by James Hanley
The bosun and carpenter now took priority of place.
'Yes, sir. All ventilators excepting B deck are down. Yes, sir. We cleared away wreckage for'ard last night.'
'So I see,' Dunford said. 'We must have a temporary ladder there!'
'I'm putting one there this evening, sir,' said the carpenter.
'Good!' Mr. Dunford went slowly down the ladder, slowly, hesitatingly, as though he were counting each of its dozen brass-topped steps. The others followed.
'What a confounded mess,' he thought. 'The decks are filthy.'
But he would not mention anything about this. No! It certainly wouldn't be fair. The men were hard at it now as it was, and he didn't envy any man working down those 'tween-decks. Plenty to do below! However, let's get for'ard. Time was short. Mountains of work ahead. Number one hatch had a great tarpaulin covering it. As they went quickly along the well-deck, the man in the nest looked down at them.
'Inspection,' he said. 'H'm! Bloody inspection.' Then he completely forgot them. Distance ahead – anything might happen – anything might suddenly appear on the horizon. Certain hollow sounds were heard whenever the look-out man stumped about in the steel basket.
The party passed up the alleyway. The lavatory door still swung by one hinge. Mr. Dunford never even glanced at it. There was the bosun's room just inside the alleyway on the port side. By heavens! Damned good job both men were out when that shell struck. Right over their heads. The door was hooked back. A man was sleeping in the lower bunk. The room smelt stuffy. But it was very tidy. To the right another room. Quartermaster's room. Here, also, slept the carpenter. He now opened the door and threw it back for all to see. And everybody stared in, heard snores, saw curtains drawn across a top bunk. The carpenter closed the door again. They went on. Fo'c'sle now.
They could smell the smoke-laden atmosphere long before they reached the door. Strange, the watch below were not sleeping. Mr. Dunford wondered why. A good quarter of an hour to seven bells. There was fierce argument. But this ceased abruptly when the Captain, followed by the others, stepped inside. The men stood up, Mr. Dunford said drily: '
'Sit down! Sit down!'
There were half a dozen of them at the table. The party passed them, all came to a halt at the top. The fo'c'sle peggy, a boy of fifteen, was standing at a smaller table upon winch there stood a huge zinc basin. This was piled high with greasy dishes. The surface of the water was thick with grease. All they could see of the boy was his head. The rest of his body was entirely hidden by the table and zinc bath. Seeing the party come up, he put down the plate he was drying and stood to attention. A lock of black hair lay almost over one eye. Mr. Walters looked at the boy, who suddenly laughed.
'What are you laughing at?'
'Nothing, sir.'
Mr. Dunford looked at Mr. Walters. Perhaps it was the handkerchief draping the bull-like neck and shoulders.
'Do you always strap up, boy, just a quarter of an hour before the next meal?'
The boy looked from face to face.
'No, sir,' he said. 'There's been a man sick, sir, and I only just finished scrubbing the deck, sir. I was just. . . when.'
Mr. Dunford walked round the corner. The deck was scrubbed white. And yet he looked all round. A sort of heavy, malodorous atmosphere, stuffy air, dark bulkheads, closed ports, bunks made, and bunks all a-tangle of coats, caps, blankets, jerseys. Heavy oilskins hanging from the deck-head. One's nostrils full of smoke, shag, cigarettes, and something worse than shag. He came down the port side again, looked at the men seated round the table, and here and there in the cracks coins glittered as the swinging bulb of light caught them. He looked from bunk to bunk. Drew a curtain, paused, drew it back again. One of the men stood up.
'Is this the man?' asked Mr. Dunford, as he turned away from the line of bunks. The other stood up.
'All right! sit down now! I said sit down!'
'Yes, sir. That's him. Special look-out. But he's all right now, sir. Going up at twelve, sir.'
What is the matter with him?'
'Just sick, sir. We brought him in from the scuppers. But he's all right now, sir.'
Mr. Dunford walked down the fo'c'sle and out through the door. He made no comment whatever. The party followed after him. He called the bosun. Mr. Tyrer walked beside him, expecting every moment to be reprimanded, asked questions. But no word was spoken. Mr. Dunford merely wanted the bosun's silent company. They were going to the starboard fo'c'sle where the firemen slept. Dark, the air buzzing with flies; somebody's phlegm on the open lavatory door. Breadcrumbs smearing the black deck. Coal-dust patterning everything. Darker fo'c'sle, dimmer light, seen from a distance it put a nasty taste in Mr. Dunford's mouth. He thought of old clothes-shops, mould, burning mutton. He passed in, looked round. It was tidy. He passed out again.
'We had better work from A deck, bosun,' he said. Abaft of number one hatch stood the house. Port and starboard doors led one to twin ladders, which ran down flush to the first 'tween-deck. They went in by the port door. Mr. Dunford took a torch from his pocket and flashed it on the ladders. When they reached the hold, they found a light there, one light from a cluster of ten.
'Well,' thought Mr. Dunford, 'they've been busy, anyhow!' He looked around. Everything tidy again. Hatch to the lower deck had been battened down. It was now covered with a large sheet of canvas. The bunks were empty. Mattresses piled, tied with rope. Bundles of rubbish, discarded clothing, the toe of a grey sock stuck out from one. Dunford's eye saw this first.
'All mattresses and clothing to be dumped, Bosun. Did Mr. Ericson tell you?'
'Yes, sir! The men are busy on B deck now, shifting those bodies right aft.'
'Right! On to B deck!' Mr. Dunford said and followed behind the bosun.
Mr. Pearson halted. Mr. Walters halted. The carpenter dropped his sounding rods. Captain Dunford said abruptly:
'There is no need for you to come farther, Mr. Pearson, or Mr. Walters. I will see you later on top at number five.' The two men still stood there. One looked at the other. They turned their backs on Dunford, went up on deck again.
'Terrible!' Mr. Pearson said. 'I don't know how he can stand it.'
'He won't do anything until he receives orders,' said Mr. Walters. He pulled the handkerchief from under his cap and mopped his face. Mr. Pearson made a pathetic gesture.
'Rubbish! Damn rubbish. There are orders. Of course we know that. But damn it, Mr. Walters, is this what they call inspection? And is any self-respecting man going to allow himself to be dragged along to a morgue just because Mr. Dunford hasn't received his orders? It's abominable. They should have been put over the side long ago. Lord knows I keep to myself, I mind my own business, I never say a word about their old war, and damme, sir, I think I'm right. Yes. Right.'
And to the astonishment of Mr. Walters the engineer stamped his way towards the saloon companion-ladder, ascended it in a kind of jerky, agitated manner, and disappeared from sight. Mr. Walters went to the rail.
'Let's have a look at the goddam fish,' he said loudly.
Meanwhile, the remainder of the inspection party trudged slowly, with bat-like movements, towards B deck. Here was a great hole in the bulkhead, now covered by crossed planks. Of course! She was hit here, too.
'God!' he said, as a smell came to his nostrils. 'Bosun – close all doors on D deck. Batten down the hatches.'
'Yes, sir!'
'We may have to bury these men. On the other hand, we may not. It depends!'
Of course. It depended. The bosun looked at him, quizzically, questioningly, stupid.
'If you don't mind my saying so, sir, I think it would be a good thing. The men are complaining. We put three more men here this morning. They are also complaining about the articles under which they signed on, sir.'
'Yes. Yes. I see. Oh, this is C deck?'
'Yes, sir! The wounded men are here, sir! You can see to your right, sir, where we've rigged up extra accommodation, sir. Those two bunks in the corner, sir, there
, sir, they are used by the stewards. And er . . . '
'You can go now, Bosun,' Mr. Dunford said. The little man saluted, and Mr. Dunford took particular notice of this, the movement of the hands, the shy, almost resentful expression upon Mr. Tyret's face. The man didn't want to, he knew that. He laughed. 'I'm losing caste, I'm being cut.' Well, here was something to look out. Wounded! And beyond corruption. The philosophy of high explosives in excelsis. It was hard to be a man. Harder to be a human being. 'They say, "Board two hundred wounded from approaching monitor" – And I board them. And everything else that is alive and is a man. And I take them and I get my orders. Now they are silent. Orders are orders.'
He sat down on the edge of a vacant bunk. 'There go the bells!' he said. 'I must go at twelve.' Yes. Get the positions at twelve. 'But I'll come back here! I haven't finished yet.' He would take Walters with him. He saw things, dimly, fragments, movements, men breathing, groaning. Wounded men. Rows of tin cans, slobber, retchings, excrement. He went farther along. Stopped by the little pantry to speak to a steward there.
'You are one of those who looked after these men? How many are there?' The steward stood up. He had been leaning against a huge tea-cistern. Yesterday it had been full to the brim. Today it was empty.
'Eighty-one. There are twenty aft. Sixty here. Fourteen died and have gone to D deck with the others. We have two hours on and two off. There are two extra men at night. It's awkward with the high bunks, sir. One can't attend to them properly. The head wounds number seventeen – the rest are back wounds.'
'Back wounds?' Mr. Dunford retraced his steps. 'Back wounds,' he said again. But how could that be? 'And Walters and Mr. Hump are here regularly?' he asked.
'Yes, sir! They have to be, sir!' He said it was very lucky the baggage did not go ashore. 'There are plenty of bandages, sir! Will you come this way, sir? I can show you the different sections. There are twenty-eight men there – where the bunks run flush with the bulkhead. On that corner there are ten. Over here we have put the worst cases. These men find it difficult to lie in a bunk. They roll about, sir.'
'Have you been in hospital-ships, steward?' Dunford asked. The steward nodded. 'Yes, sir. I've seen much worse things than this, sir. These men are lucky. They'll be in a good hospital in a day or two. I was an orderly in the Europesa, sir.'
'Yes. Yes. Of course! I understand. And how many wounded did she carry – say—'
Well, we've had seventeen hundred, sir. A good many were shell-shock cases.'
Dunford looked at the bunks, at the prone figures. He went up and had a look at one man. The man looked back at him. He had large eyes, large expressionless eyes, almost bovine. He looked at a piece of card tacked to the man's bunk.
Which boat was this man in?' asked Dunford. His foot touched one of the tin vessels, and he moved away from the bunk.
'He is one of about forty who were standing up in number ten when it crashed into the sea, sir.'
This was where they were, then! The whole lot of them.
'Why is this man tied down with rope?'
'Violent, sir! Mr. Walters said he was making out a report to give you, sir. He said you would want this when we reached port.'
'Mr. Walters made no mention of violent cases, excepting one and he is aft.'
'Yes, sir! I see, sir,' the steward said.
'Does the smell from D deck worry you at all? Do any of these men mention it?' Mr. Dunford said, for the smell was strong in his own nostrils.
The steward smiled: 'No, sir! Some of them don't know where they are, some think the smell comes from these sicking tins, sir.'
Eight bells! Dunford hurried away to the bridge, went to his room, picked up his sextant and went back on the bridge. Mr. Ericson and Mr. Deveney were talking, laughing, cracking jokes. They were silent when Dunford came. Dunford adjusted his instrument, but when the bell rang in the nest, he put it down again, picked up his glasses and peered through them. Still the heavy swell, and yes, there, right to port, smoke! Now what was that? He would wait for the bell again. He then took up the sextant to get his position. Two violent rings of the bell from the nest again. All now trained their glasses on the puff of smoke. A ship! What kind of ship? Certainly not a submarine. A destroyer, a cruiser, a transport, like their own – oh, it might be anything.
'It's a destroyer, sir – heading our way,' called Mr. Deveney, still holding the glasses to his eyes. 'She's flying the White Ensign, thank the Lord!'
'Don't be too premature with your thanks to the Lord,' Dunford called back. Yes. The destroyer was bearing down on them. She hailed. 'Signals!' called Dunford. And the quartermaster came running up with the flags.
'Yes, sir.'
'NAME, PORT OF ORIGIN, REGISTRATION NUMBER, WHERE BOUND? WHAT ARE YOU CARYING?'
Reply: 'A.10 – NUMBER TWO OF TRANSPORT CONVOY PROCEEDING ALEXANDRIA UNDER ORDERS. NO CARGO. CARRYING WOUNDED.'
'HEAVE TO AND STAND BY FOR A BOARDING PARTY.'
'God damn!' cried Dunford. 'Ericson, blow for the bosun's mate. Quickly.' And when the figure appeared he did not wait for him to get to the bridge. 'Take your men to the saloon-deck and make ready accommodation ladder.'
'Very good, sir.' 'Mr. Deveney, have you got your position?'
'Yes, sir!'
'Mr. Ericson?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Keep your glasses trained on this vessel. I'm not sure – do not intend to be, never shall, not in this world. Signals, Ericson.'
'DEAD SLOW.' The telegraph rang, its reverberations floated across the waters. 'Starboard a point, quartermaster.'
Dunford's face was tense, he moved like a marionette, from one corner of the bridge to the other. He made a dash to the wheel-house and looked at the compass. The destroyer was fast bearing down upon A.10 now. She glittered silver in the strong light of the sun. Through the glasses they could already see a section of rail being lifted out – an officer standing at the ship's edge.
'STOP!'
The bell rang again. The destroyer veered round, approached A.10 broadside on. 'Genuine enough. Yes, genuine enough.'
'Mr. Ericson, go to the saloon-deck and await the arrival of the officer.'
He leaned over the rail and hailed. But already a heaving-line was thrown, a rope was lashed about the foot of the accommodation ladder. Sailors stood about upon her deck. . . Their faces wore the expressions of bewilderment, even worried men. All eyes were looking up at the bridge. Suddenly Dunford left the bridge. He went straight to the saloon-deck. There, on the top step of the ladder, stood the officer, a midshipman, or a lieutenant, or was it a commander? Dunford saw then it was a lieutenant.
'Good-day, sir. May I ask why I am hove-to in such a dangerous position?'
'We are heaving all ships to. That is our work, Captain . . . '
'Dunford. And what do you require? I signalled all the information I can give you.'
'You are carrying wounded from the landing party at. . . '
'That is correct. There has been a mistake. There are eighty-one. Twenty died.'
'You are carrying dead men, also?'
'That is correct.'
'You had better dump them,' the lieutenant said.
'I have had no orders to dump any dead, sir,' replied Captain Dunford.
'You will have trouble with the port authorities. They won't allow this ship in.'
'Why not? It has living as well as dead. I do not hold myself responsible for other people's mistakes. I have had my orders, I am carrying them out. I don't agree with them myself. But they are orders. I didn't agree with my ship being turned into a hospital ship, let alone into a mortuary.'
'I give you orders,' said the lieutenant.
'Precisely! I see you now – for a moment. When will I see you again? Am I sure I ever will? These are your orders. I don't take your orders, sir. I am directed by the authorities in command to proceed to Alexandria. I shall carry out those orders. As I say, I am not responsible for mistakes – merely for orders. Be good enough to descend the ladd
er – and get down. I wish to proceed.'
Dunford clasped his hands behind his back.
'Make way, sir. Bosun, unship as soon as the officer is clear. Mr. Ericson, stand by on top. Good afternoon to you, sir. The authorities whom you represent, and who seem so solicitous for my welfare, did not send me a doctor, I suppose? I have one medical student and half a dozen common stewards to look after dangerously wounded men. Ask yourself, sir, if all this bloody waste of life, according to rule, to RULE, is necessary. Good day!' He turned his back on the officer, stamped his way back to the bridge.
'Stand by, telegraph! Wait! Quartermaster! Tell Mr. Walters quickly. That mail-bag!'
'Yes, sir.'
'But we'll be in Alexandria tomorrow night,' Mr. Deveney said, with great surprise.
'We may not be, we may be anywhere! Is anybody going to tell me that sanity has anything to do with the last forty-eight hours? Read, Mr. Ericson. She's veering off. And damn them, I say. Damn them. What does he say? "Dump them!" Of course! What does one do with the dead? One dumps them. The sacrificed, the slaughtered, one dumps them! Rubbish! No value, purposeless. "Dump your dead, sir, the smell of them will be such as to get you into serious trouble with the port authorities." Precisely, precisely, but I proceed under orders, and those orders satisfy my conscience.'
He strode past Deveney, looked over the rail again. The destroyer was moving away. The officer stood by whilst two sailors reshipped the rail.
'Now, why was that necessary?' thought Dunford. 'Orders! Orders! Orders! Everybody gives orders.' He spoke to Mr. Deveney. And what was his opinion! Did he have one, have any? My God! He hoped he had. Yes, having a personal opinion, a voice that sounded above the machine, the engine, quasi-human, that turned out orders and orders and orders. And if one did not hold an opinion, was voiceless, rendered numb by the impersonal, the machine, then one turned into a beast! Well, what did he think? Speak plain. Never mind what he thought, his thoughts were his own. What did Mr. Deveney think of the great idea, the grand attack, the masterly strategy, the cock-crow and the roar of the lion, the fool talk? A ghastly mistake!
