Hollow Sea (24 page)

'So I see,' Dunford said. 'Mr. Bradshaw, would you call this crack-brained?'

Mr. Bradshaw picked up his coat, put it on, and looked at Mr. Dunford.

'I think it's magnificent, sir,' he replied, and rushed from the bridge.

'Magnificent,' thought Dunford. H'm! That's where knowledge supplants wisdom. So they had managed to get nine hundred men away. The rafts would hold sixty, yes, they must hold sixty somehow or other. So Mr. Deveney and his malaise were aft. Seeing to the rafts. Goddam! Why don't they hurry? Why don't they hurry? It's getting light. Are we to be trapped like rats in this hell-hole? He swung round suddenly. 'Here! What the devil are you doing in there?' he shouted at the helmsman.

'Standing by, sir. I was ordered to stand by, sir.'

'Then don't. Get along and give a hand with those boats. What d'you think this is, a children's party?' He followed the man. 'Get these boats clear right away. Come along. Get these boats away.' He thrust his way through a mass of scrambling bodies. 'Where are you, Bradshaw?'

'Here,' sir.' The cry came from the water. Dunford looked down. Number eight boat, full of soldiers, was suspended in air; ten feet above the water. The falls had fouled. Mr. Bradshaw was clinging on the rope, suspended in air himself, looking down at the loaded boat.

'Damn! Damn! Bradshaw, come up here!' Dunford called down. He wanted to shout his rage, but he dare not. And Bradshaw climbed up the fall.

'The block has fouled. You, bosun – can't that man do better than that?'

'As you know, sir .
 
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'

'Mr. Bradshaw, cut the rope,' Dunford said. 'Here! Bosun – your knife. I said cut the rope. Are you deaf – or crazy or what the hell? I said cut the rope. The rest must take care of itself. It had no right to be foul. I've repeated time after time that these falls must be unreeved and reeved again, every watch. Now you've got men below there trapped.'

Suddenly there was a flash of light upon the beach. Then another and another. Daylight was ushering in, and the moon, its work done, shuffled off behind a sheaf of clouds.

'Cut the goddam rope, will you?' shouted Dunford.

'Yes, sir.' But Bradshaw dropped the knife from his hand. There was a flash, a dull roar, and the whole of the starboard side of A.10 seemed to shiver as the shell struck her amidships.

'Great God!' exclaimed Dunford. What am I seeing?' his mind cried out. 'What am I seeing?' A rope, a knife. A stampede of soldiers, frenzied screams, a thunderous splash. Trapped. They had been seen! A curtain of fire seemed to be spreading over the beach, light flashed upon that eagle's beak. Dunford gripped a fall. 'They're shelling! Here! You! You! You! You! Get below Bosun, down to that bulkhead door. Quickly Ericson! Ericson! Are your boats clear there?'

'Clear! Eleven lowering now, sir.' Where was that voice coming from? It sounded from a great distance. Dunford ran aft. Reached the poop. The rafts were gone. 'Thank God! They've gone.' Yes, there they were veering slowly away to join that mad crusade. 'I knew! I knew! What madness!' Alone on the deserted poop he stamped his rage, he hammered on the rope pile. 'They'll
never
do it.' The shore batteries were shelling. Each ship, rooted in that patch of water, seemed helpless. But beyond them were those other boats, that long line drawing nearer and nearer to the shore. Dunford went back to the bridge. Fountains of water, cries, the screech of blocks, the shouting of men. Deluge of sound. 'Get those men up. Everyone! Everyone!' He saw their bodies struggling in the water. Suddenly he fell flat upon his face, but the third shell struck forward, exploded upon her fo'c'sle head, carried away the port fo'c'sle-head ladder. 'Get them up! Everyone!' Another whistling sound, a low scream, he shut his eyes. A terrific explosion. The deck shuddered beneath his feet. 'Jesus Christ!' he shouted. 'What is wrong? What is wrong?'

But Ericson was shaking him. 'Number eleven has been smashed by the explosion, sir. A good many of the men were thrown back on to the deck. The boat, sir—'

Dunford said: 'Stay here!' and rushed away, almost flung himself down the ladder. 'Goddam! What was this? In Christ's name!' A shambles, a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay everywhere. He saw only that. Bodies around him. He did not look farther across the waters dotted with struggling figures, did not see men throwing themselves from the boats, loaded like beasts, swimming, power in the body, courage in the heart, fighting their way to that bloody beach. Where was Bradshaw? Where was Deveney? He rushed below. Stopped dead. The bulkhead doors were open, rope ladders hung out, men clung to them, bodies were being hauled up, laid down. Bosun, sailors, firemen, stewards, all working feverishly. Dunford looked at the bosun.

'This is the last man, sir. There are the others!' He jerked his thumb to the left. Yes. There they were. The living and the dead, the drowned and the crazy, heaped together, body upon body. Dunford was motionless, staring at the bodies. God! What am I thinking of? What am I standing here for? 'Bosun, close that door. Take your men to the boat-deck at once, number eleven boat was struck in the act of lowering. Hurry man! Hurry! Where is Mr. Bradshaw?' He seemed stupefied, agitated, without control.

'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
 
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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.
 
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'

'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!
 
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'

'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 outside!'

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.'