by James Hanley
'Just bringing him up, sir,' the bosun said.
'Bringing him up! Why – I—'
'Easy there, Williams, easy! Ah, poor Mr. Bradshaw is dead, sir. Look, he has a cut on his hand, sir.' They placed the body on the hatch.
Dunford did not look at his officer – he went away.
'Mr. Ericson! Cut the damaged boats clear. No man must be left in the water. And see to it. I am going to turn round. Hurry!'
'Turn round, sir?'
'Don't stand there. Go below when you're told. Ah! A signal.' But Ericson had already gone. Dunford stood motionless now, repeating like an automaton the words, 'Stand by two hundred wounded. Monitor approaching. Make for Alexandria.'
As he stood there mumbling the words to himself Ericson came running up. He gripped the man's arm.
'Mr. Dunford, sir.'
Dunford stood like a rock. Ericson began shaking him. 'Mr. Dunford.' Then it came out in flood. Bradshaw was dead, but that wasn't all. Seven of the crew were gone. Yes. The operator and Dr. Donaldson. The boat was completely wrecked. If it hadn't fouled. He, Ericson, had just been aft and . . . but Dunford said nothing. He stood as though carved in stone. A slight tremor passed across his face. Ericson turned round and looked the other way.
Dunford himself now broke the silence.
'Stand by that telegraph,' he said.
Stewards' mess, half-past six a.m. 'They're shelling us, Mr. Walters, wake up.'
'Who's shelling? I don't hear anything. Go to the devil, Hump. You're a bloody nuisance. I was on my feet twenty hours yesterday. I was just. . . '
'Can't you hear, Mr. Walters? We should be out. Somebody hammered on that door now. I'm going out. It's dangerous, Mr. Walters, you might be killed. Don't you understand? They're shelling. We'll be killed.'
'Oh damn you, and the shells. I got nothing to do with this bloody war.'
B deck. A quarter to seven. 'I could've laughed meself to death, I could. You oughta seen him. He emptied his bladder on the junior. What d'you think?'
'Sixty-three! You can have all the fat money you like now, Williams.'
'Bosun! Don't you think it's a bloody shame? Hold on there! That corner's for wounded. This man is dead. Lay him with the others. Did you hear the engines then? The're going, by Christ, we're moving! MOVING, MOVING. Hip-pip a bloody rah – We're moving. I say, it's going to be a bit of a do, but beggar it all, we're moving. I say, Bosun, you stand there saying nothing. Just counting. Counting. Fifty-one – fifty-two! Goddam, it's rotten!'
'They're not worrying now, anyhow! I sez all along, I sez to Mr. Bradshaw if we can't get them boats clear before daylight, something'll happen. And so you can see it has. And we're moving all right! But that means nowt to me, at least until we get a hundred miles clear of the stinking place. Ah! It's all a bloody cod. All a bloody cod. You take one look at this fellow's face and tell me it isn't.'
'Poor beggar! Half his face gone. And to think that last night we were playing with them. He'll get no bloody V.C. And that's the cod of it all. What say you, Vesuvius?'
Vesuvius said nothing. He lay body against body. And if he looked to right, looked to left, he saw them. Bodies. Once, an hour ago, they were men. He was counting under his breath. 'Poor silly bastards,' he said. 'Ah! . . . '
'I sent two men aft for canvas and haven't seen them since,' the bosun said. 'Williams, go along and see what they're doing. Twenty-three – four, five.'
'Where's Rochdale?'
'Never mind Rochdale. He's in the nest. Best place to be, I reckon.'
Two men were struggling aft with a great bale of canvas sheeting. Williams stood against the wheel-house door. Above his head, though he did not notice this, there was a figure hanging head downwards, a naval rating, dead, one foot caught inside the rail. But he only saw blood here and there, heard two swearing men. The other rating had gone with the last raft. 'Hurry up, you fellers. Bloody hell, he's shouting like a loony.'
'We got one in here now,' the two men said, speaking together. 'We had a job, I tell you. Stark crazy. O'Grady gave him a goddam punch. He's quiet now. Bit of a kid. Got over-excited, I suppose. Poor little cod! But he can't snug in that wheel-house, and this bloody place here is packed with dead ones. D'you know those fellers who had the fever, they've gone! Aye, must have got away all right on the raft. There's old Deveney on the bridge now. Gosh! He's a bloody caution, he is. Well, what about this kiddo here! We got him all tied up. We had to. He was dangerous all right, wasn't he, mate?'
'Listen to me, bald-head down below wants the canvas right away. Come on! He's in a hell of a state. I don't want him bargin' into me.'
He took an end of the bale, and they hurried along the deck. 'Let's go this way,' Williams said. 'It's easier if we go through the saloon.'
'Righto!'
And they made for the door. They did not see Mr. Walters, nor he them, the mountain of canvas hid them from sight. They pushed their way in, the canvas caught Mr. Walters and knocked him on his back. They went on.
'Sorry, Mr. Walters! Sorry! Didn't see you, sir,' and hurried on, burying their laughter in the folds of the canvas.
'And so here you bloody well are,' the bosun said. 'But don't think, my lads, because we've been turned into a death-ship that things 'as altered, for they haven't. Unroll that bale. Cover those bodies on the port side of the hatch. When you've done that you'll proceed to D deck. There's another lot there. Worse'n this. All mixed up. Hell of a tangle. Walters is busy as hell, and serve the fat bastard right. It'll reduce his weight some. What is happening up there, anyhow? I bin stuck in this damn hole over an hour. And all I can hear is the roar of guns. Here you, move away from the bloody door. I just closed that. D'you want the whole ship blown up?'
He watched them covering the bodies. 'Now you get to D deck soon's you like. There's plenty of work, and it'll do you good. You've done nowt but sit on your backside since we sailed. I'm going up now to see what's doing, and if the sun's come out I'll tell you.'
He left them covering the dead. He went forward, climbed the ladder, and came out on the well-deck by the bridge. He looked about him. He saw the everlasting curtain of fire sweep the beach, or what he thought was the beach. He saw upturned boats, struggling men, fountains of water, boats dangling uselessly by their falls, he saw one transport with a great rent in her side. And all about him, hammering in his ears, thunder, a heavy pall of smoke, the acrid smell of cordite. He saw a boat approaching laden with men. He saw Ericson in his shirt-sleeves, saw the remainder of his watch clearing the starboard side of wreckage. Heard Mr. Dunford giving orders up above. He saw Walters put his head out of the saloon door and shout 'A man! Send somebody along here for Christ's sake.' He turned his back upon it all. Walked to the galley and saw the smashed fo'c'sle-head. Oh! The bloody cook was there, anyhow. They, unlike the rest of their species, had nine lives. Miraculous! Like cats. How small his voice against the uproar, the voice shouting between cupped hands as he stood in the galley doorway, and he watched the cook dragging an empty kiddy from the steel rack above his head.
'What about the men's grub?' shouted the bosun. 'They've been standing by all bloody night whilst you were having your beauty sleep.'
The cook did not notice him, did not hear him. He was busy ladling some kind of stew into the clean kiddy. The bosun stepped into the galley, went up to the cook and yelled in his face.
'The men's grub. They'll be coming up here shortly. We're clearing out of this stink-hole, and a bloody good job says I. Christ, are you deaf?' He clapped his hands into the cook's face, a face whose expression was strangely wooden, vacant, a livid face, made more livid by the heat from the range. He had heard that terrific explosion, almost outside his galley, whilst he was in the midst of peeling potatoes for the for'ard crowd, had slipped and fallen to the galley-deck, burst his trousers. He had closed the galley door. But the noise seemed even more deafening. An idiotic smile transfigured his face.
'Can't hear you – Speak up! What with all the bloody row ou
tside!'
The bosun cupped his hands and shouted in the man's ear – 'Grub! The men's grub. They're going on watch any minute now. We're moving. D'you know that? Are your ears full of muck or what? She's slewing round, I tell you, showing her behind to those swine on the beach, and you'd think those spit and polish fellers aft would at least have the gumption to give them one up their behind. But everybody's all to hell somehow. I'm no longer a bosun myself, no sir! I'm a bloody mortuary attendant. Oh but I know, I did that, and I told Bradshaw straight I did, and where's he now, eh? Stiff on B deck. What a war! Oh bloody my, what a war! Righto, cook, my lad, out with the grub. Those fellers are hungry, and some of them have got the goddam jim-jams, and if I had a gallon of rum I'd up keck it into that stew! Well, keep your bloody door shut.'
The bosun stepped out of the galley.
'I might just nip up here and take a pull at my pipe, and say beggaroo to the war for just two minutes. O Christ! There it goes again! Whistle! Whistle! Whistle! Goddam, you can hear that all right. How many times have I been on that bridge in the last hour? Seven – seven – seven, my bloody aunt – seventeen – and this is the eighteenth. Well!'
'Bosun!'
'Yes, sir.' He stopped dead under the bridge. Something had whizzed past his ear.
'All men to C deck right away. The monitor's alongside with wounded.'
'Yes, sir.' For the first time in the whole trip, the short, bald-headed figure of Mr. Tyrer was seen to run. Was it the sudden whizzing of something past his face, or was it the extraordinary cries that now came to his ears as he descended the ladder to the 'tween-decks? He didn't know. But here he was at the bottom of the ladder, panting for breath – 'Coming! Coming!'
Why, they had all bulkhead doors open again. Well, my God! That's what it was going to be then. A bleeder. A real bleeder. Williams! Where is Williams? Oh yes! There they were! There they were! Williams and Vesuvius. O'Grady and Turner and O'Neill. Firemen, gunners! No! He didn't know them, either. He pushed his way past them, went to the great open door and looked down at the scene below him. Somebody was shouting to him.
'Yes, yes, of course! Two men on top with those slings. Come on, move your bodies for Jesus' sake. This isn't a cake-walk! These men have to be taken aboard at once. Hurry!'
Some were hoisted, some climbed. Men rushed here, rushed there, the eye had no power to look beyond the scene upon which it was focused. Blood, broken bodies, white faces, the eye was held to the 'tween-deck, to the great door swung back to the bulk-head, to the straw and canvas. The eye was prisoner of the scene. But beyond, the struggling boats, the murdering fire, the crippled transport being towed, the circle of steel that shielded them belching death. Soon A.10 would go. Carrying this. Into the bunks! Into the bunks! Bunks! Cheap wood, wire, new varnish. Men had slept there, dreamed there, men whole – men had lain like logs there, and now they were lying again. The dream spent, the body broken.
'Easy there! Williams! Easy there! Take that man to forty-seven A.' Ericson stood behind them, silent, watching. Man following man. Still they came. 'Hurry! Hurry!' He stamped his foot upon the iron deck. 'Hurry.'
'There are about a hundred and eighty, sir. I've counted over a hundred and thirty-one! Where are we going with these men, sir? Will the men be able to go for'ard for something to eat, sir?' The bosun talked with his back to the officer. His back was bent, his strong hands took the weight of the sling. He went on muttering to himself. 'Can't understand this, I can't, beggared if I can. They must be crazy. Fair crazy. There's only one doctor aboard, and now he's deado. Why didn't they have a proper ship for them?' Ah, he knew it all along. Bloody goddam fools. H'm! And where were this twenty thousand now? Ah! He wouldn't like to say. 'One hundred and forty-five.'
'Hurry! Hurry!' shouted Ericson. 'Hurry! Hurry! Are you crazy or what?'
'Just ordinary men, sir,' a voice said, but he did not know where the voice had come from. He was silent then.
'One hundred and fifty-two,' the bosun said, sweat running down his face. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. 'Every màn'll have a bunk, sir,' he said, 'except the others, of course they won't need one. Did you know, sir, that thirty men never got near a boat at all? Knocked flat where they stood.' And he still talked with his back to the officer. 'That's the last for slings. O'Grady, go up and – never mind—' He put his head out through the door, looked up the boat-deck. . . 'Come down here! And unreeve that tackle right away.'
'O.K.'
Confusion was giving way to order. The monitor was moving away. All wreckage of boats had been backed clear – the dead were separated from the living, soon they would be off. 'That is if we're lucky,' thought Ericson 'God! I'm sorry for Mr. Dunford! Bradshaw's death has knocked him out. Clean out! And now I'll have extra watch.' He daren't leave Deveney on his own. 'Close the bulkhead doors, hurry, will you. Jesus Christ, you men must think you're at a barn dance. Bosun, as soon as you're clear here, come up to the bridge.' He rushed away down the deck. The bulkhead door was hauled back. Closed. Darkness again. Silent men. Groaning men. A dead-house – a mad-house.
Rochdale saw it all. He was high in air, safe in his fastness. He saw everything. He saw the transport free of its burden now, turning slowly away, saw the grey ships go in nearer and nearer, the circle of fire spread. He saw boats descend and ascend, heard shouts and screams, the hissing of rope, wood hurtle in the air, and fall in great splinters where they were engulfed, as those bodies were engulfed. He had seen them rise, sink, rise again, the waters threshed, saw the tattered ribbon that weaved its way towards the bloody beach, and that was human and the name written upon waters, courage, madness. He stared down, believing, unbelieving, and Annie was engulfed in that, and that was tremendous, a pattern terrifying the eye, and Rosie too, she was engulfed, all Rochdale swamped, forgotten, covered over and forgotten by this tremendous world, all feeling died, stifled in the breast, thought turned to ice – staring, staring at the wound, the great wound that was opened, and closed again, sucking down memory, sucking down feeling. Only movement. Violent movement, a medley of sounds.
'God! who'd've thought it could be done? I wouldn't. Beggar me if I would.' And yesterday they were silent, hiding bodily hunger, their ears deaf to the clamour, to the low incessant clamour, winged thoughts of home, remembered faces, and voices. Yesterday they were soldiers. Today they were gods. 'Ah! She's slewing round now. Thank the Lord for that! But what a mess! What a bloody mess! Poor old Bradshaw gone! God damn, it's lousy.'
Ah! But just look! Look at those fellows clearing decks. Dumping rubbish overboard! Lowering derricks. They haven't changed. Just the same as ever. Then he turned round, looking shorewards. Could he see anything? Nothing. Just that great low-lying cloud of smoke, thickish white smoke, and that incessant roar, roar, roar; that rattle, rattle; that plop, plop, plop upon the water. Would it ever cease? That floating wreckage, those smashed boats, those uplifted hands, writing hope in space, that battered human ribbon. Was that everlasting too? And that great wound in the side of the Hartspill. Would that be covered up too? How large the hole was. Gosh! One could drive a carriage and pair through it. That spreading line of grey steel, shuddering as their guns pounded away at the beach, they were making a long straight line now, and the seven tall ships were covered. But where are we bound? was the uppermost thought in his mind. Yes, where were they bound? Was it the beginning or the end? And goddam it all, the mail hadn't gone! No. And was that letter to Annie never going to go?
'Once I hated darkness, now I like it.'
It would soon be light. Suddenly he shouted at the top of his voice, 'Terrific! Terrific!'
The spell was broken. How wrought up he had been, how calm he was now. Two hundred and one wounded for Alexandria, and one hundred and one dead. Well, some would go to Alexandria. He knew that. But the others? He shut his eyes. He wanted to forget all that, that pestilential 'tween-deck, that sepulchral hold, dark, stuffy, coffin-shaped, smelly, heritage of the lucky no longer tied to things. Free.
'I saw him fall – knife in his hand – heard his skull crack. I held the rope. I did not move. I wanted to be sick – sick.'
'I saw that man crucified on the rail – head downwards – I did not look again. I was afraid. I was afraid. His face was white, hands bloody. I looked away. I was afraid. I was afraid. His face was white, hands bloody. I looked away. I did not say anything: I counted three where the mouth was torn – torn by steel! I felt nothing watching them. I held one and urine ran down my leg. But I said nothing. I remembered these things and now I do not remember them. God! I'd love to be there now, sitting with them talking. Williams, Vesuvius. I wonder what bloody time it is. Christ Almighty.' He turned round again. Looked down. Dark, silent, he saw great canvas sheets. 'Poor beggars,' he said. 'Poor beggars.' Suddenly he rang the bell. Obstacle ahead. A point on the bow. Obstacle to port. He took a pair of glasses and looked through. A ship's boat and men in it? Bodies in it? He rang again, and something that was feeling shot up the arm to the finger-tips. He rang twice, loudly. Obstacle ahead. Nearer now.
'Dead bodies. Two naval ratings. We won't stop for that.'
