightly panicky chatter of the crew rising from the stairwell. Everything was echoing round the accommodation, and it was a weird, unnatural sound, accentuating the deadness of the ship, its lack of a heartbeat.

  For a second, it almost unnerved him. He thought about the anchor and thanked God the cable was out, enough to hold, at least. His radio crackled, and Mac’s voice reported that he had met the Electrician on the stairs – Lecky had tried to get to his emergency station in the engine-room, but all he could see were flames...

  ‘Second and Third Engineers? Have they turned up?’ The reply was negative and Stephen’s heart sank. ‘OK – get to Emergency HQ right away. I’ll be in touch.’

  He turned to Sparks, hovering by the VHF. Thank God that thing worked off its own batteries, everything else was down, radar, computers, direction-finder. ‘Put out a Mayday, all frequencies, with present position – on fire, request immediate assistance.’

  The 2nd and 3rd Mates reported in. With the exception of the anchor party, all crew were present and correct at boat stations. Stephen bit back a curse.

  ‘Well get them to their emergency stations – and tell them to stop panicking. We’re in no danger of sinking, but the engine-room’s on fire, and two engineers are missing. The Chief and Mate are on their way to you now...’

  Where was the Mate? ‘Did you hear that, Johnny?’

  ‘I heard you, Captain – I’m on my way – coming round the accommodation now.’ He left his radio on, and Stephen could hear his breathing, slightly ragged, as though he were running. It was a long way from the fo’c’sle... ‘I tell you what, it’s bloody hot out here...’

  Stephen glanced at his watch. Twenty-three minutes to six, just seven minutes since he had glanced at it, seconds before the blast. It seemed an eternity. He steeled himself for what he had to say next.

  ‘Chief, when the Mate gets to you, I want him and Lecky geared up – flame suits, breathing apparatus — to search the engine-room for the missing men.’

  ‘Captain, I’m all geared up already – let me go down.’

  It was as he expected. ‘No, Chief. Absolutely not. I know how you feel, but you’re the only engineer I’ve got just now, and I need you.’

  ‘It’s my engine-room!’

  ‘And it’s my ship. Stay out, Mac – and that’s an order.’ Stephen took a deep breath, and winced at the ensuing pain. ‘You’d better go round and trip the fuel shut-downs.’

  ‘I’ve done that.’ He sounded furious.

  ‘Good. Stay where you are and keep me informed.’

  He glanced again at the time, urging a response from Fujairah. He thought about the missing men, realizing medical aid would be essential, if only to treat victims of shock and smoke. Please God, nothing worse. As he turned to Sparks, a loud, heavily accented voice startled them both. A port control officer from Fujairah announced that fire-fighting tugs would be with them in thirty minutes; Sparks responded, requesting the assistance of a doctor. Moments later, there was another call, this time from a salvage-tug from Hormuz, offering to come and stand by; the offer was followed by several more.

  ‘The vultures are gathering,’ Stephen murmured bitterly, aware that an abandoned ship was a rich prize for the salvage companies. Well, they could gather; he had no intention of abandoning anything, least of all his ship.

  ‘How’s that arm, Captain?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’ll do for the time being.’ He was more concerned for those men in the engine-room, envisaging the different levels from propeller-shaft up to control-room, and trying to relate that mental map to the blast. The control-room was on the port side, and the loss of power could be attributable to a wipe-out in that area. At least one of those men must have been there when the explosion occurred.

  He felt for his cigarettes and realized they were missing. Sparks passed one of his own across, and left the packet within reach. Stephen inhaled on a shuddering breath and went out to peer over the port bridge-wing. A dull glow lit up the surrounding area and was reflected by the dancing waves. In the east, a pale band of lighter cloud streaked the horizon. The sun was coming up, and would soon add to the heat travelling up through steel decks and bulkheads.

  Wondering what was happening down there, praying for a miracle, he found himself questioning, illogically, the safety of the cargo-tanks. How thoroughly had they been inerted? And to what point of destruction did theory apply? If those tugs didn’t get here soon, they might all be blown to kingdom come.

  His walkie-talkie sparked into life. ‘Emergency HQ to bridge.’

  ‘Go ahead, Chief.’

  ‘Lecky and the Mate have found the Second. He’s got a gash on the head and he’s not too good – only half-conscious. But he’s out, he’s alive. No sign yet of the Third...’

  Oh, thank God. One of them alive at least... But what of the other man? ‘Let me speak to the Mate.’

  Johnny’s voice was hoarse, his report staccato. ‘Tried the port entrance – full of smoke and flame. We just shut the door on it. Starboard side – smoke, but no flame.’ He paused for breath, and Stephen could hear it rasping in his throat. ‘Went in, down ladder – couldn’t see a damn thing. Stuck together. Halfway down on starboard side – found the Second crawling along the plates towards us. Practically unconscious. Dragged him out. He’s got a bad gash on his head, but I think he’ll live...’

  ‘Well done, Johnny. Pass that on to Lecky, too.’ For a second Stephen paused, thinking about the missing man, recollecting his whiskery grin, and a cheery greeting as they passed on the stairs. When was that? Yesterday? He tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Do you feel able to go back? To search again?’

  There was another pause, as though the men at the other end were consulting. Then the Mate’s voice again. ‘Affirmative, Captain. We’re going down now.’

  ‘Be careful, Johnny – no heroics. From either of you.’

  Something like a laugh came back at him. ‘Heroics? Us? We’re more like Laurel and bloody Hardy.’

  Stephen smiled at the image: the tall, lanky Mate and the Electric
ian who was short and round... He pulled himself up short and asked for Mac. ‘Detach the 2nd Mate, Chief, and get your man to the hospital.’

  Back in the wheelhouse, Sparks lit him another cigarette; a few minutes later, Mac was calling with the news that they had managed to get some sense out of the injured man. He had answered a generator alarm, and as he left the control-room to check it out, the explosion occurred. The Third Engineer was still in there.

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘No. He’s almost sure that something hit the ship from outside, just by the control-room.’

  ‘A mine.’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘The bastards...’

  It struck him again how fortunate they were to have got the anchor laid out before the blast; otherwise the ship would have been drifting, helpless and on fire, a danger to half the ships in the anchorage. And there were plenty. All tankers.

  In the unnatural silence he could hear the wind buffeting the funnel, flapping the radio aerials and stays; the sea was making a shushing noise to windward, as it did when they were under way...

  Stephen suddenly became aware that the deck beneath him had a tilt to it; water was rushing into the engine-room, pulling the ship down by the stern.

  The Mate’s voice intruded upon that consideration. ‘It’s no go, Captain. Everything’s on fire down there. We managed to get pretty close, though — spotted a clear space round the hole, water flooding in just there —’ He broke off, sniffed audibly, and seemed to be having difficulty getting the next words out. ‘The body was in bits. I’ve told the Chief – no chance of getting near it.’

  Hearing those words, Stephen knew that while he had not consciously framed the thought, he had expected it. Nevertheless, an image sprang to mind of Jim Stubbs, Third Engineer, short, thick-set, with wild grey hair and always a couple of days’ stubble on his chin. An unkempt, scruffy Liverpudlian, unmarried, uncertificated, and wedded to the job. His humour was abrasive, and he was a bit too fond of the booze, but he was reliable, and a bloody good engineer.

  What a way to die.

  And for what?

  Sorrow and pity washed over him, together with the vaguely consolatory thought that it must have been instantaneous. That was the only decent thing about it.

  With an effort he found his voice and forced it to remain calm. ‘I understand. You’ve done all you could. Thanks for that. Is Lecky OK?’

  ‘He’s wheezing like hell, but he’ll be all right.’

  ‘Good.’ Now, back to business. ‘Right, Johnny, in your considered opinion, is it now time to batten everything down and flood with CO2?’

  ‘It certainly is, Captain.’

  ‘Right, Johnny – put me on to the Chief.’

  He ordered Mac to close all openings and ventilators and to release the carbon dioxide gas; then he called the 3rd Mate to see to the boundary cooling.

  ‘Get those firehoses through the accommodation, leave them running, and get out. Make sure the crew are away from the area. Get them up for’ard and onto the fo’c’sle – and give the Bosun a radio, we’ll need to keep in touch. Then come to the bridge.’

  Over the starboard bow he could see the tugs approaching, bright orange hulls standing out in the soupy daylight; behind them, coming up fast, was a pilot-boat. Stephen spoke to the 2nd Mate, in the ship’s hospital with the injured man. ‘Get your party up for’ard, Paul, with the crew. The pilot-boat’s on its way with a doctor.’

  From the bridge-wing he watched the crew, bobbing about in twos and threes as they hurried along the main deck, followed at a more sedate pace by the stretcher-party. The injured man’s face was dappled, white patches against the black where the Second Mate had cleaned his cuts and dressed them. Still, a couple of days in a proper hospital, and he should be all right. Be up and chasing the nurses in no time...

  The Mate and Lecky, both haggard and dishevelled, joined him, Lecky collapsing onto the compass-step as though his chubby legs would not hold out another instant. He looked in poor shape, trembling visibly as Sparks lit him a cigarette. Johnny was grey with strain but bearing up.

  ‘Well, here we are, smoking on deck...’ He gave a weak little laugh, but suddenly his mouth was working. He turned away to watch the activity on deck, while Stephen studied his back and decided to be brisk.

  ‘I think you should go with them, see a doctor. Both of you,’ he added, turning back to the other man. He really did look bad. Aware of what he had put them through, Stephen felt guilty.

  Lecky nodded his agreement; it was clear he wanted to be off the ship, and who could blame him? Johnny, however, shook his head. He was staying, he said, and would be fine once he had rested and had something to drink.

  ‘Any chance of liberating a few cans of coke? I’ve got a mouth like the bottom of a birdcage.’

  Stephen’s cabin was nearest, with a recently stocked fridge of soft drinks and a cupboard full of spirits for entertaining. Sparks volunteered to go, while Stephen manned the VHF.

  Calls were still coming in from other ships and tugs eager to offer assistance, and on the port quarter, the fire-fighters were busily hosing sea-water over the after-deck and into that gaping hole below.

  Mac came up to join them, his steps dragging like an old man’s. His face was ashen. As he propped himself up against the pilot-chair, he seemed incapable of speech. He glanced at Stephen and away, and simply shook his head.

  ‘Mac, I’m sorry...’ For everything, he might have added – that shocking death, the ruin below decks, and most of all for having to forbid his friend the opportunity to search his own engine-room for his own men. It felt like a betrayal; and yet Stephen’s first duty was to the ship.

  ‘No, you did what you had to...’ He lit a cigarette and smoked in silence for a while. Then, noticing Stephen’s useless arm, asked what had happened.

  ‘The blast knocked me over – I fell against that bloody thing,’ he said, indicating the compass-repeater on the bridge-wing, ‘and must have hit the deck awkwardly. I think it’s dislocated.’

  ‘Could be broken – you’d better get the doctor up here, let him have a look at it.’

  But Stephen for the first time was indecisive, torn between the pain he was suffering and the need to stay aboard. While he debated what to do, Mac took his radio and called up the 2nd Mate, asking him to escort the doctor up to the bridge once the injured man was safely off the ship.

  Twenty minutes later he was with them, a small, dapper Arab in a smart linen suit, only slightly soiled by his climb up the pilot ladder to the fo’c’sle. His command of their language spoke of several years training in an English hospital.

  Slender fingers examined the injured arm, and a pair of dark, unsmiling eyes studied Stephen’s face as he tried to answer questions and avoid too many grunts of pain. Behind and to one side of the doctor, the 2nd Mate, as ship’s medical officer, hovered uncomfortably. Grimy and sweat-stained, wearing a ragged boilersuit open to the navel, and with his hair plastered to his head, he was not the average nurse. Meeting his anxious gaze, Stephen managed a lop-sided grin.

  The doctor said, ‘I think no break or fracture, but a dislocation of the shoulder. I can manipulate it back into position now, but it will be very painful. You should come to hospital. There we can give anaesthetic. And also X-Ray for possible small fractures in the wrist.’

  ‘I’m not leaving the ship.’

  There was an eloquent shrug. ‘You wish me to perform the operation now?’

  Stephen glanced at his medical officer. ‘Get Sparks. Tell him to bring the whisky.’

  A slight curl of the lip expressed the doctor’s disapproval. ‘Alcohol is not good for shock.’

  ‘I know that. But it’s bloody good for pain.’

  He reached for the bottle, removed the cap and took a hefty slug from the neck. Then he took another. It caught his breath for a moment and made his eyes water, but he still held the little doctor’s gaze. It felt like a battle of wills, one that Stephen was not
at all sure he would win. Never mind, he would go down trying. And he would not leave the ship.

  ‘Lie down, please. On the floor, on your side.’

  He felt the knee in his back, one hand against his shoulder, the other at his wrist. There was a sudden wrench and agonizing pain, and a grinding crack that seemed to explode in his skull...

  The reek of ammonia brought him round. Wafting the sal volatile beneath Stephen’s nose, the 2nd Mate looked as though he were the one about to faint. The doctor was checking the contents of his bag.

  ‘You should rest,’ that cool voice advised. ‘Go to bed.’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly...’

  Standing over him, with surprising gentleness the doctor eased him forward; between them, he and the 2nd Mate got Stephen to his feet and through the open door of the sea cabin. Sparks had folded the sheets back and stood beside the bunk like a hotel manager.

  As though instructing a child, the doctor said: ‘Here is a bed – rest in it.’ To the 2nd Mate, he added: ‘He will need the arm supported by a sling. There will be much bruising, much pain. You should give him something to relieve it.’

  Stephen sat on the edge of the bunk, nursing his arm; he felt sick and shaky, and took several deep breaths to control it. As the doctor glided out towards the bridge-wing, he glanced at Sparks, who rolled his eyes and sagged with sudden relief. Sweat dripped off his unshaven chin.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Giving the Mate and Lecky a once-over. The Chief asked him to.’

  ‘Right. As soon as he’s gone we’ll have to try and raise the office.’ His watch said it was ten minutes to seven. In London, his ship-manager would be in bed and asleep. ‘Four in the morning – Jack Porteous’ll love that.’

  ‘Five,’ Sparks reminded him, ‘it’s Summer Time.’

  Fatigue dragged at him, and pain throbbed through ribs and shoulder right down to the wrist. But the thought of all those office wallahs being dragged out of their beds was strangely satisfying.