by James Hanley
'Ain't a bloody cruiser, you sausage, it's a blinkin' live battleship.'
'You can hear guns from here,' another voice said.
A sergeant: 'Turkish army breaking wind on Mount Carmel.'
'How's your shoulder, Shorty?'
'Oh, it's goin' down, that there bloody swelling. See 'im there! Jesus! He's a funny cove.'
'Well, he used to be a waiter at a Salvation Army Hostel, he did, aye! I knew him well when I was on the plank. And what kin you expect from such a bloke? I'd tell you more, but Christ, I'd hate to shock yer. Kiddo! Kiddo! That's what the bloody canucks say, you know. Kiddo! Lucky beggars they are. Six bob a day they get and we get one blinkin' bob. Ah, well! Three cheers for the Starvation Army. That's what I say. We'll all be sleeping on velvet to-morrow.'
Bradshaw listened. Group to the left. Who's – who's – who's your lady friend?' 'Dead slow.' – Dead slow it is. Mines. The bell rang again. Avalanche of movement below, all eyes seawards. Floating from the troops' galley the strong sharp smell of cheese again.
'Oh, it's cheese again, my lucky bloody lads, cheese, cheese, nothing like cheese for bringing yer to your knees. And chops for the quartermaster.'
Bradshaw listened still. Living history! It all came up to him.
'I say. I say, have you tasted any of those chicken sandwiches with fish-bones in? They're great. I paid a tanner for one last night, it looked so nice, and Christ, I was hungry. An' I thought I'll save this beggaring sandwich until I get into my bunk and I'll give it such a bite, such a bite. But it was lousy.'
'Somebody does well out of us, with five lousy Woodbines for a bob – and Beggar is his name. But who cares? We'll smoke Turks on Monday.'
The bugle called. D deck for tea! A concerted rush, a violent lunging to down ladders, pushing, thrusting bodies, the long tables filled as if by magic. Tea. 'Hip-pip a bloody rah!'
A white-coated steward standing sphinx-like, a mountain of plates in his hand, each bearing its fragments, its two fragments, standing staring at the bulkhead, seeing no faces, no anxious looks, feeling nothing, standing in his black grease-stained trousers, fifteen hours a day and ready to drop. Called Glassback. Wife and five children at home. Eight pounds a month and what you can pinch. Soldiers, or whatever the bloody hell they were, here's your ration and fill your hungry gut and that of your goddam officers, and to hell with the blasted war. Blood, smells, vomit, muck, tips nil.
'Coming,' he said, very quietly, 'pass the plates down.' And one by one he slid them, the mountains became a hill, and then a mound, and then it was nothing. Hungry men, glory for a second helping. Feed your guts and sink your damn soul, too! There's a war on. Mouths, mouths, mouths wolves, pitiful, big mouths, little mouths, mouse-traps, caverns. The geography on the table. The maps in plates, in a portion of cheese, and a little spoonful of jam. Hope lies under the plate. Three cheers, and Britannia rules the waves, and to hell with the squareheads. Eat! Eat!
The steward watched, heard jokes, obscenities, sad tales, heard all, not smiling. Glory-hole called him. Faces of soldiers were trees, wood, were nothing. He turned away and walked back to the pantry for another mountain of plates. More cheese, more jam. Water running from a tap into cans, cans with spouts, tea. More tea, more steam! Chorale from the lavatory, situated abaft the hatch, clatter of knives, forks, knives for cheese, forks for jam. Soldiers' etiquette. Everybody laughing.
'Hurry up with that goddam tea,' the steward said, looking at the cook, all whiskers, beads of sweat, wet mouth. 'They're waiting.'
'Let them wait! They like a dirty yarn between the courses.' He stood waiting, heard nothing, saw nothing. 'Hurry up,' he said. His face a raised map of Boredom.
Somebody was singing. 'There was a cruiser coming down, one on the left, one on the right, and one came up behind.'
'Damn the cruiser!'
Fists thumping on the long table. 'Tea! You blasted lot of robbing swine. Tea for soldiers.' The steward looked at them from behind a brass grille, not smiling, face enveloped by steam, voices clamouring in his ears. 'Glory-hole! Glory-hole. Bed. Rest. Glorious Glory-hole.'
'Christ, I'm dead beat,' he shouted, as though rage had beaten the words into shape from throbbing thought. 'Whiskers' said nothing. Poured tea. Five more sittings for A deck. Where was B deck and C deck? And D deck! Up the bloody pole for all he cared.
'Here! Here's your bloody tea. And tell those shouting, roaring, noisy, impatient beggars not to be greedy. They'll be lucky if they get tea at all next week.'
'Who cares?' the steward said. 'I'm falling asleep. They can drink arsenic. Decent fellers, mugs into the bargain. A bloody lot of thanks they'd get when it was all over. I wonder how Jenny is.'
He walked forward with the great steaming can of tea, like one in a dream. Sky above, clear blue, bright sun, steam blotted it out. Tables held it in. Clouds, sky, nothing to them, food was great. Eating. The steward said quietly: 'Mugs this way. One at a bloody time!' He paused, not caring. 'I wonder how Jenny is.' Mugs. Mugs. 'Now then, greedy gut. All men are equal.' Fifteen, sixteen hours on his feet. Glory-hole – glory-hole. For him sleep was very beautiful.
Finished! He walked back to 'Sweat and whiskers'. Walters now! Pearson is here. Takes my place. Walters for me. Damn, don't sweat into the bloody tea.
He left the 'tween-decks, climbed leaden-footed. A 'glass-back'. Knocked at a cabin.
'Tea, sir.'
'Yes. But where's my own steward?'
'Serving second sitting, sir.'
'Oh, all right! Lay it in the mess.'
Mr. Walters and Mr. Hump went into the mess-room. They sat down. It was cool here, an electric fan whizzing round, disturbing fusty air, blowing curtains – one up on nature and her sultry mood. One up on the sun. The steward came in. Eggs. Toast. Large silver tea-pot.
'Anything else, sir?' the steward asked, eyes closing in sleep, eyes open since half-past three that morning.
'Yes. Take a man and both of you scrub that bloody mess up in the alleyway. The mess those silly youngsters made last night celebrating.'
'Men for'ard do that, sir.'
'You do it now,' Walters said. 'More tea, Mr. Hump?' Door banged. Cursing steward, curses floating in the empty air, fluttered by contempt. Who cares if the whole bloody force gets blown to hell? Christ, they can't drink properly without spilling it all over the alleyway.
'Surprising Mr. Dunford doesn't know anything yet. What do you think, Mr. Walters, sir?'
'Oh, don't sir me! For God's sake don't sir me. I'm not the King. Are you second steward or not? Here's a slice of toast. Block your mouth with it, Mr. Hump – and let me add that nothing's surprising,' said Mr. Walters. 'You look worried. It's bad for your health, or is it that I haven't given you enough port money or what? My dear chap, in this game you must sink your feelings. You're on the point of telling me that you were on C deck this morning and you heard people talking. Well, what else would you expect to find them doing? Singing hymns? Consider these fellows! Why, our own lives are humdrum in comparison. Why, in a couple of weeks they'll be soaring. Pushing on to Baghdad and such places, plenty to eat, plenty to eat, and Turkish beer, Hump, and cigarettes galore, not to mention women. Don't be tempting your conscience all the time. Suppose we didn't give them this extra tit-bit. They'd only be hungrier after all. I did object, and made quite a bother about those fellers for'ard filling their pockets. That was quite different. That was gambling. If they paid you and paid me they got something to eat for it. A little venial sin, Mr. Hump. But look at the mortal sins being committed in high places. Here! Have some more tea. It's strong to-day for a wonder. That steward who came in here just now – Lord, he's a dull, whining devil if ever there was one.' He looked at Mr. Hump.
Mr. Hump looked away through the door, his eyes following the aimless swirling of large bluebottles round and round the alleyway. Mr. Walters drank his tea. Then he lit his pipe and leaned back in the chair. Mr. Hump seemed utterly lost in the manoeuvring of the flies. They buzzed up and down
the bulkhead. At last he turned his eyes away and they came to rest upon Mr. Walters's fat, contented face.
'What do you really think about this plan of theirs, Mr. Walters?' He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mr. Walters snapped: 'Nothing!' He wasn't interested in any plans. 'We'll win through, Hump, no doubt of that at all. Why, look at the men we're pouring into the place. The war's already won. I'm not worrying about plans,' he went on. 'I'm worrying about the getting out. We all have to think of the future, Hump. Look here, you haven't half eaten your tea. Good Lord, man, the toast's splendid. Eggs are a bit musty I daresay, but—'
Mr. Hump smiled. He wasn't feeling a bit hungry. He seemed paler than usual. In fact Mr. Hump was worried. No problem in Sherlock Holmes could help either. He couldn't read Sherlock Holmes, anyway. He could do nothing but think of the dangers into which they were running. 'It's bloody hot, isn't it?' he said, wiping his face with a napkin.
'Very,' Walters said. 'And I'd better be getting along, too. There's that dinner to see to.'
Aye! It was going to be a swell dinner. Last night aboard and all that! He emptied his pipe, got up and left the room.
'See you in the saloon pantry,' he said and walked out of the cabin.
'Very good.' Mr. Hump sat up. He was still wearing his white jacket. It looked in need of a wash. He looked round the room. Both beds were unmade. The place looked untidy, what the devil were those stewards doing, anyhow? He got up and went and stood in the alleyway, 'I'm living on my nerves. That's what it is. We all are! You can't help it. All these men aboard here. It was dangerous. A target for anything. Yes, he must keep that fact in mind. They might be torpedoed, strike a mine, probably get shelled out of the damn place. He went into the room again and took a long pull from a whisky bottle, locked it in the cupboard again and went down to join Mr. Walters. What was on the menu to-night? Tinned partridge, baked sweet potatoes, tinned peas, tinned tomato soup, tinned corn cobs, Vin ordinaire, biscuits, cheese, and plenty of short stuff if you had the money to pay for it.
The saloon galley was situated amidships. One entered it from either alleyway. And whilst Mr. Hump and Mr. Walters, the two cooks and a pantryman busied themselves with the dinner, people passed to and fro. Mr. Walters sat on a corner of the long, clean white table set in the middle of the galley. His duty was to watch, to suggest, to make comment. He did this with both hands in his pockets. Mr. Hump smelt each tin as it was opened, he had a rather powerful nose, and a delicate scent. The pantryman was laying out silver ware. The two cooks were standing over the range. A variety of smells in the air, and Mr. Walters seemed to be the only man there with anything to say. Soldiers passed to and fro, nobody took any notice of them. It was getting near the end of things now, rigid rules assumed elasticity, but the line was drawn against staring into the galley, staring in and looking rather hungrily at the food on the table. They had no right, of course, no right at all to be moving up and down, but to-day Mr. Walters didn't mind. They weren't doing any harm. They wouldn't dash in as a body and gulp everything up. No. Mr. Walters was a student of nature, human nature, especially soldiers. He knew that to do such a thing was asking for trouble – suicidal in fact. Mr. Hump was at the other end of the table talking in a low voice to the second cook. The saloon cooks were very clean, their coats and aprons milk white. They seemed to move about amongst the grease and steam, armed with poise, grease splashed here there and everywhere, pans and cisterns boiled over, but nothing soiled their clothes.
'Shut the starboard door, Mr. Hump,' Walters said.
He shut it and then walked down the galley and stood by Mr. Walters. The various smells were wafted from the galley through the port door, wafted right down the alleyway, into the 'tween-decks. Soldiers still hungry smelt them, the tired steward, now mopping up in B deck pantry, smelt them, but he didn't take much notice of them. He thought of only one thing. 'Bed!' 'Whiskers and sweat' was washing his hands in a bucket. He talked to the steward. 'They must have bought that cheese from Poland.'
Why Poland?'
'I dunno.'
'Silly bloody fool! Well, that's that and I'm off, thank Christ! Been going it since half-past three this morning. Give me ordinary human beings every time. These soldiers would eat you alive if you were flung on the table to them. And Walters is getting fatter, the sod. Good night.'
He left the pantry. Went right aft, turned left, descended the ladder. He flung himself on the bed, without undressing, covered himself up and fell fast asleep. Others slept, too. They would be up again soon. For white-coats it was on your toes all the time. The glory-hole was filled with an incessant noise as of churning. They slept over A.10's screws. When she lifted, they made a terrible din in the glory-hole, but not loud enough to wake the sleeping stewards. Only thunder, thunder in the glory-hole, could do that. The bugle called for dinner. It was a very fine dinner but it meant nothing to them. The other pantry steward came down. He had red hair, very curly. He sat on a form, listless. After a while he too turned in. Soldiers had had their tea. Their duty was finished. Officers were having their dinners, and stewards, luckier ones, would lick the plates, eat the scraps left from the feast. About midnight certain overhead noises, the heavy tread of feet, voices which somehow drowned out even the churning of the screws, woke some of them. One steward sat up in his bunk, said, 'God blast these bugs.'
He dressed himself and went out. He heard the voices very clearly, the moving feet. He went up the ladder. He came out on the stern-deck. The voices were above him. He looked up. It was very dark, bright stars shone down. His thin fair hair became tousled by a wind that had sprung up, his thin white jacket was open. Hands in pockets, shivering a little, he looked up. What was all the noise, anyhow? In any case he could never sleep for the bugs and the stink of pipes, he would go on the poop. He had half climbed the ladder when he stopped suddenly, saying, 'Oh hell! Coffins! Of course! Those dead chaps.' He looked through the rails. Why, of course, they were burying them at eight bells. He felt cold, but still stood on the ladder watching. No lights anywhere. Figures moving about in the darkness. He saw faces. Yes. There was the first officer, and four sailors, and yes, one of those army chaps. And there were the canvas bundles lying very still on two hatch-coverings. 'Christ!' he said, and stood very still, listening.
'Stand by, Bosun,' Bradshaw said. He stood behind the canvasses, the bosun and sailors behind him. Vesuvius was there. He chewed tobacco, eyes upon the dead. O'Grady was beside him. Silence. Silence shrouded them, a lone rating stood by the flagstaff. The ensign was bent on. The flag would go up, then down. Dip in salute. Bradshaw was reading. Reading from memory.
'Now,' the bosun said. And the hatch-cover was lifted up, rested on the rail, two men holding it and two spares, one on either side to push when the order came. For'ard, amidships, beneath their very feet men slept, lay awake, staring in the darkness, smoked, talked to each other. Captain Percival, drunk, sang himself to sleep. The wind came over the poop, touching them. They stood silhouetted against the sky. The sailors watched Mr. Bradshaw, and as the fish in the sea, so – what was he saying? – 'I commend this body to the deep.' And they raised the hatch-cover, the canvas bundle slithered, seemed for a moment to pause, they raised the hatch-cover still higher and it slid down, making a harsh scratching sound against the wood, catapulted into space, a loud splash. They lifted the second one on to the wood now. Paused. Bradshaw spoke again. They raised it up, it moved, sped, vanished. Another loud splash. The ensign fluttered, sank, rose again, fluttering. The waters closed over them. From the bridge, sounding like a tinkle of brass, came the bell. Half-speed. Full-speed! She was moving again.
'All right, Bosun. You can take the men for'ard. I'll have Walters send a tot of rum for'ard for the men. He's still available, I believe.'
'Much obliged, Mr. Bradshaw, sir,' the bosun said. They moved away slowly, clumsy in their movements, climbed the rail, descended the ladder. They went for'ard in silence. After a while Mr. Bradshaw followed. He wen
t back to the bridge.
The rating folded the flag, put it back in the locker, and returned to his room. His mate snored. 'Gosh! You sleep like a pig,' he said. He sat down to read till four bells. He read about gunnery.
The steward still stood on the ladder on the weather side.
'Christ!' he said. 'How terribly lonely it makes you feel.' Then he went down to his bunk. He was soon asleep again.
All was shrouded in darkness. Life seemed hushed. Only the wash of waters, throb of engines. Lights flashing to port. To starboard the ever watchful destroyer. Upon the bridge Dunford, Ericson, Bradshaw. Deveney, recovering slightly, slept. Bradshaw and Dunford were deep in conversation. It wouldn't be Saturday after all – 'Unlucky Saturday' – it would be Sunday – Sunday. Three in the morning. There were three other ships coming up behind them. They would work under cover of NZ.11, the troops would in fact pass direct from ship to ship, whether they went ashore in rafts, boats, aeroplanes or even hansom cabs, didn't much matter now. No! Get them clear of the ship. Yes, and these fever cases, too! Every one of them. All clear! Their lives weren't worth a penny whilst they had a single soldier on board. Bradshaw listened, very attentively.
'Do you know where we proceed after this?' asked Mr. Bradshaw.
'Yes. So far as I know we make for Alexandria and board more troops. That's our job, Bradshaw, from now on – I think it is. In these times it's unsafe to harbour an opinion more than a day. But I know this, and you know it also, Bradshaw, though your sensitive nature is for the moment appalled, that there is a bay towards which we are slowly drawing, a bay with a wide stretch of sand running like the mouth of a great funnel into an island valley. Not a nice valley, but still, and these soldiers are going, by raft and tender, and about here, probably early to-morrow, we'll come in contact with the real thing. We'll see plenty of cruisers here, Bradshaw. I'll give them credit for that much intelligence. Light cruisers. The water's shallow. The beach isn't very big, Bradshaw. I've studied it, about three hundred yards wide. The current is very strong about there. But you haven't been in these parts before, have you? You were lower down last time. Well, never mind, let's wish each other the best of luck. I'd like to wish everybody the best of luck, Mr. Bradshaw, those men below, those ashore, yes, and those who have also paid for the idiocy – yes, sir, the idiocy' – Dunford became wildly excited – 'the idiocy of those who might have known better. God! We are only carrying children! Children! Well—' and his voice trailed off altogether. He began walking up and down the bridge. Agitation, the old restlessness was beginning, and that thought of life and waste, and the indifference.
