Hollow Sea (11 page)

'Poor sods! Poor bloody sods!' Rochdale thought. 'Half starved, treated like dirt. How can men stand it?' What made him say that? He didn't know. This ceaseless watching for something you never saw, only felt when you were least expecting it, well, it did get on one's nerves. No! He didn't blame Williams and Turner or O'Grady for washing the left grub under the tap and making sandwiches for the soft, hungry fools who were too hungry or too thick to see the sheer greed and robbery of it. But perhaps it was worse on a 'bleeder', as Williams had said. He ought to know. Rochdale thought it a funny name to give a hospital-ship: still, all in all, he supposed he'd have to agree it was better seeing something funny in it. Like the feller shot in the behind getting away from the River Elydi. Well, you had to laugh or go bloody balmy.

They'd be up to the neck in it in two days' time. No doubt about it at all. The last time out this way they had got a nasty packet in the fo'c'sle head, killing five men. At least you could do something with a gun. 'Beggar it, anyhow! Here you are ninety feet in the air, staring at nothing save bloody stupid water. Well, you have to amuse yourself some way.'

'Hey ho! Hey ho!' Rochdale looked down. There was the relief almost on top of him. 'Seen anything?'

'Nowt! Not even a cotton-reel!' Rochdale said. 'Better luck to you, but don't forget to call us if you feel a bump. I sleep like an ox.' As he stepped down on to the deck he was confronted by a soldier.

'I say!' Rochdale exclaimed. 'What's up! Have you transferred?' It was Williams dressed up in soldier's uniform.

'I'm going below,' he said. 'O'Grady and Turner are already down there. We've got a Crown and Anchor board, are you coming?'

'I've already said "no"!' replied Rochdale. 'I'm going to my bunk. To sleep. If you fellers get caught you'll know about it.'

Williams laughed, showing his dirty, greenish teeth.

'They've got money. They'll never have a chance to spend it. Besides, we'll make money. Like Walters. And think of Salonika. Wouldn't you like to sleep with the Queen of Greece? Now's your bloody chance, man.'

'Hell!' said Rochdale, and went on to the fo'c'sle.

The heat put him off his food. He drank some lime-juice. The fo'c'sle was crawling with bugs, flies buzzed. Not a breath of wind. If one could open a port – but that was impossible, with the damned lead-lights screwed down. Half the watch off were absent. Down below with the others. Making their little bit. Well, the war was a cake-walk with some people. But he wasn't in on it, no, not even the thought of a bloody pub after the war was over, not even that would tempt. He had his nine-pounds-ten a month. The soldiers had a bob a day. And Williams wants all the bobs he can get. Well, he could have them. He undressed. The starboard watch came in, said, 'Hallo Rochdale', one after the other – one collected cigarettes, another a pipe, another took a sip at the lime-juice. They drifted out again. Rochdale had just climbed into his bunk when there was a terrific clanging of the bell, followed by A.10's whistle. 'All hands out! All hands out!'

'W
HO
is the mail-man this trip?' Rochdale was asking. Dog-watch in the fo'c'sle.

'We can't be far off
Anywhere
and that's where we're going, my lucky, bloody lads, for they're jabbing 'em like hell with the needle. Three cheers for the Salvation Army!'

'I say, does anybody know who the mail-man is this trip?' asked Rochdale.

'They're having a swell dinner to-night. Celebrating, I suppose. Old man will be there, too, and all the officers and the engineers. Walters has lost a pound in weight already. "And they'll take the Pen-in-su-la. The bloody Pen-in-su-la!" Lord Jesus Christ! I thought I heard a shot then, but perhaps it's Mr. Walters breaking wind. This day will certainly break his heart. Well, my lucky lads, bunko for bloody me!'

'Who the hell's taking the letters on this goddam boat? Has the postman fallen down the lavatory or something? I say, who's the goddam mail-man?' Rochdale asked, one voice against many. 'Have you all gone bloody deaf?'

'Did you hear about the dozen in hospital aft? Got the fever! Christ! I'd hate to be a bloody soldier. You get jabbed with a needle, whether you like it or not, and then you sit calmly on your behind and watch your arm swell.'

'Who's collecting the bloody letters this trip? One of you indifferent swines?'

'I heard we're going straight through with these fellers and we'll be covered by half the bloody Navy and then they'll go ashore, and jolly good luck to them, and then we're off to Honolulu for a health trip. Cheer, boys, cheer. You can't beat the bloody war, and those two sods, Vesuvius and Williams, are coining money. Bare-faced bastards they are and no mistake. Oh, boy, there won't be a short time for anybody before you get to Marseilles on the home run. That stinking, pox-ridden town. Good night!'

'So nobody knows who's collecting the mails this – you indifferent lot of bastards – nobody knows,' and Rochdale immediately got up and went out of the fo'c'sle. It almost looked as though he had been put in Coventry. But he hadn't really. Laughing, he went down the alleyway to the petty.

'And that's where you are then – you sly pair of kids! So that's where you are. My dear bloody friends, you can only do one thing in this place. Your duty.'

'Shut your damned mouth – can't you see he's trying to count?'

Vesuvius stood menacingly over the squat figure of the special look-out. '
 
'Ear him! And listen to the lovely click, click, click. A judy in every port, Rochdale, aren't you sorry you're married?'

Rochdale sat down beside them. The man Williams was so preoccupied counting money that he was quite unaware of the look-out man's entrance. He hadn't heard a word – the only sound of which he was conscious was the money he was counting into his filthy palm. 'Three-thirteen and a tanner. How's that? Not so bad says I to myself, says I. All in an hour. D'you know, Vesuvius' – pause – 'why hello, Rochdale! Blown down from the mast or something?' – pause – 'd'you know, Vesuvius, there's a feller down there now in B deck, he's got fever, too. They say it's this bloody 'noculation. I don't know, mind you – but, goddam, he's got the swellest pair of boots I ever saw on any man's feet! Marvellous boots. I asked him if he'd sell them to me, they won't be much use to him after a couple of days, but he wouldn't, he
was
stubborn, silly sod, but he lost five bob on the sergeant-major. They'll shift him aft now, I guess. Well, Rochdale, my old barnacle, how's the old body standing up to it all, at all, at all.' He put the money in his pocket and sat down. There was a strong draught coming through the lavatory door. 'Oh! come! come! Rochy, don't look so miserable! We're having a wonderful time. This war's velvet, no doubt about it. And I like those sods down there! Always bloody well cheery, even when they're losing money. That's the spirit, I say. But you earn what few bob you win. What with those M.P.'s and the bloody fox Walters, you earn it.'

'We don't want to louse round here long. Here, Rochdale, you keep douse a minute. Be a swell for once.'

Begrudgingly Rochdale said, 'Oh, all right! But your days are coming, you pair of bloody swindlers.'

He went out. Laughs from the others. Rochdale stood in the alleyway looking aft. He heard movements in the lavatory. 'Don't be all night changing, either,' he called in. 'There's the bell gone.'

'We heard it.'

Mr. Williams, quartermaster of a hospital-ship and now reduced as the result of a night's drunk to be a common sailor aboard A.10, was busy changing his clothes. He was wearing the uniform of a rifle-regiment, whilst his companion Vesuvius was just removing his lance-corporal's coat. Where they had obtained these uniforms nobody really knew, though there was a strong rumour that both outfits were legacies from one of H.M. late hospital-ships, and the source of Mr. Williams's and Vesuvius's spare-time income whilst engaged in transporting troops to the Dardanelles. How they managed to move about unnoticed amongst the troops, armed with the tools of their trade, only they themselves knew. The ship didn't interest them – they never gave a thought to the war – was there a war really on? – nor the officers, nor the crew – they were only interested in carrying out their allotted tasks and after that they were free men, free to do what they liked, and what they liked were troops – troops and money. They now came out of the lavatory dressed in their ordinary sailor's clothes. 'Thanks, Rochdale.' They went up the alleyway. They passed the open door of Mr. Tyrer's room. The bosun saw them. He looked enquiringly at his mate.

'I wonder what those tykes are up to?'

'Playing mothers with the troops. What else! You're not blind.'

'It's not right,' the bosun said.

'You couldn't stop them! Hang it all, Jack. You'd do the same yourself, only you and I are respectable. We have an anchor on our jackets. It doesn't worry me much. So long as they do their work properly I'm not going to interfere. A lot of thanks you'd get for being peeping-Tom for the bloody Government.'

Mr. Tyrer laughed. 'Navy, sir,' he cautioned. 'Navy, not Government.'

The raised voices of Vesuvius and Williams could be heard in the fo'c'sle. Rochdale heard them, too, and the high-pitched voice of O'Grady, the almost sepulchral one of Turner. But he didn't mind about that. It didn't mean anything to him. The only thing that meant anything was the mailman. Would it be one of the P.O.'s? He didn't know. The mail-man's identity seemed as mysterious as the present destination of A.10. Yes. Where all those fine-looking chaps were going. God love them. Watching them he often asked himself questions. What they thought about it all? The trip, the excitement of not knowing what was coming next. That was the bloody fun of the thing, he supposed. He had got pally with one or two youngsters. One from London, one from Devon, a farmer's boy, an accounts-clerk. Well, they were just one with the others now – God! The decks were a bloody mess. Still, he'd seen it worse. He often looked up at the bridge. The distance between bridge and fo'c'sle seemed that of a whole world. He walked down amongst the soldiers, watched some playing nap, stood looking at a tall, stout soldier, all by himself, looked a bit lonely, too. Went on till he came to the alleyway by the well-decks. And there he bumped into the second steward. They were strangers. The second steward's name was Hump. And that was all Rochdale knew about him. He retraced his steps. Pulled up outside the bosun's room. 'Hello, Bosun! Taking it easy, eh?'

'Come in, Rochdale, come in, lad,' said Mr. Tyrer. Rochdale stepped in, and sat down. 'I've been asking in there for the last half-hour who the mail-man was this trip. Hanged if I could find out!'

'Walters, the chief steward, takes all the mail now. New orders. And he censors them, too. If you put one more kiss in than necessary, plump into the waste-paper basket with your letter.'

'Well, well, is that so,' drawled Rochdale, 'thanks for the information, anyhow. Mine's full of damp squibs. So he won't need to worry over mine. Heard anything lately, bos?' He began to smile. Everybody's attitude seeemed leisurely, devil-may-care. A.10 was running plump into the danger zone, but nobody seemed to mind. This two-hour day-watch was two hours grabbed from the cock-eyed world, two hours in which men could at least feel they were themselves and not the cogs in the machine. Rochdale was full of questions.

'No! I don't! In fact I never have – and I've made a few secret journeys in my time. Only this morning I touched Ericson – young slobberer. He said he didn't know and even if he did what was the good of telling me, of talking about it at all? Strike me for a bloody goddam bosun, they're all living on their nerves up on that bridge. Don't you worry, my lad. Last time it was stinking bloody mules from Yonkers – and the froggies in their white coats came aboard and promptly shot half of the poor beggars. They don't know how to run this blasted war, Rochdale; you have to have a sense of humour. They haven't got one. Now those lads down below, they have, but they know nothing, so they can't run it, can they? Ah, well. I have two sons. One's a bosun now just like myself and he's got a bit of a swelled head. The other's in a repair shop at Rallos. I'd sooner see them dead than see them where these fellers are. And now scoot because I'm clearing out. I'm going aft on a bit of business. My mate here, he reads all the papers, he'll tell you all you want to know.' And without another word or a glance at Rochdale he left the room.

But the bosun's mate seemed chilly.

Rochdale too stepped out and went back into the fo'c'sle. Somehow or other unless you were really working time weighed heavily on your hands. One washed and shaved, put on a clean shirt and jersey, all dressed up for a walk round the decks. There were cards, tall stories and dirty ones, and Rochdale didn't gamble and he thought the stories as flat as hell. Well, until it was time he might as well sink into his bunk. There one could lie and think about anything or nothing, or fall asleep, and wake to the same world, the same sounds as lulled one to sleep, A.10's engines' powerful throbbing, A.10 threshing water, the clatter of tins, pails and accoutrements, snatches of song, bells, whistles. Rochdale shut all this out and thought of Annie. It was nice to think of Annie and Rosie and the shop. It was a sort of anchorage – one could always come back there, to safe anchorage. But he could not drown out the voice of Williams from Llanelly. He had a tongue miles long, but the Welsh were all talkers, like the Irish. O'Grady, for instance. But suddenly and without warning a greater voice, a harsh shrieking non-human voice, broke upon his ears. He held his breath! There was complete silence in the fo'c'sle. Men looked at each other, the unspoken question on the lips, an awed silence, and the strident voice called, '
ALL
HANDS
OUT
.
THE
BOATS
.'

'It must be a sub,' somebody was saying, when the voice of the bosun roared up the alleyway. 'All out! All out there! And shake your merry bloody legs. "Squint-eye's" seen a packet somewhere! Hurry up for Christ's sake.'