by James Hanley
The party halted. 'Yes, here they were, sir,' Rochdale said in his mind. 'Here they were.' Two stiffs, the first casualties aboard. Their faces were covered with the grey blankets.
'All right, I don't want to see them,' said Mr. Dunford, and turned away, standing, hand clasped loosely behind his back.
Captain Percival answered all his questions. When had it occurred? Oh! Nobody knew. He had had reports from the deck N.C.O. The men did not rise to breakfast.
Mr. Dunford went on nodding his head, saying in a sing-song manner, 'I see! I see!' They were only discovered after six o'clock, when the sitting for breakfast for the deck was over. The mess orderlies found them. They thought they had overslept.
'I see! I see!' Dunford said. He wanted to go up on deck again. There was something about this place that made him sick, revolted him. Suddenly he swung round and looked at Rochdale.
'Turn the blankets down, man,' he said, and Rochdale uncovered the dead.
Faces. A man about sixty, a youth about twenty. A hairy face and a hairless one. Closed eyes, empty faces, meaningless.
'All right, cover them up. Go and bring the petty officer on watch.'
Now he did want to get out of it. But here was the Adjutant, a man whom he had spoken to but twice during the whole trip, and here were the dead, and above all, the living.
'The accommodation is not perfect, Captain Percival! I won't deny that! Indeed, it's very bad! But my ship was changed overnight. What else could one expect?' There was nothing really perfect. So far as he was concerned he wouldn't carry cattle in the thing. On the other hand there was the question of severely depleted tonnage, a fact to be reckoned with, a certain amount of stupidity, but people were only human, etc., etc.
The bosun appeared, Rochdale behind him. Dunford said sharply: 'Mr. Tyrer, I want two hands here with canvas. Right away. You, there, get below and bring fire-bars.' He turned to Captain Percival. 'Captain Percival, this deck is closed to troops until eleven o'clock, at the two entrances. That is all.'
Christ! The conglomeration of smells, smells, smells, smells, the sort of weight that seemed to descend on one.
Mr. Dunford and the Adjutant then went right through to D deck and eventually ascended to the saloon.
Dunford thought: 'Why haven't I deepened the acquaintance with this fellow? He's a very nice man.' He said he would like to see the men in the hospital. They went aft. He stepped inside, looking from one man to another.
'Well, are you men getting better?' he asked, smiling, whilst inside a voice was saying, 'How will they land these men? Twelve! How will they land them? – land them.' He didn't know. Probably sling them over and that was that.
Captain Percival was speaking: 'About those men, Captain Dunford,' he said in a low voice.
'Yes. Tell your commanding officer I will bury them in the middle watch. Twelve to four.' He began rubbing his nose violently.
'This afternoon, Captain Dunford?'
'No! Midnight! They will be removed aft as soon as they are stitched up. There is no need to parade them through the ship's company, Captain Percival. It doesn't mean anything, help anyone. Why, here is your commanding officer now!' he exclaimed and walked up to meet the Colonel.
'Good morning, sir,' the Colonel said, his face one broad smile. 'Good morning.' And then he looked at his Adjutant. 'Captain Percival! There must be full inspection of kit before the first sitting for tea. Detail quartermasters to collect fresh wills from all ranks. All such papers to be delivered to Captain Harris in the saloon at ten o'clock to-night. Ship's quartermaster to make an inventory of all stores. That's all, Adjutant,' he said. He remained silent until the Adjutant had passed out of sight. 'Captain Dunford,' he said, 'can you tell me anything? You at least ought to know – at least something that I should know and don't know.'
Dunford laughed. Did the Colonel think that he, Dunford, was a prophet? 'I know no more than you until I get my orders, Colonel Ffoulkes. I can hint, however.'We join the Hartspill at three o'clock in the morning and under cover we transfer these troops to the landing ship. That's all.'
That was all! Not another word to say. What could they talk about? The war? Up to their chins in it. The perspective was all out of focus. Home. England – the theatre, women, music, drink. There was nothing to say except good-bye, and that wouldn't be long, either.
'Well, I must get back. I've left a junior up there kicking his heels,' and that was that.
And Colonel Ffoulkes went back to the saloon, called for a whisky and soda, and over it contemplated this oddity, who appeared now and again from the bridge, a sort of ghost who had nothing to say except 'You'll land to-morrow and so good-bye.' 'Damned insolence,' thought the Colonel. 'Well, they're my men, not his, thank God!'
Other officers joined him. The steward served more and more drinks. His pocket was well lined by tips and to-day there was a sad, contemplative air about him – it was the last day. He liked serving drinks. They were a cheery crowd. They didn't give a damn. They called him 'Wonborl' and sometimes 'The Cinch'. But that was only the war. If they passed him in the street as he was taking his missus to the theatre, probably they wouldn't even recognize him. That was the war. The bloody good old war which gave dignity to dirt and men to the devil, and everybody was somebody. They talked. They talked of the landing, of the men, of the possibility of getting the reinforcements up in time. The saloon was the sounding-board of men's feelings and opinions. One heard plans, muttered hopes, fears, more plans tossed from mouth to mouth. Glasses tinkled, eyes shone, lips parted in smiles, in loud laughs, guffaws. Nobody spat. The steward noticed that particularly. Probably saving their spit for the guns. Good chaps, though.
Cinch was a middle-aged man, grey-haired, going bald, he had served drinks to the famous and the infamous – dukes, actresses, prostitutes, artists, and once gave a double whisky to a bishop and got him tight by mistake. These men were different, fledglings, they drank, but they didn't know how really. They didn't enjoy it, only thought they did. He who had served notables and nobodies knew it. They were all talking, all laughing. They were there to-day, but it meant nothing to them really. Cinch knew that. Time had stolen a march on them. They were drinking to-day, froth on the surface, deep down inside them, hidden like some kind of shame, something else. They were living to-morrow. Good luck to the bloody blighters any old how. They still called, and he, Cinch, filled glasses. Outside an incessant din. Inside tinkling glass, dark mahogany shining under the light, red-pile carpet, virgin spittoons. Tall talk and small talk. 'That's three-fifteen I've made so far. Reckon I'll buy a bloody suit when I gets back home, touching wood, too.'
'Brandy, steward.'
'Coming, sir.'
The fo'c'sle talked. They talked of the dead men and the approaching land. They laughed about Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump. Rochdale was sitting talking to O'Grady. He was already dressed and waiting to go aloft. He talked about the dead.
'I suppose all the mail's gone in?' a voice asked from the far end of the fo'c'sle.
'Aye! All the mail's in. I saw Walters getting it. He takes it to the bridge there. It's a bit of a beggar, too – they open them all.'
'Aye, that's so. I see these fellers getting their gear together now. Won't be long before they're there. Somehow I won't be sorry when they are gone. What I like best is travelling without any passengers, being an ordinary bloody ship where a fellow can draw a couple dollars and go ashore like a decent man. But this business. It's like being in the bloody Navy. You have to get a pass for this and a pass for that. It's lousy.'
'I hear we're putting Mr. Deveney ashore in Alex.'
'Well, what about it? D'you call that news? Tell us something, mate, something that makes your ear tickle. Now if you said we were going to have fruit-girls coming aboard in Alex it'd be somethin' worth listening to. Who's Deveney? D'you suppose Mr. Deveney's worrying about us or what we think about him? What about this rotten grub we're getting?'
'Sure. I quite agree. Nobody gives a damn wheth
er you're dead or alive for'ard.'
'Aw shut it! You're bloody lucky. What about these fellers landing in the morning? Going right into the muck. Don't growl, for God's sake!'
'He's not growling. Only airin' himself. There's only one man left to air himself, but he's so busy writing letters to his Judy he hasn't said a word. Have you, Rochdale? No, of course you haven't. You see, fellers, he's a dark horse. He might have funny opinions on the war, d'you see? Why shouldn't we hear them?'
'Ah, leave him alone! He likes to be quiet. You're jealous because you haven't got a Judy. You got to go ashore and scrape around looking for any old hag who happens along. Rochdale's a respectable married man. Everybody knows that. Why, only today I saw him standing by the hatch there talking away to them soldiers, and laughing and joking like there wasn't any war at all. But that's not all. Who comes along – only the skipper and one of them officers. And believe you me or believe you me not, there they were talking like a couple of friends. Weren't you, Rochy, lad? – he was an' all. And then they went down below. But he likes to be quiet. He's not a bad chap, after all.'
Rochdale's name was tossing about the fo'c'sle like a cork bobbing on water, and not once did he open his mouth, or even raise his head. He just sat listening to O'Grady, whose tongue the fo'c'sle assumed was at least three miles long. O'Grady talked under his breath, head bent forward, hands flat upon his knees, head half turned, eyes upon the others in the fo'c'sle, the attitude of a man who is very solicitous of an audience, but the fo'c'sle was full of voices, everybody was talking, except Rochdale. O'Grady liked nothing better than to light upon a willing ear. And that was Mr. Rochdale's, née Higginbottom. The talk went on. At last O'Grady and Rochdale got up. They went outside, the back-wash of remarks and mutterings reaching them at the bottom of the alleyway.
'They're not a bad crowd really,' continued O'Grady, 'but Christ, one gets simply fed up with the same old talk. You'd think they'd never seen a troopship. If only a couple of them would sleep together. It would give them something else to talk about. I like you, Rochy. You're decent, you're fair, you don't gab, you keep to yourself. And lately I've been thinking it must be pretty fine being so cocksure of yourself. You don't mind me talkin' like this, do you?' He began picking at the segs on the palm of his right hand.
'I'll mind in three minutes,' Rochdale said, looking at his gun-metal watch.
'Mind you, I wouldn't mind doing a turn up in that nest myself,' went on O'Grady. 'Must be sort of peaceful up there, just looking out all the time and no gab soaking into your ears all the time.'
They looked into the fast-flowing water. It had turned a bright green. But it was nothing to them. Water – something through which they sailed. No more than that.
'Well,' Rochdale said, 'there she bloody well goes.' And he made for the rigging.
O'Grady stood watching him. He felt a little lonely to-day – why he did not really know. He hated the fo'c'sle just this very day, and he had taken a sudden liking to the little man from 'up Lancashire'. O'Grady was Irish, nearly fifty, a big man, with heavy black moustache. This was his third trip as seaman. He had always been one of the black gang. One eye was partly closed by stitches, the result of the end of a wire hawser rebounding. He was very lucky to have any eyes at all. He strolled along the deck. He looked at the troops, face on face, as though they were nothing at all, part of the ship's furniture. They didn't concern him, he never worried about them. He would feel the same over sacks of raw sugar. He pushed his way through the crowds, hands pushed down between belt and trousers, wearing only his jersey and pants, sockless, wearing rope shoes. He held his head erect, looking straight ahead, though not at anything particular. He had no living relatives. He was quite alone. He had friends. He might get married – he didn't know. He had no ambition. He liked sleeping and talking, though he didn't like work unless it was a job of work he liked to do. He was loud-mouthed, emphatic on most occasions. He was a little greedy. He took his share, for 'douse,' of Williams's winnings on the Crown and Anchor, pocketed it with a curt thanks and a sort of superior air, as though he was obliging the ferret-faced Williams by taking it at all. He was a good sailor, he knew the limit of his ability, as he knew the limit of authority. All officers were toffs! He obeyed their orders, but was very alert whenever authority went beyond itself. He felt himself contented, capable; he drank like a fish, wages meant nothing except to put the gilt edge on freedom. He liked women. He never read anything except the headlines in newspapers and the advertisements at the back of American magazines. He liked all Americans, but not Irishmen nor Scotchmen. He hoped to end his days in America, the country for the free man. The war meant nothing to him. Higher wages, work for the asking, the opportunity to be both carping and expressive about his abilities. He didn't mind who won the war. It was all the same to him. He saw nothing against Germans, except their ships, which were too clean, too disciplined, and the food was poor and scarce. This was the limit of his knowledge. As for the rest he listened. He sat for hours listening to his mates, to the troops, to the others talking. They were right in the danger zone. To-morrow might never come, those soldiers might all be dead by morning, perhaps at this moment A.10 might be holed. Well, he was a good swimmer. He would take his chance. Nothing was a means to an end with O'Grady. He lived now, the whole man lived now – past and future didn't exist. He strolled on, stopping to watch an N.C.O. collecting sheets of paper from the troops, who were assembled by platoons, he looked into the 'tween-decks and saw tables being got ready for afternoon sittings. Of course they were eating in an hour. It made him feel hungry himself. He went straight back to the fo'c'sle. It was very quiet there now. Watch below had turned in, curtains were drawn across bunks. The other watch were on the poop. Gun-drill.
O'Grady went to the locker where stores were kept. He tore the half off a loaf, sat down and began eating it. The bread might have been dipped in the sea, the butter was so salt. He never bit into the bread, his hand went to his mouth, he tore the bread. When he had eaten it, he got up and began undressing. He stripped naked. It was stifling hot. O'Grady stretched himself out. If anything happened, well, who wanted a bloody life-belt? All he had to do was take a header over the side and chance it. He turned over on his side. His rear had the appearance of an inflamed sore in striking contrast to his back, which was white as chalk, the muscles rippled as he moved in the bed. Fear! Subs! All a bloody farce. Nothing mattered a goddam. He was soon fast asleep. A thin breeze came up the alleyway.
At half-past two all men were assembled for final kit inspection. They were assembled in groups on the main-deck. No man was allowed to go below until this was over. The bosun's mate and his watch were down there, they were carrying the two dead soldiers aft. Their destination was the wheel-house. The work was carried on in complete silence. The bosun's mate walked behind, there was an officer there. They would lay them in the wheel-house, lock them in, bury them at midnight. 'Wise,' thought the bosun. 'Amongst all these kids – well.' And when this was done, and he had the big iron key in his pocket, he went up to see Mr. Bradshaw.
'All clear, now, sir! We've taken down the rope barriers, sir, I suppose it's all right for the men to use the deck now. A lot of them will be waiting. It's kit inspection, sir!' He dangled the key in his hands. 'Will you want this, sir? Or shall I keep it till middle watch?'
'Yes, you keep it. Tell the bosun when he comes in that all the winches must have steam, all the stores must come up this evening, to lie to port. All baggage and boxes. As far as the well-deck must be roped off in the dog watch. The men will work the dog watch. All hands.'
'Is that all, sir?'
'That's all!' Mr. Bradshaw said and the bosun's mate went away. Mr. Bradshaw was hoping to have company soon. Time was getting on. He could see the Hartspill forging ahead, a destroyer on either side. Periodically one turned, bore down on A.10, circled her, kept pace with her for a while, then sheered off. Land wasn't very far off. But they were still in air. Still waiting for the final orders.
And on shore – yes, somewhere on shore, heads were close together, lips moving, thoughts germinating, action taking shape. Would Hartspill and A.10 go in together? Or what? Yes, or what? Bradshaw didn't know. Did anybody know? Bradshaw smiled. Suddenly he raised both arms in the air, in the attitude of embracing a person, then he exclaimed: What a glorious day! Lovely day!' Sun shining, soldiers laughing, singing – what a bore it must be for soldiers, packed together like sardines on a musty old ship. They wanted space and plenty of it. So Deveney was so ill that they were landing him at Salonika. More work for him, of course. Ericson was all right, but you couldn't leave him alone for long. Wasn't fair on him either, only a youngster. Thoughts came – darted away again. Then a signal from the leading destroyer. 'Half-speed again!' The telegraph rang.
'Hard a starboard on your helm.'
Officers walked the deck below. They were nearing the land, purpose was showing its full face, yes, and they were coming into their own. Yes. Their stature was increasing. They counted now. To the devil with fusty old captains – fusty old ships' captains. A beastly sentimental lot they were. Looking on the state of affairs as though it were meaningless. Thank heaven they had a destroyer each side of them. They meant something, spelt business. They wouldn't half be glad to see the last of the damned ship, they were itching to get away, only seven days on board, but what a narrow world, a stuffy prison. And they counted for nothing. Well, patience, their time was coming. Heads tossed in the air, footsteps halted, a soft white hand clenched itself, struck an open palm. Talks of plans, hopes, meetings with fellow-officers, mines, submarines, dead men in canvas, prone figures with high temperatures, feverish faces, all – all algebra. The thing was – look what's coming. The figures walked round and round, hands in pockets and behind backs. Everybody talked. A.10 was near the end of her destination. Heat! Sea-bugs, stale tea, mouldy cigarettes from the ship's bar, fantastic price of spirits, well – a forgotten thing. No time! Think of the morrow. Lower still crowded rails, a mass of faces, mirroring dreams and expectations, mirroring nothing, thinking of familiar faces that were familiar no longer. Laughing seasickness in the face, glimpsing two cold faces wrapped in canvas, death, meaning nothing. Who were they? Strangers! Bells in their ears. 'There's a cruiser, Joe,' someone said.
