Hollow Sea (25 page)

The bosun stepped out of the galley.

'I might just nip up here and take a pull at my pipe, and say beggaroo to the war for just two minutes. O Christ! There it goes again! Whistle! Whistle! Whistle! Goddam, you can hear that all right. How many times have I been on that bridge in the last hour? Seven – seven – seven, my bloody aunt – seventeen – and this is the eighteenth. Well!'

'Bosun!'

'Yes, sir.' He stopped dead under the bridge. Something had whizzed past his ear.

'All men to C deck right away. The monitor's alongside with wounded.'

'Yes, sir.' For the first time in the whole trip, the short, bald-headed figure of Mr. Tyrer was seen to run. Was it the sudden whizzing of something past his face, or was it the extraordinary cries that now came to his ears as he descended the ladder to the 'tween-decks? He didn't know. But here he was at the bottom of the ladder, panting for breath – 'Coming! Coming!'

Why, they had all bulkhead doors open again. Well, my God! That's what it was going to be then. A bleeder. A real bleeder. Williams! Where is Williams? Oh yes! There they were! There they were! Williams and Vesuvius. O'Grady and Turner and O'Neill. Firemen, gunners! No! He didn't know them, either. He pushed his way past them, went to the great open door and looked down at the scene below him. Somebody was shouting to him.

'Yes, yes, of course! Two men on top with those slings. Come on, move your bodies for Jesus' sake. This isn't a cake-walk! These men have to be taken aboard at once. Hurry!'

Some were hoisted, some climbed. Men rushed here, rushed there, the eye had no power to look beyond the scene upon which it was focused. Blood, broken bodies, white faces, the eye was held to the 'tween-deck, to the great door swung back to the bulk-head, to the straw and canvas. The eye was prisoner of the scene. But beyond, the struggling boats, the murdering fire, the crippled transport being towed, the circle of steel that shielded them belching death. Soon A.10 would go. Carrying this. Into the bunks! Into the bunks! Bunks! Cheap wood, wire, new varnish. Men had slept there, dreamed there, men whole – men had lain like logs there, and now they were lying again. The dream spent, the body broken.

'Easy there! Williams! Easy there! Take that man to forty-seven A.' Ericson stood behind them, silent, watching. Man following man. Still they came. 'Hurry! Hurry!' He stamped his foot upon the iron deck. 'Hurry.'

'There are about a hundred and eighty, sir. I've counted over a hundred and thirty-one! Where are we going with these men, sir? Will the men be able to go for'ard for something to eat, sir?' The bosun talked with his back to the officer. His back was bent, his strong hands took the weight of the sling. He went on muttering to himself. 'Can't understand this, I can't, beggared if I can. They must be crazy. Fair crazy. There's only one doctor aboard, and now he's deado. Why didn't they have a proper ship for them?' Ah, he knew it all along. Bloody goddam fools. H'm! And where were this twenty thousand now? Ah! He wouldn't like to say. 'One hundred and forty-five.'

'Hurry! Hurry!' shouted Ericson. 'Hurry! Hurry! Are you crazy or what?'

'Just ordinary men, sir,' a voice said, but he did not know where the voice had come from. He was silent then.

'One hundred and fifty-two,' the bosun said, sweat running down his face. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. 'Every màn'll have a bunk, sir,' he said, 'except the others, of course they won't need one. Did you know, sir, that thirty men never got near a boat at all? Knocked flat where they stood.' And he still talked with his back to the officer. 'That's the last for slings. O'Grady, go up and – never mind—' He put his head out through the door, looked up the boat-deck.
 
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'Come down here! And unreeve that tackle right away.'

'O.K.'

Confusion was giving way to order. The monitor was moving away. All wreckage of boats had been backed clear – the dead were separated from the living, soon they would be off. 'That is if we're lucky,' thought Ericson 'God! I'm sorry for Mr. Dunford! Bradshaw's death has knocked him out. Clean out! And now I'll have extra watch.' He daren't leave Deveney on his own. 'Close the bulkhead doors, hurry, will you. Jesus Christ, you men must think you're at a barn dance. Bosun, as soon as you're clear here, come up to the bridge.' He rushed away down the deck. The bulkhead door was hauled back. Closed. Darkness again. Silent men. Groaning men. A dead-house – a mad-house.

Rochdale saw it all. He was high in air, safe in his fastness. He saw everything. He saw the transport free of its burden now, turning slowly away, saw the grey ships go in nearer and nearer, the circle of fire spread. He saw boats descend and ascend, heard shouts and screams, the hissing of rope, wood hurtle in the air, and fall in great splinters where they were engulfed, as those bodies were engulfed. He had seen them rise, sink, rise again, the waters threshed, saw the tattered ribbon that weaved its way towards the bloody beach, and that was human and the name written upon waters, courage, madness. He stared down, believing, unbelieving, and Annie was engulfed in that, and that was tremendous, a pattern terrifying the eye, and Rosie too, she was engulfed, all Rochdale swamped, forgotten, covered over and forgotten by this tremendous world, all feeling died, stifled in the breast, thought turned to ice – staring, staring at the wound, the great wound that was opened, and closed again, sucking down memory, sucking down feeling. Only movement. Violent movement, a medley of sounds.

'God! who'd've thought it could be done? I wouldn't. Beggar me if I would.' And yesterday they were silent, hiding bodily hunger, their ears deaf to the clamour, to the low incessant clamour, winged thoughts of home, remembered faces, and voices. Yesterday they were soldiers. Today they were gods. 'Ah! She's slewing round now. Thank the Lord for that! But what a mess! What a bloody mess! Poor old Bradshaw gone! God damn, it's lousy.'

Ah! But just look! Look at those fellows clearing decks. Dumping rubbish overboard! Lowering derricks. They haven't changed. Just the same as ever. Then he turned round, looking shorewards. Could he see anything? Nothing. Just that great low-lying cloud of smoke, thickish white smoke, and that incessant roar, roar, roar; that rattle, rattle; that plop, plop, plop upon the water. Would it ever cease? That floating wreckage, those smashed boats, those uplifted hands, writing hope in space, that battered human ribbon. Was that everlasting too? And that great wound in the side of the
Hartspill.
Would that be covered up too? How large the hole was. Gosh! One could drive a carriage and pair through it. That spreading line of grey steel, shuddering as their guns pounded away at the beach, they were making a long straight line now, and the seven tall ships were covered. But where are we bound? was the uppermost thought in his mind. Yes, where were they bound? Was it the beginning or the end? And goddam it all, the mail hadn't gone! No. And was that letter to Annie never going to go?

'Once I hated darkness, now I like it.'

It would soon be light. Suddenly he shouted at the top of his voice, 'Terrific! Terrific!'

The spell was broken. How wrought up he had been, how calm he was now. Two hundred and one wounded for Alexandria, and one hundred and one dead. Well, some would go to Alexandria. He knew that. But the others? He shut his eyes. He wanted to forget all that, that pestilential 'tween-deck, that sepulchral hold, dark, stuffy, coffin-shaped, smelly, heritage of the lucky no longer tied to things. Free.

Pictures flashed across the look-out man's mind. The hammering and the smells, the darkness and then the light, the fresh faces, the smiling eye, the rude gesture, and the spilling sound – Water! The laugh like velvet, and the harsh sound, the stamping feet and the shouts. And this was the whole thing. Clear as crystal now. This for the duration. Duration of war, and men's patience. The low whine of engines was in his ears. There, far out, as far as eye could see, there was quiet water, and coolness. Behind him, thunder, incessant cries, the closed fist of rage, the tattered banner of great hopes, fluttering in ribbons, touching the surface of the living water. A.10 was moving farther and farther away, her nose ploughed through the oily water, forging ahead, towards that distant horizon.

'I saw him fall – knife in his hand – heard his skull crack. I held the rope. I did not move. I wanted to be sick – sick.'

'I saw that man crucified on the rail – head downwards – I did not look again. I was afraid. I was afraid. His face was white, hands bloody. I looked away. I was afraid. I was afraid. His face was white, hands bloody. I looked away. I did not say anything: I counted three where the mouth was torn – torn by steel! I felt nothing watching them. I held one and urine ran down my leg. But I said nothing. I remembered these things and now I do not remember them. God! I'd love to be there now, sitting with them talking. Williams, Vesuvius. I wonder what bloody time it is. Christ Almighty.' He turned round again. Looked down. Dark, silent, he saw great canvas sheets. 'Poor beggars,' he said. 'Poor beggars.' Suddenly he rang the bell. Obstacle ahead. A point on the bow. Obstacle to port. He took a pair of glasses and looked through. A ship's boat and men in it? Bodies in it? He rang again, and something that was feeling shot up the arm to the finger-tips. He rang twice, loudly. Obstacle ahead. Nearer now.

'Dead bodies. Two naval ratings. We won't stop for that.'

He put the glasses back in his pocket. He watched the ship's nose go to port again. 'Hello! Somebody signalling from that cruiser! Is it a cruiser? Yes, it's a cruiser. Signalling to us. By gosh!' He put the glasses to his eyes again. 'Bloody good job I know the signal code. What are we up to? I wonder. Information! What information? Beggar me! Ah! I see now. I see! A.10 proceeding Alex. – two hundred and one wounded. Proceeding – proceeding – proceeding – pro – ceed – ing. Goddam! What the hell's wrong? Has that feller with the flags got the bloody heebee-jeebees or what?' Rochdale could no longer read. The flags seemed to be dancing in the air, and for a moment he thought he heard somebody laugh upon the bridge. 'Am I falling asleep or am I tight? Or what the merry hell? Good Christ! You here! I say! Have I been up here two hours already? I was just watching that silly kid on the cruiser signalling us. I'm sure he's had more than a tot of rum to-day.'

The relief put his nose over the edge of the nest. 'There's nobody signalling, Rochdale, you bloody fool. What the devil have you been doing up here, eh?' He grinned in the look-out man's face.

Rochdale put his face very close to that of the other man. 'I saw him, did you? Head downwards he was.'

'Look here, you must be going tapped or something. Get out of that bloody box for Christ's sake. If you want to go down headfirst fire ahead. Perhaps that's what you mean – is it? Come on! Cock your bloody leg over and get out. Suppose a goddam shell hit this mast, where'd we be? I ask you! Well, in or out, I'm climbing in. There's some sort of stew down there, and it's piping hot, and Williams has pinched a whole tin of best coffee from the storeroom! It was great!'

'The mouth was torn right across, like a man pushed a fist right inside and then hacked at it. But I said nothing. Did you see it?'

'Did you see my bloody Aunt Jenny? No! Go down for the love of Christ! Have you been knocking yourself against that damned nest?'

Rochdale climbed out, made his way slowly down the mast. Relief followed him with his eye, wondering, was the fellow drunk or was he just acting the goat? 'Bloody queer, anyhow! He ain't a greenhorn, either.'

Rochdale imagined his feet were made of lead. He had a splitting headache. As he touched each rung with his foot a pain shot through his head. Reaching the deck, he rested for a while. Then he went for'ard. Once in the alleyway he stopped, long enough to see that the port ladder leading to the fo'c'sle-head was no longer there. That was going to be rather awkward. Might have been worse. Only ten yards from the fo'c'sle. He slipped inside.

Some men were eating at table. Some were already in their bunks. They snored loudly. There was no man awake in his bunk. Curtains were drawn. The others were talking, but nobody spoke to Rochdale when he came in. They were so busy eating that they hadn't time to notice him, and when he sat down to table with them, the one next him automatically moved up to him. But nobody cared to notice him. Rochdale drew the kiddy towards him, put some stew on a plate, and pushed the kiddy back again to the middle of the table. Then he got up, went to his locker and brought back some bread and a thick earthenware mug. He poured some coffee into it from the can. 'Hello, Rochdale,' a voice shouted at him. He nodded, saying nothing. He began to eat, sup from the cup.

'This is some man's ship; and by Jesus, somebody's going to get a V.C. for it. I think Rochdale ought to get it really. What say you, Williams?'

'Aye! One shell struck the bloody poop, but no one seemed to notice, not even Deveney and he has a sharp eye, and the bloody old gun wasn't even uncovered, and the toff, you know the toff, well he cleared out on a raft with about fifty soldiers, he was tired, hell! you could see he was tired, and he went away. But his mate – they
found
him, hanging over the rail for an hour before they saw him, and God! the stuff that came out of his gob when they lifted him down.'

'Well, s'help my Christ! I like that. You dirty, rotten – just look.'

A head appeared from behind a curtain. 'I say! Are we having a watch on this crazy, stinking, roaring, whoring ship or are we not?'

'Oh, you shut up and go asleep. Look at this. A bloody man being sick all over the damn table. Confounded bloody cheek! I should just think you
would
be sorry. By God! Right in a feller's face you might say.' He drew his plate away. Moved to the other end of the table.

'Sorry, mates,' Rochdale said. His face was like chalk. 'Sorry, mates.'

'I should bloody well say so, even though you are a posh lookout man! And you can get scraps from the P.O.S. The bloody P.O.S.'

Rochdale clambered over the wooden form. 'Couldn't be helped,' he said.