J. E. MacDonnell - 021

by The Coxswain(lit)

  For almost ten minutes he reasoned with Holland, and the only hope he got from the uncompromising weathered face listening to him was the fact that it was listening.

  He said:

  "I appreciate your position-naturally you don't want to lose your cox'n - but surely you can see the hole I'm in?" "So you appreciate my position,"

  Holland said drily, "I wonder... D'you realise these men have been up here more than a year? That for weeks now they've known the time's approaching when they'll get back to their families? And you want me to order half-a-dozen of them to stay? Perhaps for a further six months, even a year?"

  "There are a few soldiers on the Kokoda Trail and Milne Bay and similar pleasure resorts who've been up here a hell of a long time," Bentley reminded him. "So have my men, for that matter."

  "Are you completely ruddy insensible?" Holland asked him. "Your men are reconciled to their commission here; mine have been keyed-up for days at the thought of home. What sort of captain would deliberately smash those hopes? Would you swing that sort of thing on to any of your crew?"

  "It's my crew, and ship, I'm thinking of," Bentley told him gravely. "Listen, Dutchy. You've forgotten more than I know - I realise that. But I've worked bloody hard to train that ship. You're going home, I'm stuck up here. And I don't have to tell you what work's ahead of us. Likewise you know damn well enough that a cox'n's absolutely essential to me. What I've built up over the past year could fall to pieces in three months without a cox'n. I don't want that to happen-I've got a good bunch over there."

  "I've got a good bunch here," Holland smiled cynically, "except..."

  He stopped, and Bentley saw a queer expression shade across his face. That look was hard to define - it seemed a mixture of sudden realisation, decision, and a sort of sardonic pleasure. "Your father is Captain Bentley?" Holland asked suddenly.

  "That's right."

  "M'mm. I served with him - way back. First-class officer."

  While Bentley wondered what the devil all this had to do with his problem, Holland got up and slowly walked across to the porthole. He stood there a few seconds, his thick legs astride and his hands on his hips, staring out over the sun-glinting harbour to the glaring galvanised - iron roofs of the town sprawling up the hill.

  Then he turned abruptly and came back to the table. His craggy face was bisected by a wide and friendly grin.

  "All right," he said, and sat down, "you can have your men."

  For a moment Bentley was too astonished to thank his benefactor.

  His mind automatically searched for the trap, the reason for this abrupt reversal. His father? Surely an acquaintance of so long ago could not have swung Holland's adamancy to such sweet reasonableness.

  He got up, looking down at Holland's quizzical grin. It must have been the appeal to his experience and understanding, he decided, his own face frowning a little in puzzlement. He appreciates what we've been through in working-up Wind Rode.

  "Well?" Holland queried, "aren't you satisfied?"

  "Of course, of course," Bentley said hastily. He picked up his cap. "Thank you very much - I'm much obliged."

  "That's all right." Holland's voice was negligent, but he was still grinning. "The other half?" He nodded to the empty glass.

  "No thanks. I'd better be off - a lot to do, you know... And no doubt you'll be wanting to organise those men over to me."

  Now Holland frowned, in wonder.

  "You drive a tough bargain," he growled, "I suppose you'll want `em in ten minutes! There is, of course, the trifling matter of the drafting office in Flinders..."

  "I'm sure we won't have to worry them," Bentley put in quickly, "under the circumstances they'll play along. In any case if I have the men there's not much they can do. Is there?"

  "Hmm," Holland grunted, "you're like your Old Man in more than looks."

  "Well... ?" Bentley half smiled.

  Holland shoved his squat bulk up and now he too was smiling with a genuine, more pleasant humour. Smart as new rope, he was thinking, can't wait to get back and get his new hands on the watchbill; probably have `em drilling this afternoon, poor beggars. You were like that once, remember? M'mm... He said:

  "Pity you're in such a hell of a hurry. It's nice drinking weather, and I'd like to hear first-hand some of the stories of your stoushes. You've got..." grinning, holding the door open, "quite a name, y'know."

  It was nice drinking temperature, and Bentley was un-fictionally not at all averse to being prompted about some of his exploits-but he really wanted to get back to his ship, and his only reason for leaving so hurriedly was a fear that Holland might change his mind.

  So that he smiled a little self-consciously at his fellow-captain and stepped out into the passage.

  Required by both junior rank and courtesy, Holland saw his visitor off at the gangway. Bentley thanked him again and ran down into the waiting boat. The pipes shrilled their respect and the boat shoved off.

  It was still quite close to the ship's side when, sitting in the stern-sheets and looking back, he saw an officer, whom he judged rightly to be Pelican's first-lieutenant, come up to Holland on the quarterdeck. He saw Holland speak to him, and he saw the expression on the lieutenant's face - puzzlement turning quickly to frowning anger.

  Then Holland said something else; he spoke earnestly and he took the lieutenant's elbow. Bentley was still close enough to see the younger officer's face turn towards him. It was turned back almost at once, but not before Bentley saw the expression on it. The sunburned face of the first-lieutenant of Pelican was split athwartships by a wide grin of sheer and appreciative gladness.

  Then the boat swung on-course for Wind Rode further up-harbour and the quarterdeck of her sister destroyer dwindled rapidly astern.

  Bentley was worried by that drastically altered expression for about five seconds. Then the facts came swamping in to drown his worry - he had gained one coxswain and half-a-dozen replacements; the first-lieutenant of the ship he'd got them from could grin his silly head off for all he cared. There was probably some explanation-Holland might have told him the exact time of their sailing for home; he might have pointed out that Bentley and his crew were due for another six months up here: either of which reminders would be enough to make any seaman grin with delight. He heard the boat coxswain order "Slow ahead," and he turned his head to look at his own ship. There she was - smart as paint, long and lean and new and strong; and now she was fully manned again. He saw the quartermaster and the bosun's mate drawn up smartly at the gangway to receive him, and the officer of the day waiting, stiffly at attention. They'd worked their guts out to get her that way, he thought, and now they could keep her that way.

  His few seconds of worry evaporated. Commander Bentley jumped from the boat and ran nimbly up the ladder. The pipes pierced out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT WAS NOT ALTOGETHER an accident that an hour later Bentley was walking along the iron-deck when the new hands came up the gangway.

  In harbour he liked to lunch in the wardroom, instead of alone in his cabin as he did at sea, and he would have been on his way aft anyway round about this time. But today from his porthole he had seen Wind Rode's motorboat returning from Pelican, the kitbags and hammocks piled in the sternsheets. He waited till he heard the boat coxswain's whistle order "Stop engine," then he put on his cap and stepped out on to the upper-deck.

  When reservations are made, the side set apart for captains is always the starb'd side: he walks on the starb'd side of the quarterdeck, his gangway, when two are down, depends from the starb'd side, and now as he walked aft Bentley approached the quarterdeck from starb'd. Pelican's men were climbing up the port gangway, and so without his presence interfering with the routine, Bentley could look them over.

  They looked ordinary enough, half a dozen of them, some short, some lanky, all dressed the same, and all characterised by another general distinction-every face was distinguished by as close approach to a scowl as their position before the officer
of the day allowed them.

  But Bentley had expected that: he had not thought to find men laughing for joy. Give them a day or two to find their way round this big new ship, to begin their messdeck friendships, to realise what a snug berth this was compared to the rusty bucket they had left, and they'd settle in all right.

  Even as the thoughts ran through his head Bentley knew that that was only half the story; Pelican's men would settle in, but the main inducement would be the designed fatalism of sailors. These six had been given a pier-head jump, an abrupt transfer from one ship to another, and after the anger and acrimony had worn down a little they would not think of their new big ship, nor of their possible new friends, but of something like this - "What can you expect from a bloody outfit like this? I want me head read. I shouldn't have joined.

  But you can't fight the mongrels. Ah well..."

  And, having arrived at that philosophical point, they would be ready to be moulded into whatever brand of sailors their new captain favoured.

  Bentley was almost past. There were several of Wind Rode's men hanging about the gangway - when you've been a year in a destroyer a new face possesses something of the charm of a new girlfriend, or a middy of cold beer in Sydney - and he had not sighted the coxswain, his main interest.

  Then the huge bulk of Hooky Walker turned aside for a moment, and Bentley saw his man. Hooky, acting-coxswain, was allocating them their messes, and his relief was listening. Bentley saw a chief petty-officer of about 35, tall and thin in khaki, his face set. Then he was past the group and stepping over the coaming on to the wardroom ladder.

  The six or seven officers in the mess rose when he entered and his hand waved them down again. Bentley was officially a guest in the wardroom, and he noticed that the table was laid for lunch. But he was not worried that he had kept them waiting - they were in harbour after a long stint at sea, and meal times were relaxed now. He knew, from personal experience, that these officers were more interested in their frosted glasses of beer and gin than in a meal in the humid heat. None of them drank at sea.

  He settled down beside Randall and the big Lieutenant grinned:

  "You did it, I see."

  This was intimate talk, and his voice was low. Not that there was any need. The other officers were deliberately talking among themselves, and they would neither listen nor intrude until the captain made known his wish for general conversation.

  Bentley took his beer from the steward. He could feel the sweat prickling his back under his shirt, and the lip of the glass was icily welcome against his lips.

  "Yes. They don't look overjoyed about it."

  "Thank the Lord for discipline." Randall answered cryptically. "They'll fit in." He snapped his cigarette lighter, looking sideways at Bentley with cigarette and flame a few inches apart. "You saw the cox'n?"

  "M'mmm. Seemed all right. Though I wouldn't like the chances of a sailor putting in for leave out of watch at the moment."

  "I suppose it was a hell of a thing to do to `em," Randall mused.

  "It would also be a hell of a thing to be without a cox'n," Bentley reminded him.

  "Oh, I'm not complaining..."

  "I'm so glad."

  "All right, all right!" Randall looked at the table. "Do you want to feed now, sir?"

  "If you like. Although I'm enjoying this..."

  "Now that's something!" Randall grinned. "An official order to drink!"

  His raised eyes found the face of the waiting steward. The steward got the message.

  Bentley gave the coxswain an hour to settle in before he sent for him.

  When the knock came at the door he was studying the fuel-report the engineer had just handed him. Wind Rode's big tanks had been filled to capacity: she was still taking on board fresh vegetables and meat, but within an hour or so she would be ready for weeks at sea. Bentley laid aside the report.

  "Come," he invited, and swung in his chair to face the door.

  The door opened, and the captain saw the same lean height of man he had first noticed at the gangway. The coxswain still had his cap on, but as he stepped into the cabin he took it off. Before he could stop himself. Bentley's eyes squinted in sudden surprise. The coxswain's face and arms were the usual weathered brown; his hair above the young face was grey.

  Not white, or blonde, but an overall, dead, lustreless grey.

  Bentley saw his visitor's own eyes narrow in recognition of the effect on the captain's face, and he cursed his revealing of it. He got up. Smiling, he held out his hand.

  "Good afternoon, cox'n. My name is Bentley."

  His hand was taken in a cool, hard grip.

  "Afternoon, sir. Chief Petty-officer Rennie joining, sir."

  The voice was respectful, and clipped, as expected - and that was all.

  "Sit down. You use these?"

  "I do, sir. Not at the moment, thank you."

  You smoke; your captain offers you one, in his cabin; you take one.

  This man declined. It showed he was browned-off, Bentley decided, but that was natural. It showed also he was no yes-man, but he knew he had certain rights, and had no qualms about claiming them. It could be good - it might also be sticky.

  Wind Rode didn't want a man who obeyed orders. A disciplined automaton could do that. She wanted, especially in her coxswain, a man who obeyed willingly and cheerfully and intelligently, an example to junior ratings. He said:

  "All right, cox'n. I won't say I'm sorry I arranged your transfer. I tried hard to do it, and I'm glad I got you. Of course I regret having to upset your going south for leave. But you know what a destroyer is without a cox'n."

  "Yes, sir, I know."

  The tone was respectful, the words were in direct and truthful answer to his question. Yet Bentley knew quite certainly that Rennie was referring to his late ship. His words were in fact a rebuke.

  Bentley picked out a cigarette and felt for his lighter. He knew he was marking time, and the recognition impressed him with the delicacy of this first meeting: he was not used to resorting to subterfuge when dealing with any man.

  He could, of course, simply order Rennie to get below and carry out his duties. Sydney leave or no. He was in the Navy, he was at war. But it was not that attitude which had made Wind Rode the ship she was, taken her in out of the things she had done. He said:

  "We have a good ship here, `Swain." He drew on his cigarette, his burned cheeks pinching in, and he saw that neither the pronoun nor the familiar diminutive of the coxswain's title had any visual effect. Rennie sat stiffly in the chair, his hands holding his cap in his lap, his feet together almost at attention, and his eyes were laid squarely on Bentley's face.

  Bentley felt a little jab of anger. He crushed it. This man, coxswain though he was, was thoroughly fed-up with the Navy, the war, and especially with the ship which dragged him from a snug and familiar berth and the prospect of three weeks leave.

  "I won't give you any guff about the team, this working-together business. You know all that," The blue eyes still held his, cool, waiting. "But you've stepped into a smooth organisation. I need your help to keep it that way, and that help I know I'll get."

  "Yes, sir."

  Clipped, noncommittal, dutiful.

  Bentley tried again.

  "You're married?"

  "No, sir."

  That was something. Now he had only his own personal antagonism to overcome; no wailing letters from an equally-disappointed wife to stoke the fires.

  "You were with Lieutenant-commander Holland some time, I imagine?"

  "A long time, sir, about eighteen months."

  With destroyer casualties as they were, that was a long time.

  "Where were you before that?"

  "I was in Bantam, sir."

  The voice was the same but the words sparked quick interest in Bentley.

  "She was sunk in the Med.?"

  It was a statement. Bantam had been a renowned destroyer, a fighter like her namesake. Old, and game.

  "Yes, s
ir. Torpedoed."

  "Let me see." Bentley's face was interested, kindly. "There were only about six survivors?"

  "Five, sir."

  A bit over thirty, and grey hair... Bentley had seen many survivors from torpedoed ships, had himself been one. But no outward physical effects like this! Rennie's experience must have been particularly horrible.

  Bentley's voice when he spoke now was not deliberately, but naturally, kind.

  "You'll find this ship is considerably different from your last two, `Swain. I hope you'll be happy in it."

  For a moment he thought he had him. Rennie lowered his eyes and the tip of his tongue moved slowly along his upper lip. Then he looked up again. He was staring into a strong, walnut-hued face, the planes of it hard with health and confidence and experience, the eyes grey and clear and direct. He knew about this Bentley fellow, what he had done with the two ships he'd commanded.