Authors: James Hanley
'Yes, you keep it. Tell the bosun when he comes in that all the winches must have steam, all the stores must come up this evening, to lie to port. All baggage and boxes. As far as the well-deck must be roped off in the dog watch. The men will work the dog watch. All hands.'
'Is that all, sir?'
'That's all!' Mr. Bradshaw said and the bosun's mate went away. Mr. Bradshaw was hoping to have company soon. Time was getting on. He could see the
Hartspill
forging ahead, a destroyer on either side. Periodically one turned, bore down on A.10, circled her, kept pace with her for a while, then sheered off. Land wasn't very far off. But they were still in air. Still waiting for the final orders. And on shore – yes, somewhere on shore, heads were close together, lips moving, thoughts germinating, action taking shape. Would
Hartspill
and A.10 go in together? Or what? Yes, or what? Bradshaw didn't know. Did anybody know? Bradshaw smiled. Suddenly he raised both arms in the air, in the attitude of embracing a person, then he exclaimed: What a glorious day! Lovely day!' Sun shining, soldiers laughing, singing – what a bore it must be for soldiers, packed together like sardines on a musty old ship. They wanted space and plenty of it. So Deveney was so ill that they were landing him at Salonika. More work for him, of course. Ericson was all right, but you couldn't leave him alone for long. Wasn't fair on him either, only a youngster. Thoughts came – darted away again. Then a signal from the leading destroyer. 'Half-speed again!' The telegraph rang.
'Hard a starboard on your helm.'
Officers walked the deck below. They were nearing the land, purpose was showing its full face, yes, and they were coming into their own. Yes. Their stature was increasing. They counted now. To the devil with fusty old captains – fusty old ships' captains. A beastly sentimental lot they were. Looking on the state of affairs as though it were meaningless. Thank heaven they had a destroyer each side of them. They meant something, spelt business. They wouldn't half be glad to see the last of the damned ship, they were itching to get away, only seven days on board, but what a narrow world, a stuffy prison. And they counted for nothing. Well, patience, their time was coming. Heads tossed in the air, footsteps halted, a soft white hand clenched itself, struck an open palm. Talks of plans, hopes, meetings with fellow-officers, mines, submarines, dead men in canvas, prone figures with high temperatures, feverish faces, all – all algebra. The thing was – look what's coming. The figures walked round and round, hands in pockets and behind backs. Everybody talked. A.10 was near the end of her destination. Heat! Sea-bugs, stale tea, mouldy cigarettes from the ship's bar, fantastic price of spirits, well – a forgotten thing. No time! Think of the morrow. Lower still crowded rails, a mass of faces, mirroring dreams and expectations, mirroring nothing, thinking of familiar faces that were familiar no longer. Laughing seasickness in the face, glimpsing two cold faces wrapped in canvas, death, meaning nothing. Who were they? Strangers! Bells in their ears. 'There's a cruiser, Joe,' someone said.
'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.