by John Harris
“Skipper, the water-pumps have packed up! Both of ’em!”
“Water-pumps?” The voice was Slingsby’s, hard and suspicious out of the semi-darkness. Tebbitt could just make out his shadowy figure against the pale orange glow that came through the doorway.
“Yes, Flight.”
“Both of ’em?” Slingsby sounded incredulous.
“Yes, Flight. Flight, the engines are overheating. There’s no water coming through.”
“Shut down.” Treherne’s voice was flat and cold, and as angry as Slingsby’s but in a different way.
The noise of the engines ceased immediately, and as the way went off the boat the bow fell and she began to wallow, dead and heavy, in the sickening seas.
“Tebbitt!” Slingsby put his head through the doorway. “Get aft and stand by to give Gus a hand. There’s probably going to be some fun with this Walrus. She’ll probably try to board us. Robby, go and keep an eye on ’em.”
“Aye, aye, Flight.”
“How is it both the water-pumps have packed up together, Skinner?” Treherne stared at Skinner in the pale light of the wheelhouse. The fitter’s face, black in the shadows, and picked out by the orange light, was strained and he seemed on the verge of tears.
“Skipper, it’s this cross-tide against the turn of the screws. It’s sheared away the water-pump keys. It was the cross-tide that stopped the log.”
“What have you got to do, then?”
“Dismantle the pumps, Skipper, and fit new keys.”
“How long will that take you?”
“Can’t say. More than an hour or so, I should think, with the roll that’s on her.”
“As long as that?”
“Yes, Skip. I’ve got to make new keys.”
Treherne turned away and Skinner was making thankfully for the companionway when Slingsby stopped him, his voice low-pitched and suddenly deadly.
“Haven’t you got any spare keys?”
“No, Flight. I shall have to make ’em.”
“We had the keys shear off once before in a cross-tide on one of my boats. That’s normal enough. But the fitter had made spare keys. He had ’em ready in his kit. Haven’t you?”
“No, Flight.”
“Why not?” Slingsby’s question came back at Skinner like a pistol-shot.
“Well, Flight, it’s like this–”
“Go on, Skinner,” Treherne interrupted coldly. “Let’s hear it.”
“Well, Skip, I’ve been pretty busy for a bit with that oil feed–”
“That started two days ago. You were supposed to have fixed it last night. What about the week before that? We had no running troubles then.”
“No, Skipper, but the auxiliaries have been giving a bit of trouble.”
“First I’ve heard of it.”
“Well – er – I didn’t want to worry you.”
“It’s part of my job. If the auxiliaries were giving trouble it should have been on the report sheet. Go on, what about before that?”
“Well – er – well, Skipper, it’s pretty busy down there with only two of us.”
“All the other boats have only two fitters.”
“Yes, but–”
“Skinner” – Treherne spoke slowly – ‘I don’t know you very well. This is my first boat and I’ve still a lot to learn. But I’m beginning to realise you’re the Grand Master of Blow-You-Jack-I’m-All-Right. How long did you take to fix that oil-feed last night?”
“It took me about three hours, Skipper.” Skinner was beginning to look desperate now. Slingsby stood in the background, saying nothing, watching Treherne with a look of complete approval on his face.
“I don’t believe you, Skinner,” Treherne said. “Judging by the time you came to me and asked to leave it couldn’t have taken you that long. How long did it take you? – ten minutes?”
“No, Skipper, honest–”
Treherne suddenly seemed to weary of the argument. “Go on, Skinner. Get down in that engine-room and get those new keys made. I’ll sort you out when we get back – if we get back.”
Skinner disappeared thankfully and Treherne turned towards the chart table. Like the others, he was beginning now to feel the strain of the violent motion of the boat. He was hungry – he had had nothing more than soup and sandwiches for over twenty-four hours – and every lurch and jar slapped at his hollow stomach, making him aware of its emptiness.
“Flight,” he said, “I’m beginning to see through Mr Skinner. Let’s get a message off, then we’ll go and have a look at that Walrus.”
As they walked wide-legged through the sick bay Treherne put his head into the wireless cabin. “Knox,” he said, “give me a message form. It’s an emergency. Get it off as fast as you can. Then one of you get up on the bridge and keep a look-out until one of the hands comes back from aft.”
He hurriedly scrawled out his message for assistance, pushed the message pad back, and followed Slingsby through the sick bay doors.
Milliken watched them, his eyes wide and a little frightened. The sudden silence after the thunder of the engines, Skinner’s hurried scramble through the sick bay to the wheelhouse, then the appearance aft of Tebbitt and Robb and finally the Skipper and Slingsby, made him worried and uneasy. The emergency message and, above all, the dead wallowing of the boat left him with a sense of impending disaster.
After the fashion of her kind, 7525 was slewing round a little, now that the way was off her, and the waves were already beginning to roll her sickeningly port and starboard again, so that the bulkhead against which Milliken leaned was one moment beneath him and he was almost flat against it, and the next was above him and flinging him away across the sick bay. Over all, he could hear the thin spatter of rain and the groan of timbers.
On the after-deck, hanging on for dear life to the safety-lines, to the Oerlikon and the Carley float, to anything within reach, Westover, Tebbitt and Robb felt rather than saw Treherne and Slingsby approach, crabwise across the rolling deck.
“Out the way, Tebbitt,” Slingsby said demoralisingly. “Shift your great carcase and let the dog see the rabbit.”
The boat was lying now at an angle of forty-five degrees across the waves and the stern rose mountainously, then fell with a twisting motion that was half a roll and half a pitch, and the water rose above them, black and ugly, sensed rather than seen against the darkness of the night. Every wave that slapped the chine sent the spray outwards, upwards and round in a swift curve across the deck, so that it beat against the five huddled figures staring out towards the Walrus.
“Let’s hope she’ll not fill with water,” Treherne said. “If she slides sideways into a wave, she’s had it. Better get that axe out and lay it handy in the sick bay, Robby, in case we need it to cut the tow.”
“So long as she doesn’t sink or ride up on us we’re all right,” Slingsby pointed out. He was hanging on with both hands to the jackstaff on the stern of the boat, where the lifelines met, oblivious of the water that slapped upwards at him. “Christ, if she rides up on us it’s going to be the biggest bloody uproar since Ma caught her behind in the mangle.”
“Skipper.” Westover spoke haltingly. “I think she’s beginning to stream out against the wind. She’s a bit to port of us now. I think she’s riding bow to wind.”
“By God, I think you’re right,” Slingsby said. “And so long as she keeps bow to wind, she’s safe. She’ll ride. We’re laughing. We’re right as a clock.”
“And, Flight,” Westover went on, a little more certain of himself, “I think she’s beginning to pull the stern round, too. If you look, we’re facing more up to wind than we were a minute ago.”
They glanced over the side at the hissing waves that hurried past, more along the length of the boat now and hitting her less on the beam.
“You’re right, Gus. She’s blown back the length of the tow-rope,” Slingsby said slowly. “That’s what’s happened. Skipper, this damned boat’s going to ride bow to wind for the first time
in her life.”
Corporal Skinner, wedged against the bulkhead aft of the engines, over the bench and the vice that was fitted there, sweated over a small piece of monel metal with a file, sawing away on it to shape it into a tiny key that would fit into the shaft inside the water-pump. Bitter anger surged over him at the thought that he had watched the faulty oil-feed all this time and, by an ironic twist, the engines had stopped from an entirely different cause.
As he sawed furiously he rubbed his thumb against the metal; it started to bleed and he flung down the file with a curse and sucked his thumb.
“Pick it up, Skinner.” He turned and found Slingsby standing alongside him. “Pick it up and get on with it.”
“It’s bleeding, Flight.”
“Do it good. Just the ticket. I’d like to see you bleed slowly to death, Mr Flaming Skinner. Get on with it. If you’d done your job this wouldn’t be necessary. This caper’s all your pigeon. We’re going to have to bob to the Navy or somebody for help now because of you. Get on with it. Pick it up.”
Skinner picked up the file sullenly. The bleeding was only slight and he had thrown down the file chiefly because he was hot and sweating and angry.
“I’ll just strip off, Flight,” he said. “It’s a bit hot in here.”
“We haven’t time for stripping off, Mr Skinner,” Slingsby said in a flat voice. “File away. I’ll be watching you for a bit. I want to see you sweat yourself to death. I’ll read the burial service, in fact, as they shove you over the side and I’ll be the first to shout ‘Hallelujah’ when you sink. And if you come up again I’ll bloody well push you down again with the boat-hook.”
Skinner’s eyes were held for a moment by Slingsby’s own flinty look, then he again began to file, perspiration streaming down his face in the oven heat of the engine-room As he realised he had on his best jacket, the one he’d worn so that he could get away to his date more quickly, he stopped again.
“I’ve got my best tunic on, Flight,” he bleated.
“Good! Nothing like a drop of dirty oil for a best tunic, Skinner. You won’t be able to rub it up against a WAAF in a corner on a dark night now. You’ll be able to wash it, like I do. Get – on – with – it.”
Skinner wanted to weep with mortification, humiliation and fury, but Slingsby seemed to lose interest and turned to where Dray was wrestling to dismantle the water-pump, surrounded by shining spanners.
“How’s it going, son?”
“All right, Flight. It’s coming off.”
“How long’s it going to take?”
“Christ knows, Flight. All night at this rate.”
“Mr Corporal Skinner suggested about an hour.”
“He’ll be lucky.” Dray shot Skinner a sour look and bent over the water-pump again. Then the boat pitched unexpectedly and one of his spanners slid into the bilges and Skinner hit his head against the bulkhead and swore bitterly.
Surreptitiously Skinner slipped off his jacket and laid it across one of the auxiliary engines, hoping it wouldn’t get too oily and bent again to the filing. The motion of the boat was a pitch and toss now that made the job difficult as it kept throwing him backwards away from the bench, and half the time he found himself missing the piece of metal and swinging only at the empty air. And the heat and the smell of hot steel and petrol fumes were overpowering. He stared down at the vice on the small littered bench, black-greasy with oil, missed his stroke again and, jabbing his thumb once more, felt ready to sit down and howl.
It was an hour later when the men on the heaving deck first heard the sound of another launch. Above the bash of the waves the sound of the engines came faintly at first, growing deeper as the other boat drew nearer. Then a searchlight stabbed at the sea and swept round in a wide arc.
Treherne grabbed the signalling lamp and flashed it briefly in the direction of the searchlight, which immediately swung about and fastened on them for a second before the lifting sea sent the boat and the beam high into the air and round in a roll. Jerkily it picked them out once more, lost them, and found them again.
As it lit up the tips of the waves the water shone green and brilliant and transparent, and they could see the turbulent sea between them, and the white racing crests.
Gradually the other boat drew closer, its searchlight swinging on and off them as she heaved in the swell, then they heard her loud-hailer.
“Ahoy, there, Twenty-five! Broken down again?”
“Loxton!” Slingsby swore bitterly. “That’s 7526. God, this is going to be wonderful!”
The other boat slowly came abeam of them, twenty feet away, the water between the plunging vessels lit by the searchlight and covered with flying steam from 7526’s exhausts. The spray, whipped off the wave-crests, sped away like flung jewels as the light caught it.
“My word, Twenty-five” – they could hear the triumph even in the boom of the other boat’s loud-hailer – “you do have a time with yourselves. What do you want us to do for you this time?”
Slingsby’s leathery face was hard and set. Treherne stared expressionlessly across at the shadowy form of the other boat behind the light.
“Take over my tow, please,” he said calmly into the microphone of the loud-hailer. “My engines are unserviceable.”
“Sure! And we’ll come back for you in the morning if you like.”
“Ha, ha!” Slingsby said quietly. “Very funny. Laugh? Shall I ever stop?”
Treherne deliberately refused to join in the banter. “If you’ll come a bit closer,” he said, “we’ll send you a line across.”
Robb, down near the stern, was calmly fastening a heaving-line to the eye of the tow-rope and coiling it carefully in his hands. Tebbitt was coiling another on the foredeck.
7526’s engines roared as she went astern, then she edged closer and Tebbitt, clinging to a handrail, threw his line one-handedly. But the wind caught it and whipped it away astern, making it splash in a diamond-flurry of spray into the brightly-lit water.
“The silly stupid fool,” Slingsby hissed to himself and Milliken, standing by the sick bay door, sensed the hatred that seemed to flicker between the two boats like lightning.
“Oh, hard lines!” Even in the harshness of the loud-hailer they could hear the smug, sarcastic tones of Loxton as Tebbitt hauled in his heaving-line. “Hurry up and get that line out. I don’t want it round my props. Er…” The speaker paused and they heard a distinct chuckle. “Flight Sergeant Rollo says if you’ll hang on a moment he’ll see that we send a line across properly.”
“Rollo!” Slingsby’s face was an angry red in the reflected light. “Get it across, Robby!” he shouted. “And for Christ’s sake don’t miss,” he added under his breath.
Robb’s arm swung back and round as he balanced on the rolling deck without holding, and his heaving-line uncoiled and fell across the deck of 7526, where it was immediately grabbed by a deckhand.
“Haul her in!” Loxton shouted. “Let go, Twenty-five.”
Robb and the two deckhands aft laboured on the frightful deck to release the heavy eye of the towline.
“Look slippy!” Loxton shouted.
“Shut your great jaw,” Slingsby muttered. “We know what we’re doing.”
Then the towrope splashed into the water astern of them and they saw in the searchlight’s beam the ruffle on the water as it was pulled through the broken waves to 7526.
“I’ll come back for you in the morning,” Loxton’s sarcastic voice went on. “I’ll make a note of where you are, in case you’re not sure. Like a chart check?”
“I know where I am, thank you,” Treherne snapped into the microphone. “But you might warn the Navy that we’re here. If this weather worsens we might need help.”
“I’ll come myself” Loxton said cheerfully. “Have a good night. You’ll get a medal for this.”
“Take your blasted medal and shove it up your jumper,” Robb panted.
They heard the roar of 7526’s engines and saw the white foam that was
flung up as her screws began to turn, then she slowly slid ahead, moving away to port, the steam from her exhausts blowing away astern.
The loud-hailer sounded again as she disappeared, and this time Loxton’s voice was serious, all the banter gone.
“Hold tight, Twenty-five. I’ll pass on your message. Good luck.”
The engines roared out louder as the throttles were opened and 7526 disappeared into the darkness, only the white foam of her wake visible. Treherne and Slingsby on the bridge of 7525 watched the shadowy shape of the Walrus move forward and then swing away after 7526 to port.
“Bastards,” Slingsby said feelingly and without a trace of gratitude.
The wind grew steadily worse. Relieved of the drag of the Walrus on her stern, 7525 swung round to her normal broached-to position and her motion increased until her starboard side went below water at the climax of her rolls and it became impossible even for the experienced hands to rest normally on a bunk. They had to stand, hugging a ladder, or jam themselves in corners in the sick bay, the wheelhouse, or the forecastle; or sit on the floor, their feet against the bulkhead, wedging themselves into position.
In the engine-room, Corporal Skinner laboured savagely, the perspiration running down his nose and dripping on to his file. With every roll of the boat he felt his feet slipping and had to keep wedging himself more tightly against the bench with his aching thighs. His head throbbed with the heat and the motion, his thumb was sore and his best trousers were stained with grease. He was muttering to himself all the time.
Dray sat on his toolbox with the unscrewed log with its damaged impeller, and the parts of the fresh-water pumps, spread on the deck in front of him. He had long since repaired the faulty oil-pipe on Skinner’s breathless instructions. His round, moon face was expressionless as he watched Skinner labouring in the corner by the bulkhead, his shirt dark and soiled with sweat in the middle of his back.
