Hollow Sea (20 page)

'Shut the starboard door, Mr. Hump,' Walters said.

He shut it and then walked down the galley and stood by Mr. Walters. The various smells were wafted from the galley through the port door, wafted right down the alleyway, into the 'tween-decks. Soldiers still hungry smelt them, the tired steward, now mopping up in B deck pantry, smelt them, but he didn't take much notice of them. He thought of only one thing. 'Bed!'
 
'Whiskers and sweat' was washing his hands in a bucket. He talked to the steward. 'They must have bought that cheese from Poland.'

Why Poland?'

'I dunno.'

'Silly bloody fool! Well, that's that and I'm off, thank Christ! Been going it since half-past three this morning. Give me ordinary human beings every time. These soldiers would eat you alive if you were flung on the table to them. And Walters is getting fatter, the sod. Good night.'

He left the pantry. Went right aft, turned left, descended the ladder. He flung himself on the bed, without undressing, covered himself up and fell fast asleep. Others slept, too. They would be up again soon. For white-coats it was on your toes all the time. The glory-hole was filled with an incessant noise as of churning. They slept over A.10's screws. When she lifted, they made a terrible din in the glory-hole, but not loud enough to wake the sleeping stewards. Only thunder, thunder in the glory-hole, could do that. The bugle called for dinner. It was a very fine dinner but it meant nothing to them. The other pantry steward came down. He had red hair, very curly. He sat on a form, listless. After a while he too turned in. Soldiers had had their tea. Their duty was finished. Officers were having their dinners, and stewards, luckier ones, would lick the plates, eat the scraps left from the feast. About midnight certain overhead noises, the heavy tread of feet, voices which somehow drowned out even the churning of the screws, woke some of them. One steward sat up in his bunk, said, 'God blast these bugs.'

He dressed himself and went out. He heard the voices very clearly, the moving feet. He went up the ladder. He came out on the stern-deck. The voices were above him. He looked up. It was very dark, bright stars shone down. His thin fair hair became tousled by a wind that had sprung up, his thin white jacket was open. Hands in pockets, shivering a little, he looked up. What was all the noise, anyhow? In any case he could never sleep for the bugs and the stink of pipes, he would go on the poop. He had half climbed the ladder when he stopped suddenly, saying, 'Oh hell! Coffins! Of course! Those dead chaps.' He looked through the rails. Why, of course, they were burying them at eight bells. He felt cold, but still stood on the ladder watching. No lights anywhere. Figures moving about in the darkness. He saw faces. Yes. There was the first officer, and four sailors, and yes, one of those army chaps. And there were the canvas bundles lying very still on two hatch-coverings. 'Christ!' he said, and stood very still, listening.

'Stand by, Bosun,' Bradshaw said. He stood behind the canvasses, the bosun and sailors behind him. Vesuvius was there. He chewed tobacco, eyes upon the dead. O'Grady was beside him. Silence. Silence shrouded them, a lone rating stood by the flagstaff. The ensign was bent on. The flag would go up, then down. Dip in salute. Bradshaw was reading. Reading from memory.

'Now,' the bosun said. And the hatch-cover was lifted up, rested on the rail, two men holding it and two spares, one on either side to push when the order came. For'ard, amidships, beneath their very feet men slept, lay awake, staring in the darkness, smoked, talked to each other. Captain Percival, drunk, sang himself to sleep. The wind came over the poop, touching them. They stood silhouetted against the sky. The sailors watched Mr. Bradshaw, and as the fish in the sea, so – what was he saying? – 'I commend this body to the deep.' And they raised the hatch-cover, the canvas bundle slithered, seemed for a moment to pause, they raised the hatch-cover still higher and it slid down, making a harsh scratching sound against the wood, catapulted into space, a loud splash. They lifted the second one on to the wood now. Paused. Bradshaw spoke again. They raised it up, it moved, sped, vanished. Another loud splash. The ensign fluttered, sank, rose again, fluttering. The waters closed over them. From the bridge, sounding like a tinkle of brass, came the bell. Half-speed. Full-speed! She was moving again.

'All right, Bosun. You can take the men for'ard. I'll have Walters send a tot of rum for'ard for the men. He's still available, I believe.'

'Much obliged, Mr. Bradshaw, sir,' the bosun said. They moved away slowly, clumsy in their movements, climbed the rail, descended the ladder. They went for'ard in silence. After a while Mr. Bradshaw followed. He went back to the bridge.

The rating folded the flag, put it back in the locker, and returned to his room. His mate snored. 'Gosh! You sleep like a pig,' he said. He sat down to read till four bells. He read about gunnery.

The steward still stood on the ladder on the weather side.

'Christ!' he said. 'How terribly lonely it makes you feel.' Then he went down to his bunk. He was soon asleep again.

All was shrouded in darkness. Life seemed hushed. Only the wash of waters, throb of engines. Lights flashing to port. To starboard the ever watchful destroyer. Upon the bridge Dunford, Ericson, Bradshaw. Deveney, recovering slightly, slept. Bradshaw and Dunford were deep in conversation. It wouldn't be Saturday after all – 'Unlucky Saturday' – it would be Sunday – Sunday. Three in the morning. There were three other ships coming up behind them. They would work under cover of NZ.11, the troops would in fact pass direct from ship to ship, whether they went ashore in rafts, boats, aeroplanes or even hansom cabs, didn't much matter now. No! Get them clear of the ship. Yes, and these fever cases, too! Every one of them. All clear! Their lives weren't worth a penny whilst they had a single soldier on board. Bradshaw listened, very attentively.

'Do you know where we proceed after this?' asked Mr. Bradshaw.

'Yes. So far as I know we make for Alexandria and board more troops. That's our job, Bradshaw, from now on – I think it is. In these times it's unsafe to harbour an opinion more than a day. But I know this, and you know it also, Bradshaw, though your sensitive nature is for the moment appalled, that there is a bay towards which we are slowly drawing, a bay with a wide stretch of sand running like the mouth of a great funnel into an island valley. Not a nice valley, but still, and these soldiers are going, by raft and tender, and about here, probably early to-morrow, we'll come in contact with the real thing. We'll see plenty of cruisers here, Bradshaw. I'll give them credit for that much intelligence. Light cruisers. The water's shallow. The beach isn't very big, Bradshaw. I've studied it, about three hundred yards wide. The current is very strong about there. But you haven't been in these parts before, have you? You were lower down last time. Well, never mind, let's wish each other the best of luck. I'd like to wish everybody the best of luck, Mr. Bradshaw, those men below, those ashore, yes, and those who have also paid for the idiocy – yes, sir, the idiocy' – Dunford became wildly excited – 'the idiocy of those who might have known better. God! We are only carrying children! Children! Well—' and his voice trailed off altogether. He began walking up and down the bridge. Agitation, the old restlessness was beginning, and that thought of life and waste, and the indifference.

'Mr. Bradshaw, I am going below for an hour. Send for me if the slightest unusual thing happens.' He went away, hands to his head. He had a splitting headache. The anxiety! That's what it was. The anxiety. He left Bradshaw to the control, and to certain memories of his that came shooting up as he thought over what Dunford had said. Let me see. There were landings near De Totto Battery, at Beach X, at Beach W, at Morto Bay. How long ago it all seemed. Like centuries. Ghosts. Unspeakable ghosts. When he looked ahead he saw a shape. That would be the
Hartspill.
They would lie on her stern quarter in the morning. Wait again. Perhaps whilst those responsible tried to remember the last order they had given. Well, he'd better laugh. Laugh it into oblivion, and get oneself ready for eventualities big and little, comic or tragic, useful or useless. He went to Ericson. He half lay over the bridge, elbows resting upon it, head in his hands.

'What are you thinking about?' asked Bradshaw. He nudged him.

'Nothing,' Ericson said, without moving.

'Well, that's a healthy sign, anyhow. Listen, when we get to Alex, we must go ashore and have a beano. A damn good tuck in. And we'll see one of those priceless shows they stage there.'

'Will we?' Ericson said. 'Oh, that'll be fine. Hurry up, war. Hurry up, Alexandria,' he said, laughing.

'E
VENIN
', mates.' These two words were smothered and lost in the concourse of sounds that whirled about the hold. 'Evenin', mates.' The speaker stood leaning against a stanchion, legs spread apart, hands in his pockets. He gave a short laugh. Hee, hee! And said again: 'Evenin', mates.' He looked round. Everywhere faces. Bunks creaked, men talked, water ran from traps, tins rattled. In a corner somebody sang. The man against the stanchion said, 'And what about the lucky old sergeant-major, mate? What say?' He laughed. Hee, hee!

Soldiers sat in groups talking, some lay flat, a sickly yellow light shone down on them. He stood watching them, saying nothing. Some were writing letters. Others were going through packs, making inventories of their belongings. Some were isolated, prisoned in dark corners. But the man against the stanchion did not notice them. He was listening now. Listening very intently, for he thought he heard a voice, a well-known voice, talking, punctuating this with laughter. Suddenly he moved away, walking aft, and stopped by a ladder. There was a man standing there. He seemed to be studying his feet, he stared at them so intently. He was not one with the others, he was adrift.

'Listen, cancer-face, I thought you were keeping douse in this bloody joint!' The speaker shook the man. He seemed to be drunk. 'What's the matter with you? I thought you were keeping douse.'

The man addressed made to move into the light but the other pushed him back. 'Goddam, don't you know that fox is on the next deck? I heard him. Vesuvius, or Mr. Bloody Herring, whatever you like to call yourself, this is the last chance we'll have. These fellers are saying ta-ta bloody soon! I can't open up unless that sod clears out. I can hear him now. Laughing.'

Williams whispered in the other's ear. 'We've a chance of picking up a few quid. You know how the land lies. Well, poxy face, you can always get their temperature! It's the last night aboard. They won't give a hand. They'll lay like hell! But what are we going to do about Walters? He's stuck in that goddam pantry selling his muck to these fellers. Well?'

'I'll go along,' Vesuvius said. 'I'll get him out of here somehow.' He went away.

Williams walked back to B deck, leaned against the stanchion. Said: 'Evenin', mates. Anybody for the sailor's hook to-night?' He had a dice in his pocket. He rattled it in the match-box. Men sat up in bunks, looked across at him. When are we landing in Turkey?' one asked.

'Any old bloody minute, mate,' Williams said. 'And now's your chance to pick up something from the lucky old sergeant-major, and buy yourself Turkish cigars.' He withdrew the canvas sheet from his pocket and spread it out upon the iron deck. He said in a kind of frightened whisper: 'Come on, my lucky lads. The fireman's friend is lucky to-night.' He pointed with his finger to the square where the spade lay. But he did not see this – nor hear the murmurous sounds that rose and fell like a sea about him. He saw only Mr. Walters, heard his laugh. That was two bells. Nine o'clock already. Goddam! And they had to be on deck at twelve. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. Vesuvius had come back. He knelt beside Williams and, whilst affecting to flatten out the canvas, said in a low voice: 'Walters had gone up. I'm going to the ladder and I'll sit there for half an hour. Then I'm coming back.'

'Come on, my lucky lads, who's for the sailor's hook to-night?' He pushed Vesuvius aside, ignored him, looked up at the soldiers who one by one were coming forward, making a great circle round him. He took the dice from the match-box and shook it in his hand. 'Lay, my lucky bloody lads.'

Long faces, short faces, smiling, unsmiling, old, young, red, white like chalk, a confused patterning, but to the man kneeling at the board just one face. Somebody dropped sixpence on the club. 'Come on, for Christ's sake. Be a pauper or a millionaire, and goddam, in this joint you only got to die once.' He shook the dice. Only a single sixpence lay upon the canvas. He tossed the dice from hand to hand, threw it in the air, shook it savagely in his cupped hands. 'Come on now! Hang it, mates! It's your last chance.' More money fell, but he did not throw. He waited, looking up at them, into every face. 'Christ! Mates, this isn't a funeral.' They crowded round him. More money was thrown down. With a set face Williams threw the dice. Heart! Not a single coin lay upon the heart. 'Hard luck, soldier,' he said, and began gathering the silver and coppers, dropping them into his pocket. 'Ah! She's all right soon as she gets warmed up. Hey, what, my lads!' He began laughing then, in periodic bursts. 'Hee. Hee!' Pause. 'Hee. Hee!' The cluster swung, its light swung pendulum-like, flashed upon faces, transfigured them for a moment. Wind blew down the ventilator.

'Oh – my bloody leg!'

'Ha. Ha! Just listen to that beggar, Boles. Showin' his leg off to-night.'

Who's for the heart? Lucky old heart. Lay it down, my lucky lads. Thick and heavy! Thick and heavy! Turkish cigars for the brave, me lads!' Again he tossed the dice. Again there came to his ears the moan from the starboard corner. Voices rose in chorus there.

'Oo – Christ!'

'Come on for Jesus' sake! Soldier! This board never poisoned anybody. Who's for the lucky old heart? The lucky old bloody heart! Lay it down. And down she goes, my hearties!' He spat, rubbing this with his foot. 'Down she goes.' Heavy breathings of men, hands touching pockets, uncertainty written upon faces, and from the dark corner: 'Oh – bloody leg!'