The Sea Shall Not Have Them

by The Sea Shall Not Have Them (retail) (epub)

  ‘O.K., Skipper!’ he shouted to the bridge. ‘She’s made fast.’

  ‘We have secured the tow,’ the loud-hailer boomed out immediately. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Good-bye, you selfish sods,’ Robb added quietly.

  ‘Them and their stinking sea.’ Milliken could hear Slingsby’s voice coming loudly from the bridge. ‘Think because they’ve got Nelson they own the show. Nelson! What’s wrong with Jimmy Slingsby?’

  The naval launch’s bow rose as her engines blared out and she began to draw away from 7525 which was wallowing with idling engines on the ink-blue seas. Milliken watched the other boat diving and plunging, her bows under the dark waves which rolled off her deck in splinters of foam, until she merged with the twilight. He was conscious of a sour feeling of anti-climax. For a moment he’d hoped there was work for him and his eagerness had beaten down his nausea.

  When he turned round he was surprised to realize it was quite dark. The Walrus was already little more than a dim shape in the distance, merging with the iron crests of the waves, and on 7525 the ventilators, the Carley float, the water casks, the ropes coiled on the deck, were losing their identity in the dark outline of the hull which was all that stood out against the sea.

  * * *

  The conference in the wheelhouse as the boat got under way again was a bitter one. Tebbitt, listening on the bridge, could hear every word.

  ‘This means that 7526 will make the pick-up in the morning,’ Slingsby was saying. ‘Those medal-hungry swine will be there to do the job while we act as wet-nurse to a Walrus.’

  There were sour looks all over the ship. In the wireless cabin, Knox was laying the law down to Botterill.

  ‘They should have let us take the survivors home,’ he was saying, indignant for his rights. ‘That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? That’s why we’ve got those flaming great engines that make the forecastle so uncomfortable when we’ve got to sleep in it. Speed – that’s what we’re built for, isn’t it? Of course it is. But the Navy knows better. They use us as tugs and snatch the kudos for themselves.’ He sighed noisily. ‘Ah, well, they were always the same.’

  Milliken, sitting disconsolately again on the steps of the sick bay, dog-tired now and shivering with the cold and the shock of seasickness, thought gloomily of the work he might have done had the injured man been transferred. He had boarded the boat with the heroic intention of tending the sick and wounded and all he had managed to do so far was to cower on the uncomfortable steps through most of twelve weary hours, not knowing where his bag of bandages and slings had gone to, torn with bouts of seasickness which left him weak and ill, and in fear of the terrible Flight Sergeant.

  Gus Westover, sitting half-frozen in the Carley float on Slingsby’s orders, watching the shadowy shape of the Walrus bowing and bobbing astern of them, swinging swiftly up the waves as 7525 slid down the other side, was convinced he was going to die of pneumonia. The Walrus whipping over the water reminded him gloomily of that dead cert of his that had fallen at the first fence and lost him his precious twenty pounds.

  In the engine-room Corporal Skinner stood between the two thundering monsters that gave the boat motion, watching Dray still singing soundlessly below the metallic howl that filled the air, and anxiously placed a hand against the starboard engine. Then he stepped back and lifted the bilge boards and stared below. The black scum down there seemed no deeper and no more oily than usual, and he examined the botched-up pipe minutely for traces of the thin hot oil that might be forced through it. He found nothing, and the oil-pressure gauge seemed normal enough.

  There was less movement now in the stern of the boat as it was held steady in the racing sea by the weight of the tow-rope and the tug of the aircraft, but the engines were straining and Skinner glanced round him again, cautiously, taking in all the danger points, then he went to his tool-box and examined it carefully once more for his spares.

  He squinted again at the pressure gauges and the revolution counters, wondering if he dare ask the Skipper to reduce speed a little, then climbing slowly on to the after-deck he stood and watched the wake for a while, aware of the increasing strength of the wind and the increasing height of the waves. He stared aft again for a second, balancing against the lurch of the boat, then he went to the stern and nudged Westover, squatting uncomfortably in the Carley float, one eye on the tow-rope.

  ‘That Walrus’s flying,’ he said earnestly. ‘You watch. Every time she hits the top of a wave, she takes off.’

  Westover peered through the blue-black darkness, the wind pushing and nibbling at his hair. In the distance, almost indistinguishable against the starless sky, they could see the vague shape of the Walrus heaving and rolling as she was dragged over the waves.

  ‘She’s all right,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘She’s taking off, I tell you,’ Skinner persisted breathlessly. ‘And every time she hits the sea again she ships a lot of water, I’ll bet. Better tell the Skipper to reduce speed, hadn’t you?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ Westover said irritably. ‘She looks all right.’

  ‘Ah, she might look all right, but it’s dark and you can’t see, can you?’’ Skinner’s words were full of the threat of disaster.

  Westover stared at the Walrus again, nagged by uncertainty. ‘You sure?’

  ‘’Course I’m sure. What’s the matter with your eyes?’ Skinner’s voice had a thin edge of insistence that made Westover nervous and fully aware that it was his responsibility to report any odd behaviour on the part of the aircraft.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ Westover heaved himself out of the Carley float and stumbled across the deck towards the wheelhouse.

  ‘She’s taking off, Skipper!’ Skinner felt easier as he heard him shout. ‘Every time she hits the top of a wave.’ Then he felt the check as the revolutions fell – as though the boat were an animal that had shortened its racing stride.

  On the bridge, Treherne stared backwards, trying to distinguish the seaplane in the darkness, but all he could see was the same shadow Westover had seen, and the faintly phosphorescent glow from the wake that threw the stern of the boat into sharp relief.

  ‘Keep her at that, Flight,’ he said into the wheelhouse. Then he straightened up again and stared round him, watchful of the rising wind and the deeper lurching of the boat.

  His mind was rapidly ticking off on a mental list the things he should have done, and he came to the end of it with a feeling of satisfied certainty that there was nothing he had forgotten. He had worked out their position carefully when they had spotted the Walrus and had marked it on the chart with a neat cross. But he knew perfectly well that as soon as he had left the wheelhouse for the bridge Slingsby had glanced at the charts and quietly checked his course and position, and it was because of this knowledge that he dwelt longer on the things he knew he must not forget.

  Treherne had got used to Slingsby in the few weeks he had been aboard the boat. In his own first few days, when he was fresh from the skippers’ course at Corsewell, he had made a couple of bad navigational blunders chiefly due to nervousness and through trying to concentrate on half a dozen things at once. Nothing had been said to him, however, and in his humiliation he, too, had said nothing. But he knew that Slingsby had been watching him ever since. Indeed, he had learned that Slingsby had actually replaced Flight Sergeant Rollo because the G.O. had known Treherne needed someone to keep a discreet eye on him until he found his feet.

  It hadn’t taken Treherne long to find out that Slingsby had been called into the C.O.’s office ashore after their first few trips together. The C.O.’s ‘How do you get on with Mr Treherne?’ would be only an invitation for Slingsby’s discreet comments. But as nothing had been said to Treherne by the C.O., he guessed that so far, in spite of his early errors, Slingsby had not found him wanting.

  Considering it all, Treherne felt no resentment. He had grown to trust Slingsby and his judgment in the few weeks he had known him. There was a lot he wasn’t sure about still
– for instance, he had an uncomfortable feeling that he ought not to have let Skinner go so soon the previous evening – but as far as the deck crew were concerned he knew he had little to worry about with Slingsby and Robb in charge.

  As his mind moved he heard the sharp rap of Knox’s pencil at the window of the wireless cabin behind him. ‘Weather report, Skipper!’ The wireless operator’s voice came through the tiny hatch, small and dwindled. ‘Gale blowing up, they say.’

  He pushed the message through to Treherne, who fingered it thoughtfully, then stared aft again at the dark shape of the Walrus behind them against the sky. The sound of the wind buffeting his cheeks and ears and eyes reminded him of his lack of experience as it seemed to grow, swelling with the thump and crash of the seas on the bow of the boat and the nerve-racking howl of the engines.

  V

  The wind that slapped and hammered at the side of Tebbitt’s face came directly from the north, seeming to grow stronger with each wild gust that rattled the mast and set the stays drumming. He was still thinking gloomily of Hilda, knowing that she would arrive while he had no money and consequently no bribes to keep her there. But as he considered it longer he realized that at least the launch was heading home and in the direction of the train he must meet, and he began for the first time to bless the chance which had brought the Walrus down into the sea on their beat.

  Astern, the dim shape of the aircraft still clung to them, bobbing and bouncing behind, sometimes high above them as it balanced on the crest of a wave, sometimes apparently miles below and out of sight against the darkness of the sea. The rain was slanting thinly down in spitting angry squalls, gurgling somewhere in the scuppers and beating against Tebbitt’s right cheek with a paralysing iciness, gathering into drops that were whipped by the wind off the end of his chin. The folds of his duffle coat were stiff and damp and heavy on his shoulders as the material soaked in the rain and the spray which curled like bullets over the starboard bow and round in a wide sweep to slash across the wheelhouse windows and lose itself in the tumultuous air above the bridge.

  Stolidly, Tebbitt was aware that the Skipper was worried – by the number of times he appeared on the bridge, glanced round, then disappeared below again. In his unimaginative way and with his mind clouded with his own troubles, he knew the boat was making its way through the water with difficulty, hampered by the growing weather and the weight of the Walrus at its stern.

  The wheelhouse was dark except for the faint, reflected glow of the orange light that fell across the charts, but Tebbitt could hear the muttering in there.

  ‘The wind’s increasing, Skipper,’ Slingsby was saying. ‘And that damn Walrus is airborne too much. She’s pulling the stern round all the time. It’s hard to hold her on course.’

  ‘Think we ought to get 7526 to give us a hand?’ Treherne asked. ‘She could probably get a line on the Walrus and help to hold her square.’

  ‘She might if she’s got a crew of acrobats.’ Slingsby’s voice came dry and sarcastic, but still somehow respectful. ‘Besides, we don’t want that medal-chasing bunch hanging about. Time enough if Skinner’s engines pack up. We’d never hear the last of it if we asked that lot for help.’

  There was silence for a while, then Tebbitt heard the rattle of Knox’s pencil on the wireless-cabin window. He reached down, took the message form and passed it to Treherne as he appeared in the wheelhouse doorway.

  ‘Thanks, Tebbitt,’ Treherne said, and disappeared below again to read it by the faint light over the chart table.

  ‘Gale warning again, Flight.’ His voice came slowly a moment later. ‘It’ll be blowing like Old Harry by daylight tomorrow. How about the Walrus now?’

  ‘Hang on to her as long as you can, Skipper. Cast her off when the weather grows too bad. At least she’ll be that much nearer home than she is now.’

  ‘Skipper!’ It was Corporal Robb’s voice, this time. ‘I think the Chernikeeff log’s packed up.’

  Tebbitt resisted the temptation to glance just inside the door at the dial of the log which showed its regular flash with every fifteen feet they travelled.

  ‘That’s handy,’ Slingsby said without rancour. ‘That makes it a proper caper. That complicates matters just that little bit more to make things interesting. What’s happening?’

  ‘It’s reading zero. I think the spinner must have carried away or got fouled up.’

  ‘Tebbitt!’ Treherne’s voice rose. ‘Get Skinner. Tell him the log’s packed in. Robby’ll take over up there.’

  Tebbitt felt his way cautiously along the two-foot-wide catwalk by the sick bay to the after-deck, all that was between him and the dark sea alongside, knelt on the unsteady deck, one hand on the lifeline to stop himself sliding away with the lurch of the boat, and bawled down through the engine-room hatch.

  ‘Skinner! The log’s packed in!’

  Twice he shouted, without reply, so he climbed down the iron ladder into the engine-room, dazzled and blinking in the deckhead lights. There, out of the wind, the heat took his breath away and the vibration and the noise set his tired nerves on edge. The engines, hot with several hours’ steaming, threw off their heat like an open oven door.

  Skinner was sitting on the edge of the small bench aft, while Dray crouched on his tool-box, still singing his soundless song in his world of shrieking noise. Tebbitt carefully picked his way aft on the greasy, quivering floorboards and put his mouth to Skinner’s ear.

  ‘Log’s packed in. You’re wanted in the wheelhouse.’

  Skinner replied with an angry single-syllable oath. He was loath to leave the engine-room just then. Normally willing enough to leave the dial-watching to Dray, he had crouched the whole of the engine-running time on his tool-box or the work-bench in the aftermost part of the engine-room, his eyes on the quivering needles, the turning of the shafts down in the bilges of the boat, and the level of the water under the after-floorboards where it was deepest, his fingers busy with the greasers on the water-pumps and the sea-cocks, or stroking the port engine.

  He glanced round anxiously as he set his foot on the ladder, then he hoisted himself up on deck and, blinded by the darkness after the lights of the engine-room, made his way forward chiefly by touch. Tebbitt followed him, feeling a twinge of uneasiness at the knowledge that their only means of measuring speed and distance had become useless. A broken log meant inaccurate navigation and the boat might have to put in somewhere other than its home base, which would disorganize his arrangements for meeting Hilda.

  As they reached the bridge Slingsby’s voice came harshly from the wheelhouse, driving away his worries immediately with its more urgent anger. ‘How many more times,’ the Flight Sergeant demanded, ‘have I to tell you people not to use the deck unnecessarily at night? Use a bit of common. If you go overboard nobody’s going to see you. Go through the sick bay.’

  They said nothing and Skinner sullenly made his way into the wheelhouse, while Tebbitt took his place in the corner of the bridge again, straining his anxious ears for scraps of conversation.

  ‘The log’s gone, Skinner,’ Treherne said. ‘Can you put it right?’

  ‘Probably,’ Skinner said warily. ‘It might only be fouled up with seaweed – or, on the other hand, it might be that the impeller’s been carried away with this cross-tide. It’s pretty strong round here, I think, and that sometimes does happen.’

  ‘Can you put it right?’

  ‘If it’s not carried away, I can. Are you going to stop the engines?’

  Treherne glanced at the Flight Sergeant.

  ‘No need to, Skipper,’ Slingsby said immediately. ‘Besides, we’ve that damn Walrus hanging on to us.’

  Skinner disappeared and Tebbit heard the sick bay door slam and Skinner’s feet on the engine-room ladder. He was beginning to feel a little sick with anxiety and worry again.

  How long he stared out across the swaying blackness of the night, drenched with spray and the occasional spatters of rain, listening to the slap of the water and
the creak of the mast, and the crash every time the boat bounced sickeningly on to a wave, he didn’t know. Busy as he was with his own worries, his mind was not receptive to what was going on around him and it was almost with a start of surprise that he heard Skinner in the wheelhouse again. At first he thought he had returned to report the repair of the log, then he realized the fitter’s voice was raised in a bleat of despair.

  ‘Skipper, the water-pumps have packed up! Both of ’em!’

  ‘Water-pumps?’ The voice was Slingsby’s, hard and suspicious out of the semi-darkness. Tebbitt could just make out his shadowy figure against the pale orange glow that came through the doorway.

  ‘Yes, Flight.’

  ‘Both of ’em?’ Slingsby sounded incredulous.

  ‘Yes, Flight. Flight, the engines are overheating. There’s no water coming through.’

  ‘Shut down.’ Treherne’s voice was flat and cold, and as angry as Slingsby’s but in a different way.

  The noise of the engines ceased immediately, and as the way went off the boat the bow fell and she began to wallow, dead and heavy, in the sickening seas.

  ‘Tebbitt!’ Slingsby put his head through the doorway. ‘Get aft and stand by to give Gus a hand. There’s probably going to be some fun with this Walrus. She’ll probably try to board us. Robby, go and keep an eye on ’em.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Flight.’

  ‘How is it both the water-pumps have packed up together, Skinner?’ Treherne stared at Skinner in the pale light of the wheelhouse. The fitter’s face, black in the shadows, and picked out by the orange light, was strained and he seemed on the verge of tears.

  ‘Skipper, it’s this cross-tide against the turn of the screws. It’s sheared away the water-pump keys. It was the cross-tide that stopped the log.’

  ‘What have you got to do, then?’

  ‘Dismantle the pumps, Skipper, and fit new keys.’