Soldier, Sail North (1987)

by Pattinson, James

  The gunners were sorting themselves out among the bunks. Some preferred upper ones, some lower. There was a certain amount of argument, but it was friendly enough. Soon each man had taken a bunk and had flung his kit upon it.

  Most of the men were new to Willis. Gunner Cowdrey was the only one he knew. Cowdrey had been with him on two trips—a good fellow, quiet, cheerful, conscientious; a man you could rely on. He would never make an N.C.O., of course; he was not that type; but not everybody could have stripes. What unlikely material the War made into soldiers! Cowdrey, for example—a small man, inclined to tubbiness, and bald as a rail. He was forty, a tailor in civilian life, married, but childless; Willis had learnt all this. Before the War Cowdrey had sat cross-legged on a table sewing clothes; now he helped to serve a gun that could pump out forty-millimetre shells at the rate of two a second; now he faced cold, discomfort, fatigue, and danger; yet his character had not changed; essentially he was the same inoffensive little tailor disguised in khaki.

  Sometimes Willis marvelled at the way such men as Cowdrey could fall into the routine of Army life and endure the rigours of war service. For himself it was different: he was a professional, had been in the Army since he was a boy; it was his life, his career. Of course, the War had altered things for him too. It had meant farewell to the old regular habits, the barrack square, the display. But wherever he went, whatever he did, it was still his job, the work he had chosen and been trained to do; whereas men such as Cowdrey were still really tailors, mechanics, clerks, bus-conductors, shop assistants, fishmongers—anything but soldiers. It was amazing what good fighters the majority of them made.

  Two sailors in dungarees of pale, washed-out blue had wandered in from the mess-room. They stood in the doorway, regarding the soldiers with a slightly interested, slightly wary manner, rather like dogs meeting other dogs for the first time. One was a small man, not more than five feet six in height and lightly built, but wearing a thick black beard. The effect was somewhat grotesque; it was as though such a heavy upper growth on one so small and slender must surely render him top-heavy and make him liable to overbalance. He had a thin, piping voice that heightened the grotesquerie.

  “You the new lot of pongos?” he asked.

  Nobody seemed inclined to answer the inquiry. Possibly they resented the term ‘pongo’; possibly the answer appeared too obvious.

  “What’s the ship like?” asked one of the gunners.

  “It’s a bastard,” said the bearded sailor cheerfully. “You’ll see.”

  “Never mind that,” said Willis. “Can you tell us what time tea is?”

  The other sailor, a fair-haired boy, still troubled by the pimples of adolescence, answered. “Should be ready now. We’re just going for ours. If some of you fellows like to come along I’ll show you where the galley is. You’ll want to get that stove going to boil the water. There’s a kettle somewhere about. There’s a steam boiler out in the wash-place, but it don’t work.”

  “Where do we get coal for the stove?”

  “Draw it up from the stokehold.”

  “Andrews and Payne,” said Willis, “you fetch the grub. Randall and Miller, take that bucket and get some coal. Scrounge some box-wood for kindling at the same time. We’ll get properly organized tomorrow.”

  The galley was amidships, much of its space occupied by a black iron stove, the coal for which was kept in a bunker at one end. There was a sink full of greasy water, in which a galley-boy was making some pretence of washing pans and dishes, and on the stove stood a varied assortment of sooty boilers and saucepans.

  The cook, who appeared to have spent so much time close to the stove that he had transferred much of its blackness to his own person, was tall and thin, and with a permanent stoop. He wore tight cotton trousers of a small black-and-white check pattern and a dirty singlet. A cigarette that had long since burnt itself out clung to his upper lip like a piece of brown fungus, moving erratically up and down when he opened his mouth to speak.

  He was not in the best of tempers when Andrews and Payne asked for tea.

  “Who the hell are you?” he snapped.

  “Gunners; just come aboard.”

  “Two of you?”

  “Nine.”

  The cigarette threatened to fly from its seating, but its adhesive power proved equal to the strain.

  “Nine! Why, for crying out loud! How do you expect me to have grub for that lot? I wasn’t told you were coming. I ain’t got second sight; I only cook for them what I knows is aboard. Nine, you say. Some hope! You’ll be unlucky, mate.”

  “Now, come on, Bert,” said the pimply sailor, “you always have plenty of gash grub; you’ll only chuck it away. Let the lads have some, and don’t make such a fuss.”

  “I don’t know,” grumbled the cook. “I don’t know what things is coming to, straight I don’t. Nine extra all of a sudden like that. Don’t give a man a chance.”

  Nevertheless he slapped some stew and potatoes into two enamel containers, which fitted, one above the other, in a metal carrier, found a loaf of bread and some cold spam, and handed these provisions to the two soldiers.

  “That’s the best I can do,” he said. “I wasn’t told.”

  When Andrews and Payne returned to the cabin they found that Randall and Miller had already brought the fuel and were busy lighting the stove. Like most of its kind, it smoked badly until it had warmed up, and it was slow in doing so. The air of the cabin became thick and choking.

  Cowdrey had filled a bucket with fresh water from the after pump and was pouring some into an iron kettle. He took the lid off the stove and stood the kettle in its place.

  “In an hour’s time,” he said, “she’ll boil.”

  It was a pessimistic forecast. By the time they had eaten the stew the kettle was boiling. There was a tea-pot in the mess-room, and the sailors lent them some tea, sugar, and milk. Having eaten and drunk, they all began to feel better, to feel that they belonged to the ship.

  After tea Willis went to the small cabin which the gunnery officer had said was for the petty officer and sergeant. It was extremely cramped, the two bunks taking up most of the space; but there were two metal cupboards and two drawers. Willis found that one cupboard and one drawer were filled with clothing, and surmised that his cabin-mate was already in occupation. Probably he was ashore.

  Willis began unpacking his kit, stowing it in the empty cupboard and drawer. Then he unlashed his hammock and spread the mattress and blankets on the upper bunk, the one that was not in use, folding the hammock and stowing it at the foot of the bed.

  He had just completed this task when he heard a noise and, looking up, saw a man standing in the doorway of the cabin. He was a stout man of about medium height with grey, spiky hair, cropped so close to his head that it looked like nothing so much as a door-mat that has been dusted with flour. His eyebrows were spiky too, and stood out on either side of his face like cat’s whiskers. He had a heavy, razor-blue jowl and knobbly hands that seemed at one time or another to have been knocked about with a hammer. But his most striking feature, that which irresistibly drew the eye, was a large, rounded growth on the left side of his neck. It was red and smooth and shiny, and from its surface two or three coarse grey hairs grew like blades of grass growing out of an ant-hill. It was at once fascinating and repulsive.

  He wore ordinary seaman’s uniform—bell-bottom trousers and jumper—but from the crossed anchors on his sleeve Willis could see that he was a petty officer. His age might have been forty-five or a good deal more; it was difficult to tell. His voice was gruff.

  “Hullo!” he said. “You the new sergeant?”

  “That’s right,” said Willis.

  “I see you’ve moved in.”

  Willis nodded. “Didn’t seem much sense in waiting. Got to be done some time.”

  “Of course.”

  The petty officer moved into the cabin, hung his cap on a peg behind the door, and began to roll himself a cigarette. As an apparent aftertho
ught he offered the tin of tobacco and packet of papers to Willis,

  “Smoke ticklers?”

  “I like tailor-mades best,” said Willis. “Thanks all the same.” He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “Have one of these.”

  The petty officer put the cigarette he had rolled in the tobacco-tin and took one of those Willis had offered.

  “For a change, then,” he said.

  He felt inside his blue jumper and hauled up a massive brass petrol lighter. After much flicking of the wheel, which was as big as a shilling, a flame was produced, and the two men lit their cigarettes.

  “My name’s Donker—George to you.”

  “Mine’s Bill Willis.”

  “The one who was here before was Briggs. Know him?”

  “No.”

  “You ain’t missed much. Proper pain in the neck. I’ve got the bottom bunk. First come first served, hey? Anyway, you’re younger than what I am; I ain’t built for climbing these days. If it wasn’t for this bleeding war I wouldn’t be in uniform now—not likely. I was on the Reserve, y’see; so they lugged me back an’ shoved me in Dems.” He gave a short, barking laugh. “Defensively Equipped Merchant Ships! Now, I ask you! Me, what’s served in the Royal Oak and the Hood, pushed into Dems! Oh, well!”

  He took a little smoke down the wrong way and coughed. “You don’t mind top bunk, do you?”

  “I prefer it,” said Willis.

  Petty Officer Donker put his cigarette on the edge of an ash-tray made from a tin-lid and began pulling off his jumper. This, an operation of no little difficulty, was accompanied by much puffing and groaning. His voice, muffled by the material covering his head, jerked out information.

  “You know she’s sailing tomorrow?”

  “I didn’t; but it suits me.”

  “Picking up cargo at Immingham. That’s a hole. Then we shall proceed to Loch Ewe to join convoy. You been on the Russian run before?”

  “No.”

  Petty Officer Donker, the process of extricating himself from the jumper completed, sat on the edge of his bunk and delivered himself of a statement which Willis did not doubt was completely true.

  “It is,” said Donker, “the bloodiest bloody trip of the whole bloody lot. I’m telling you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Coastal Convoy

  THE s.s. Golden Ray, fussed over by two self-important tugs, edged her way out from the encircling arms of the Tilbury dock, through the lock gates, and into London river. There the tugs abandoned her, and she set off downstream under her own power, leaving Tilbury on the one hand and Gravesend on the other, churning the thick river-water to foam with her propeller only half submerged, and sending miniature waves to slap against wooden piles, stir rich slime, and rock any boats that might be moored against the banks.

  It was ten o’clock on a raw December morning, and a bitter wind, cutting across the marshes, set up a high-pitched, wavering shriek in the rigging which seemed to have the effect of making the air at least ten degrees colder.

  By midday the forts in the estuary of the river had come into view. Standing high above the water on their long steel legs, they looked like giant crabs, or, as Gunner Vernon thought, like the great fighting machines that Wells had given his Martians in The War of the Worlds.

  Away to port, Southend pier crept out over the mud, searching for deep water. In sight of this symbol of happier days the Golden Ray let go her anchor and came to rest for the day.

  At ten o’clock next morning the anchor came up, dripping mud, the engines began to turn over, and they were away. They joined a coastal convoy, one of those strange mixtures of shipping, marshalled into two lines, which might contain anything from a 400-ton collier to a 15,000-ton tanker. One lean destroyer flickered back and forth along the line of ships, thrusting her aquiline nose into the waves and flinging the white foam away on either side, while two motor-launches maintained a continuous thunder of high-powered diesel engines. Overhead in a clear sky of faded blue two Hurricanes flew round and round, until, their stretch of duty ended, they were relieved by two Spitfires. There was no excitement, nothing at all to stir the pulse; and there was the coast clearly visible on the port side, seeming no more than five hundred yards away. It was all so peaceful; there might have been no war on. But the guns were ready and the men were ready, and in every ship there were eyes scanning sea and sky; and in the destroyer the Asdic was sending its signal and waiting for the answer.

  Willis had arranged his gun-team in three watches, with three men in each. With himself he took Randall and Andrews, who were the least experienced gunners. In the second watch he put Bombardier Padgett, Cowdrey, and Payne, and in the third watch Vernon, Miller, and Warby. Each watch did four hours on the gun and eight off.

  Night fell. The accompanying aircraft returned to their base, and the convoy, so many dark shapes upon the dark bosom of the sea, crept steadily northward.

  Sergeant Willis, with his two companions, Randall and Andrews, came off watch at midnight and was relieved by the bombardier’s watch. A cold wind had been blowing from the east, and Willis felt tired and chilled. You fell out of the habit of watch-keeping when you went on leave, and it came hard when you started again. Four hours in a narrow gun-enclosure could creep damnably slowly, and the colder and darker it was the more slowly did the hours appear to go.

  Willis clambered down the iron ladder and felt the immediate relief from the bitter wind and noise above deck. Here below were only the steady beat of the engines, the occasional rattle of the rudder-chains, and a rhythmic creaking of timbers. Here were men lying in narrow bunks, some snoring, some breathing quietly, all seeming strangely different at this hour under the shaded lamps that were kept on all night.

  The relieving watch had made up the stove, and the kettle, a wire twisted through its handle and round the stovepipe to prevent its falling off when the ship rolled, was boiling fiercely. Randall made cocoa, thick and sweet, and the three men gathered round the stove, sipping their drinks and warming themselves inside and out before going to their bunks.

  “Well,” said Willis, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the sleeping men, “we’re away; but we’ll be in port again tomorrow.”

  “It’s going to be cold,” said Andrews. “If it’s like this here, what’s it going to be like in the Arctic?”

  “It won’t be a picnic,” said Willis, “but we shall pull through.”

  “We hope.”

  Randall had said nothing. All the time they had been on watch he had hardly spoken a word, but had stood hunched up, with hands in pockets, silent, unmoving. Willis hardly knew what to make of Randall. All the while he appeared to be looking inward, peering at some secret trouble. He did what he was told mechanically, like an automaton, having no interest in what he did. Willis had watched him at times unobserved and he had seen something that looked like terror lurking at the back of Randall’s eyes; but Willis did not think it was the thought of submarines or bombs that had put the terror there. It was a deeper fear.

  Andrews had something on his mind also; but Willis knew all about that because it was something Andrews was only too keen to speak about. It was a girl. Andrews had shown Willis her photograph; it was just an amateur snap and did not flatter the subject. But somehow the character came through. It was a gentle face, not truly beautiful, but having about it that which was deeper, more enduring than beauty. Willis was glad Andrews had a girl like that, for he was a good-looking youngster—tall, fair-haired, and athletically built—a decent kid.

  Willis drained his cocoa, took the dirty mug into the mess-room, said, “Good night, lads,” and, having removed just as much clothing as he deemed advisable, climbed over the sleeping body of Petty Officer Donker, and in two minutes was asleep.

  The s.s. Golden Ray ploughed on through the night; dark figures moved upon her bridge and on the tiny, steel-surrounded platforms that supported her guns, while below them their shipmates slept; and below them again, under the water-line, gr
ease-smeared troglodytes watched gauges, moved levers, oiled bearings, and flung coal into the roaring mouths of furnaces. Two bells, four bells, six bells, eight bells—and another watch was completed. The dark figures on bridge and gun-platform were joined by other dark figures; a few words were spoken; then the ones who had been on deck for four hours went below, and those others, fresh from the warmth of their bunks, began their own weary vigil, waiting for the dawn.

  Two bells, four bells. And at four bells Sergeant Willis awoke and felt the call of nature. He cursed softly, clambered out of his bunk, and pulled on a pair of old gym-shoes. On his way through the wash-place he heard the sound of low voices coming from the gunners’ cabin.

  Willis was not a fool, and he realized that none of the gunners was likely to be wasting his precious hours of sleep by talking. Therefore he decided to investigate; and, investigating, he found Miller and Warby comfortably seated by the stove, their duffel-coats unbuttoned and their feet toasting in the hearth. They looked up with some surprise and a certain amount of consternation as Willis drew the black-out curtain aside and stepped into the cabin—Willis in gym-shoes, underpants, and shirt, a little tousled about the head and grim about the mouth.

  When he spoke his voice was misleadingly quiet, but there was a keen edge to it. “May I ask,” he said, “what you two think you’re doing down here? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that you should be on watch.”

  The two gunners looked sheepish, but said nothing.

  “I suppose,” said Willis, laying on the sarcasm, “that you’ve both got such sharp eyesight you can sit down here and still see what’s going on up top. Periscopic, X-ray eyesight, hey? Is that it?”

  Miller got to his feet, fumbling with the toggles of his duffel-coat. “Ah, where’s the sense in three bein’ up there and getting froze? One’s enough to keep watch.”