by James Hanley
'Are you better, Rochy? My, you don't half snore on this man's boat! What does your missus say, I wonder?'
They were up and dressing. 'Lucky bastard, Rochdale! Up in the bloody air. You can't smell nothing. D'you know, I think this is the unluckiest ship I've ever been on.'
'Why! God love me, why don't you go up and ask the skipper to change his course? Say WN.-West. We might go on a world cruise! How about it? We're sailing along fine, so far we haven't even sighted a sub, and touching wood, we haven't hit a mine. Don't growl. We all got a bit out of Williams's board, and now look forward to a bloody good time. We'll be in Alex. tomorrow night. Pussy-cats two a penny! Look at Rochy here, never a grunt out of him. And when he really does like to say something, he just goes out and vomits his guts out!'
'One bell already! Peggy! Where in the name of Jesus is that Peggy? There you are! Go and see what that cook has mixed for us now.'
'Hard-boiled eggs today,' the peggy said. 'Always is on Tuesdays.'
'Don't have so much to say. Bring the stuff along. Now. Haven't you heard the goddam bell? This stuff should have been here piping hot at seven bells.'
'It was here! But nobody was up. An' I took it back to the galley to keep warm. 'Sides those other fellers were sniffing round the kiddy before.'
'Peggy; you're a darling. Give us a kiss, lad. Go ahead! Get the stuff.'
Bread. Two hard-boiled eggs per man. A huge can of black tea. They sat round the table. Ate in silence. Flung the egg-shells about the table. The peggy, who would clean up this mess, stood by watching.
'I wonder why they will boil eggs hard? Damn it all! It's a complete mystery to me. Hard-boiled. Whichever route you go, whichever ship you're in, they will insist on boiling 'em hard.'
'Who cares a damn, anyhow? I never heard of anybody who did. Christ, if you complain to the cook, he gets on his high horse. "Consider yourself lucky," says he, "any one of these soldiers would give his right leg for one of those eggs." As if that has anything to do with it. Soldiers! Soldiers! What has it got to do with us? The grub's passable enough when he gets it doled out by Walters; but why must they half-cook the muck, and when you complain they seem hurt and say, "Lucky beggars! Look at the soldiers. Bread and cheese, bread and jam! Raisin soup. Bread and jam. Hot water!" Damn the soldiers, I say, there's no reason why we should have the dirty end of the stick just because there's a war on.'
'Ah! Confound them! It's the same everywhere now! The war's on. The blasted war's on. Every kind of lousy trick is done on you, and if you open your gob, they say, "Well, it's the war' '!'
Seven bells. A man came rushing into the fo'c'sle. He sat down, frowning, kicked off his boots.
'What's up with you, mate?'
'Nowt!'
Then laugh, for Christ's sake! Williams has made a haul this trip. And tomorrow he's going to give a few bob to every man.'
'D'you know that fat swine, Walters, reads all our letters? I never knew until today. He's the censor, mind you.'
'Everybody out there! All hands to number three! We're putting these men on deck. God, it's a sight! Still, they can't snuff out below. Poor sods, a hell of a lot of growlin' goes on here, but you never hear them say a word. They just put another one below. That fellow who had both arms blown off. I think Mr. Ericson is right. The mistake was in us carrying troops at all. We were meant to be a coffin-ship. Everybody says so now! Right! All out there.'
'Aye, everybody's out.'
'Look! There's a cruiser over there, isn't it? Must be getting near land now. You always find them hanging round the coast.'
'Say there, man, mind your head, that block's swinging about.'
'I can see it,' the descending look-out man said. He looked up at the block, looked higher to see Rochdale staring down at him. Below the well-deck was deserted. All hands had gone their ways. Some to work, some to sleep, some to play cards, some to dawdle about, some to pace the deck, some to think of nothing in particular except the next meals, and a grim sort of hope that came to the surface now and again, as the eye beheld the wash of waters, for one never knew in this world of surprises, what might pop up from beneath their smooth surface. Rochdale looked on water. Looked up at the sky, the cruiser steaming to starboard and not a sign from her. Even veering farther away. 'Doesn't like us, I expect,' he said. Then a few minutes later he said, 'Well, I'm glad the mail's gone.'
He felt very lonely. This being unusual with him, he could not understand it. A kind of desolation held him in its grip now, whenever he went aloft and stood in the nest. A strange feeling of isolation, of friendlessness worked in him, but he could not have given expression to it. Always he had been calm and collected, thinking of his work, his food, his bunk, his wife and children, the little shop at home. The impression of these things was no longer full, near to him. They faded. Distance weakened the shadow of them, they were a blur, to think of them now seemed like thinking of things that never were. The familiar receded farther and farther away. Another time and another feeling plucked at him now. He was one with the surrounding atmosphere, part of the strangeness, the awe, the sort of eeriness of the atmosphere. The warmth of things remembered gave way to a something wholly unreal, ghost-like. He thought of these things, but their meaning, the reality of their existence was vague, they lay smothered somewhere in the pit of thought. Some rude hand had shut them out. The texture of the past was uprooted. He looked at the running water, and felt the loneliness upon him.
'Perhaps I am too sad,' he thought, and he remembered the scene on deck when one of the young soldiers had gone mad. And seeing the others, yes, he had been sick: very sick! Retching, retching! He laughed. 'Gettin' quite nesh I am.' Oh, well, the mail was gone, that was a good thing. But even that made him think of what was going to happen next. Supposing he never got home. Supposing she was just going to stay out in these parts – going to and fro, to and fro, carrying soldiers and every time seeing those things that had made him sick? Somehow, life was all bits and pieces, there seemed to be no permanency about it, it had no definite pattern. He worried about his home, his wife and children, but he could not give expression to his feelings. 'Nothin' seems natural, somehow,' he was saying to himself. 'Everything's sort of weird.' And all that slaughter, and those men lying below. It wasn't funny, just strange, weird, and a little frightening. And you were always wondering, wondering what was going to happen. The things you used to think about, the ordinary things, distorted, thrown out of focus.
'Cheer up – damn you! You just got a fit of the creeps, you have.' Aye. Perhaps that was the root of the matter. He had a fit of the creeps. 'But is she getting anywhere? Anyhow? God Almighty, what's it all about, what's it for, and this stinking ship? Was everybody going balmy or what? '
He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again and looked down at the sheer drop below him. Figures moved on the bridge, the ship's telegraph rang, smoke came out of the funnel, steam from her whistle, the engines hummed, everything seemed as usual.
'Perhaps I'm dreaming a bit. But damn it, you can't help dreamin' and thinkin' things up here. I'm even getting fits over the dark now! Maybe I want a dose, or a drink or something. Oh, I don't know what it is, but beggar it, it's queer, queer, that's all about it. If I think of her and the kids she seems millions of miles away, and that's funny enough, and you wonder what she's thinkin', what the kids are doin', how the shop's workin' out. But all the time, at the back of your mind you feel sort of queer, lonely. Oh, I don't know, simply don't know. Maybe if I was clever I would, but I'm not. Just an ordinary feller!'
He clenched his fists and began drumming on the edge of the iron box. Sometimes when he looked down on the water he imagined it was coming up to meet him, a tremendous cloud of water rising, overwhelming, sometimes when her nose came up he was a pin-point in space, the water was a far-away world. A wet planet. He was lucky. So was Lynch.
'The two of us are lucky! How those stewards manage to sleep, I don't know! Wouldn't be so bad if we just had the one kind with u
s. But having both, well it was a bit of a do.'
Rochdale's mind swung from the gigantic to the minute, from the general to the particular. He studied his hands, his fingers, his finger-nails. Funny, he was getting on in years now, and he'd had these hands with him a hell of a time, and somehow they were extraordinary to look at. But then he couldn't remember ever having noticed his hands before. He had looked at them, but not like this, the way he looked at them now.
CHAPTER TWELVE
VESUVIUS rushed into the fo'c'sle. 'Alex, at eight o'clock. Can you bloody well believe it?' he said.
'Who says that?'
'Everybody's saying it,' Vesuvius said. He did a quickstep up and down the fo'c'sle deck.
'Jesus! It won't be soon enough, eight won't! We'll stink the place out, seems to me.'
'Nuts on that! What's it got to do with us?' Vesuvius shouted at the top of his voice.
'I'm not thinking of us,' the other replied. 'I'm thinking of the skipper. He must be cracked.'
'He's only carrying out the orders,' another man said. 'Anyhow, I've smelt worse.'
'I heard nothing about this,' Rochdale said. He was busy darning a sock. The foot of it was over his big hand like a glove. He plied the needle like a woman.
'You wouldn't,' a sarcastic voice came from the other side of the fo'c'sle.
'Haven't seen anything either, and I just come down from that box myself.'
'You wouldn't see anything either,' the same voice called back.
Rochdale laughed. 'Oh yes, I did,' he said. 'I could see the quay at Alex, if you want to know. I tell you this because there were two naked tarts standing there. Expect they were waiting for you, Turner.'
Rochdale broke the wool, flung the sock into his bunk and raising his hands above his head, yawned. Perhaps he might do the other one. The dog watch seemed peculiarly suited to darning. He pulled the other grey sock from the bunk, looked at the hole in the toe. The sock hung in his hand. Well, he might as well finish the job now. But he hesitated, finally flung the article back into the bunk. Apart from darning there were many things one could do in the dog-watch. For one thing he could sit there doing nothing. Shut his eyes and listen to the talk – or he could look round the fo'c'sle at the untidiness, the table covered with bread crumbs, bits of paper, the deck littered with boots and shoes. But he saw those every day, every watch. Perhaps he could sit very quiet and just think. On the other hand he could go out, sit on the hatch. There was always something to look at outside, water for instance. Water that meant nothing and the sky-line merely a question mark.
'I'm sorry for those bloody stewards,' Rochdale said after a long silence. He got up and commenced walking up and down the deck. He went out on deck then. The door slammed to, and this time to no accompanying rattle of the tin-mug. 'I wonder what'd happen if we struck a bloody mine,' Rochdale said to himself. He sat on the hatch, kicking his heels. There was something boyish about him now. He sat on his hands and swung his feet to and fro. He went along the well-deck, climbed the ladder and stood still on the top step, looking aft. There they were. Funny, he had passed and re-passed but he never thought of them, and generally he went along the weather-side. He had always looked at them from the masthead. He had often seen men of the watch on giving a hand to the stewards. Poor sods, he thought, he wouldn't have their jobs for a million. He saw two of them now, he saw Mr. Walters. They were grouped about a man.
'Mind my leg, goddam you!' he heard the man say.
The two stewards were trying to sit him on a tin pan.
'Take me off the bloody thing I tell you, you crazy fools. Don't you understand plain English?' But the two stewards held on to him. Mr. Walters looked for'ard. How quiet it was there, the water ahead was smooth like glass. Hardly a breath of wind.
'We're not going to murder you!' Mr. Walters said. 'Be glad you're alive, man, even if you have a hole in your leg. What the devil's the matter with you? Some of your mates are trying to get to sleep. Be patient for Christ's sake. We go to all the trouble of getting you here, trying to help you, and this is how you behave. Stay on the pot. Do your duty and shut up!'
'I don't want to—'
'Shut your mouth I tell you!' He clapped his hand over the man's mouth. Mr. Walters's eye was suddenly drawn to the next man. He was asleep. Mr. Walters watched the slobber bubble as the man breathed.
'Did you go to the young chap aft?' Mr. Walters asked.
'Yes, sir, I went with Sloane. Here, hold up for Christ Almighty's sake. Damn you, spit, poke, or piddle and be done with it,' the exasperated steward said. When he reached the word 'done' his voice pitched high – a thin screech.
'You fed him?'
'Yes, sir. And we had a job, too. He'll fight no more. Silly little cuss! He still shouts, he's cracked all right, shouts your ears off. Still wants to fight for his bloody King, he does. There! Take it away. That's done.'
'Feel better now?' Mr. Walters asked. 'Phew!' the dreadful smell. He looked away while they removed the pan. He laid the man back on the palliasse.
'Leg still hurting?' he asked. There was a gentle tone in Mr. Walters's voice. No answer.
'Is your leg hurting you now?' The leg was a mass of bandage.
'Then damn your bloody festering leg – hang it – we do all we can for you fellows, and—'
The stewards hearing Mr. Walters's shouts rushed back, minus the pan. Mr. Walters looked furious. But they said nothing, understanding everything. So it went on. From man to man.
'Have those three men been taken below?' Walters asked them.
'Yes, sir,' they replied with one voice. They looked tired, their clothes were filthy.
'Good! Oh, look! Get your bowl, Sloane. Marvel, cotton wool quickly now.'
He rushed to the end of the line, pulled out his handkerchief and dropped it against the man's mouth, spurting blood.
'Steady! Steady! Sloane! Come here! Just put your hand behind this man's head. That's it. He'd better go into the saloon. Damn it, this ship will be in a bloody mess when we're quite finished.'
'Marvel, prop that fellow up there. Here! Third from the left. Yes. That one. He keeps slipping down all the while. Do it once too often. Smother himself. He's the one paralysed. Yes, that's right! God! I'll be glad to see the back of this.'
He called the two stewards to him, saying, 'Stand by in the saloon, you've nothing to do, just sit there, when you hear a call attend to it. That's all. We'll be in port soon. It's a bit lousy, men, but it can't be helped. Pure accident.'
He left them and went to his room.
Mr. Hump snored. A fly sat on his nose; the deepest snore would not move it. Mr. Walters shouted, 'Wake up! Wake up!' Yawning, Mr. Hump sat up.
'Well,' he said, 'how many this time, Mr. Walters?'
'Don't be inquisitive! God! I'm tired! D'you know, Hump, I've lost about seven pounds in as many days? Oh well, it's nearly the end now, Hump.'
Mr. Hump made no reply. He got up and began to dress. After a while he said, 'I never did this kind of job before, Mr. Walters. I think you're right. It wouldn't be a bad idea to change routes. This part of the world gives me the creeps! I had the hell of a dream, I dreamt I was hanging head downwards over number two hatch.'
'Did you fall?'
'Oh, no. I didn't fall. But it was a hell of a dream! I got quite scared.'
'Pity,' Walters said. 'Pity! They say we'll be in Alex. at night. But I don't believe them. Such fairy tales get about. Those fellers down there are having a rotten time! I never thought I'd see my staff acting as orderlies, everything except wet-nurses. Just like children! Naughty children! You can't always be sorry for them! Well, to hell with everything, I wouldn't care this minute if she struck a hundred mines. Reckon I'll sleep through it all. I'm not used to fourteen hours a day, Hump, not at my age, and I'm always a bit scared of my feet.'
He threw coat and cap on the settee and flung himself on to the bunk. 'Good night,' he said, and drew the blanket over his face. Mr. Hump went out.
'My n
ame's Jack Carney, you see. I was in the Fusiliers at fourteen! I didn't give a goddam for nobody you see. Carney my name is, sailor. Jack Carney!'
'Yes. I know that, laddie,' Rochdale said. He wiped sweat off the soldier's forehead.
'Why don't they take that thing down? WHY DON'T THEY?' the man shouted.
'Ssh!' Rochdale said. 'Ssh! You'll be home soon, lad, home in a nice warm bed and you'll have a grand time. Your mother'll make potato cake. Ssh now! There's a good lad.'
'Why don't they shift it? It's all bloody lies I tell you! He can't be looking at anything. He can't see beggar all. How can he, he's dead. And the beggars know it. They're laughing. I saw it all last night! They dragged him out of that hold. They stuck a penny cracker in his gob. They're only laughing. It's all bloody bunk.'
'Ssh!' Rochdale said, he laid his hand on the soldier's head. 'Ssh!'
'You can see it now, I tell you. I heard him piddling down here. I thought it was rain at first. I laughed like hell then. It was him. They're pretending, that's all. He's no bloody sailor, and the ship's just going round in circles. It's a cod. A dead man can't see! D'you hear that? That fellow laughing on the bridge. They can hear me talking, d'you see?'
'Ssh! Keep quiet, laddie! You're only dreaming! Cool yourself. Would you like a drink of nice cold water? Why don't you try and go to sleep? Ssh now.'
'My name's Jack Carney I tell you! I was in the Buffs at fourteen.'
Rochdale turned his head away. 'The bloody man's raving,' he told himself. Why didn't the steward come? He shouted furiously, 'Steward! Steward!'
And when Sloane came out of the saloon, 'Have you seen this man?'
'Have I seen that man! God, I seen him every minute, every second, for ten days.'
'Ten days?'
'Ten bloody days.'
'But he's in delirium.'
"Course he is! What d'you think it was? Ring a ring a bloody roses?'
The steward went back into the saloon.
'Poor bastards!' Rochdale said. Well, you couldn't blame them, on their feet all day, half the bloody night. A dirty job, and all because nobody gives a goddam. No, sir. Nobody cares a brass farthing. He looked at the soldier again. The soldier was looking at him. There was something so frenzied, yet so helpless about the look in his eyes that for a moment Rochdale fully expected the wounded man to leap up and throttle him.
