‘Is he conscious?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘No. I’ve had to dope him pretty thoroughly. That’s the trouble: if I go on doping him he’ll die of it, and if I let him wake up there’s enough shock and pain to kill him almost immediately. That’s why it’s no good.’ Again the simple tone seemed able to imply an infinity of skill and care, which had proved unavailing.
‘I won’t bother, then.’ The phrase sounded callous, but he did not bother to qualify it: he was suddenly impatient to leave this antiseptic corner, and get to work on the ship. She, at least, was still among the living: no dope, no ordered deathbed for her. He had skill and care of his own sort ...
As he came out on the quarter-deck he checked his step, for there, arranged in neat rows, which somehow seemed a caricature of the whole idea of burial, were the sewn-up bodies which he must later commit to the deep. Nineteen of them: three officers and sixteen men. There had not been enough ensigns to cover them all, he noted: here and there three of them shared one flag, crowding under it in a pathetic last-minute symbolism … Adams, who had been waiting for him, straightened up as he emerged. He had only been bending down to adjust one of the formal canvas packages; but the Captain had a sudden ghoulish fancy that Adams had been giving it the traditional ‘last stitch’ – the needle and thread through the nose, by which the sailmaker used to satisfy himself that the body he was sewing up was beyond doubt that of a dead man. The Captain looked away, and up at the sky. It was full light now: a grey cold day, the veiled sun shedding the thinnest watery gleam, the waste of water round them reduced to a long flat swell. The passing of the storm, or some lull in its centre had brought a windless day for their respite.
Chief, who had waited behind in the engine room, now joined them, and together the three men crossed the upper deck towards the fo’c’sle. The Captain led the party, picking his way past the bloody ruin of ‘X’ gun, and the men who were at work cleaning up. He was conscious of them looking at him; conscious, for example, that Leading Seaman Tapper, not an outstanding personality, had this morning assumed a new, almost heroic bearing. As the only leading seaman left alive, he was already rising to the challenge … With the coming of daylight all these men had won back what the stoker, working and waiting below decks, still lacked: hope in the future, confidence in themselves and the ship. ‘The ship is your best lifebelt’ – a phrase in his Standing Orders for damage control returned to him. By God, that was still true; and all the men up here trusted and believed it.
Presently they were standing on the fo’c’sle by ‘A’ gun. From here the deck, buckled and distorted, led steeply downwards, till the bullring in the bows was not more than three or four feet from the water: and even allowing for this downward curve of the deck Marlborough must be drawing about twenty-eight feet instead of her normal sixteen. Obviously, the first essential was to correct this if possible: not only to ease the pressure forward when they started moving, but also to bring the screws fully underwater again.
The Captain stepped forward carefully till he was standing directly over the explosion area: there he leant over the rail, staring down into the water a few feet away. From somewhere below an oily scum oozed out, trailing aft and away like some disgusting suppuration; but of the wound itself nothing could be seen. Unprofessionally, he was glad of that: it was sufficiently distressing to note the broad outlines of Marlborough’s plight on this cold, grey morning, without being confronted with the gross details. He realized suddenly that this must now be treated as a technical problem, and nothing more, and after a quick look round the rest of the fo’c’sle he turned back to the Chief and Adams.
‘I’ve got three ideas,’ he said briskly. ‘You may have some more … For a start, we’ll get rid of as much as possible of this’ – he tapped one of the lowered barrels of ‘A’ gun, askew on its drooping platform. ‘It wouldn’t be safe to fire them anyway, so we can ditch the barrels – and even the mounting itself if we can lift it clear.’
‘The derrick can deal with the barrels, sir,’ said Adams. ‘I don’t know about the rest.’
‘We’ll see … Then there are the anchors. We can either let them run out altogether, with their cables, or else let the anchors go by themselves, and manhandle the cable aft as a counterweight. What do you think, Chief?’
‘The second idea is the best one, sir. But without steam on the windlass we can’t get the cable out of the locker.’
‘We’ll have to do that by hand.’ The Captain turned to Adams again. ‘We’ve still got one of those weapons, haven’t we? – the ratchet-and-pawl lever?’
‘Yes, sir. It’s a long job though.’
‘I know.’ They had once had to weigh anchor by this archaic method, a long time ago, bringing in the cable link by link, half a link to each stroke of the lever, which needed four men to operate it. It had been an agonizingly slow process, taking nearly six hours and everyone’s temper. Now they would have to do it to each cable in turn … ‘But it’s worth it, to get some of the weight aft. Then there’s the windlass itself. If we pull it to pieces and use a sheer-legs to lift the heavy parts, we might get rid of a lot of weight that way.’
The Engineer Officer nodded, rather abstractedly. It would be his job later to account for all this, item by item, in triplicate at least, and the whole thing was a horrid distortion of the principles of storekeeping. But he put the thought to one side, and produced an idea which must have been professionally more acceptable.
‘I was wondering about the forepeak, sir,’ he began. ‘You know we’ve kept it flooded for the last two trips, to balance the weight of those extra depth charges aft. We can’t pump it out now, because the suction line is broken. But if we took this cover plate off’ – he pointed to the small plate screwed to the deck, right up in the bows – ‘and made sure the compartment was still isolated, we could pump it out by hand. That would give us some buoyancy just where we need it.’
The Captain nodded quickly. ‘Good idea, Chief. You’ll have to go carefully, though, in case the bulkhead’s gone and it’s all part of the explosion area. By the way, what’s the fuel situation going to be, with all this part isolated?’
‘Oh, we’ll have plenty, sir, especially if we’re only steaming on one boiler. We’ve still got the two big tanks aft.’
‘Right ...’ He looked out at the sea again, and then at his watch. It was nearly nine. ‘I’ll read the burial service in half an hour, Adams, if you’ll have everything ready by then. Then you can make a start on the weight-lifting programme – the gun first, and then the anchors. Can you spare any stokers, Chief?’
‘Maybe two, sir.’
‘The fresh air will be a nice change for them ...’
His spirits were rising.
But there was nothing artificial, no formal assumptions of mourning, in what he felt half an hour later, as he opened his prayer book, gave ‘Off caps’ in a low, almost gentle voice, and prepared to read the service. All that remained of his ship’s company stood in a rough square on the quarter-deck: at their feet the nineteen bodies, in their canvas shrouds, seemed like some sinister carpet from which they could not take their eyes. There were altogether too many of them: barely did the living outnumber the dead, and if the men in the fo’c’sle were reckoned the living were only curious survivals of a vanished time … That pause in the service, when he said, ‘We do now commit their bodies to the deep,’ and then waited, as the burial party got to work and the nineteen bodies made their successive splashes, their long dive – that pause seemed to be lasting forever.
The men in the stained sea boots and duffle coats stood silent, their hair ruffled, watching the bodies go: flanking him, the doctor and the Chief completed the square of witnesses. The rough canvasses scraped the deck as they were dragged across; the bodies splashed and vanished; the ship rolled, and all their feet shifted automatically to meet it; a seaman coughed; the silence under the cold sky was oppressive and somehow futile. He himself, with an appalling clarity of feeli
ng, was conscious of cruel loss. These had been his own men: to see them ‘discharged dead’ in this perfunctory, wholesale fashion only deepened the sense of personal bereavement which was in his face and his voice as he took up the reading again.
When it was done he put the book away and faced his ship’s company: in their expression, too, was something of the wastage and sadness of the moment. It was not what he wished to dwell on, but he could not dismiss it without a word: that would have been as cruelly artificial as using the dead men to whip up hatred, or additional energy for the task ahead. It was no time for anything save sincerity.
‘I shall never need reminding of this moment,’ he began, ‘and I know that is true for all of you too. We have lost good men, good shipmates, and there are many more whom we cannot even reach to give them a proper burial. We can’t forget them, any more than we can forget the three officers and sixteen men we’ve just seen over the side. But,’ he raised his voice a little, ‘one of the hardest things of war is that there is never any spare time to think about these things, or to mourn men like these as they deserve. That has to come later: there’s always something to do; and in this case it’s going to be the toughest job any of us has ever undertaken. I may as well tell you that I nearly gave the order to abandon ship last night: for the moment the weather has saved us, and we must do our utmost to profit by it. I’m not going to hold out too much hope: but if the weather holds, and the bulkhead, which is taking most of the strain, doesn’t collapse, and if I can correct the trim, we stand a good chance of getting in – or at least of going far enough south to meet other ships.’ He smiled. ‘You can see there are a lot of “ifs” about this job. But it would be a hundred times worth trying, even if our lives didn’t depend on it. I myself am going to do my utmost to get this ship in, and I’m counting on every man to back me up. Remember there are only thirty-one of us altogether, and that means a double and triple effort from each one of you … We’ll stand easy now, and then get to work. And keep this idea in the back of your minds: if we do get Marlborough in, it will be the finest thing any of us have ever done.’
He wanted to say more: affected as he had been by the burials, he wanted to dwell on this aspect of sacrifice, and on Marlborough as a measure of its validity and as something dear to them all. But he was afraid of sounding theatrical: better perhaps to leave it like this, a challenge to their endurance and seamanship, and look to the outcome.
When he returned to the bridge he took out the deck-log and began to make an entry concerning the death and burial of his men. It was while he was adding the nineteen names and ratings that he noticed it was morning of New Year’s Day.
Chapter Three
All that day they lay there, the ship’s only motion a sluggish rolling. But within her the movement and the noises were cheerful. The ditching of ‘A’ gun barrels and the greater part of the mounting was easy: the breaking and moving of the anchor cables a long-drawn-out effort which lasted well after dark. But the cables, hauled in sections along the upper deck and stowed right aft among the depth charges, made an appreciable difference to their trim: so did the jettisoned windlass, which disappeared overboard bit by bit, as in some mysterious conjuring trick. (It was too heavy and unwieldy to move aft.) But the pumping out of the forepeak (the triangular section which makes the bows) was the most successful of all. It acted as a buoyancy chamber where it could exert the most leverage, and it brought the bows up cheerfully. Altogether, by the time the programme was fulfilled, the draught forrard had improved to twenty-four feet, and the screws aft were deep enough to get a firm grip of the water. Of course, she would steer like a mongrel waving its tail: but that wouldn’t matter. There was no one watching.
One curious accident attended the lightening process. As Marlborough’s draught forrard began to alter decisively, two bodies, released by some chance movement of the hull, floated out from the hole in the port side. They drifted away before they could be recovered: they were both badly burned, and both sprawling in relaxed, ungainly attitudes as though glad to be quit of their burden. The Captain, looking down from the bridge, watched them with absorbed attention, obsessed by the fancy that they were a first instalment of the sacrifice which must be paid before the ship got under way. He heard a rating on the fo’c’sle say: ‘That second one was Fletcher – poor bastard,’ and he felt angry at the curt epitaph, as if its informality might somehow weaken the magic. He could not remember having had thoughts like that since he was a small boy. Perhaps it was the beginnings of feeling really tired.
For him it had been a long day, and now at dusk, with the prospect of another night of drifting, he felt impatient to put things to the test. He had been all over the ship again: he had seen the midshipman and two ratings who were also dying: he had looked at the radio set (from which the leading tel. had at last stood back and said: ‘It’s no good sir – there’s too much smashed’), he had made a third examination of the bulkhead, where they had been able to insert another shore and a felt-and-tallow patch, to take up the slack as the pressure on it relaxed. He had directed the work on the cables, Adams being busy on ‘A’ gun. Now he had nothing to do but wait for Chief’s report from the engine room: the hardest part of all. He had the sky to watch, and the barometer, low but steady; and that was all. The main ordeal still lay ahead.
It was nine o’clock in the evening before the Engineer Officer came up with his report: the Captain was sitting in the deserted wardroom aft, eating the corned beef hash which was now their staple diet and remembering other parties which this room had witnessed, when there were eight of them, with Number One’s wife and Guns’ fiancée and one of the Mid’s colourful young women to cheer them. Now the dead men and the mourning women outnumbered the living: no charm, no laughter could enliven any of the absent … Impatiently he ground a half-smoked cigarette into his plate, cursing these ridiculous thoughts and fancies, unlike any he could remember, which were beginning to crowd in on him. There was no time to spare for such irrelevancies: he had one supreme task to concentrate on, and anything else was a drain on energy and attention alike.
Chief came in, shedding a pair of oily gauntlets, looking down apologetically at his stained white overalls.
‘Well, Chief?’
‘Pretty good, sir.’ He crossed to the pantry hatch and hammered on it, demanding his supper. Then he sat down in his usual place at the foot of the table, and leant back. ‘The switchboard’s done, and they’re working on the dynamo now: it had a bad shake-up, but I think we’ll manage.’ He was obviously very tired, eyelids drooping in a grey, lined face. The Captain suddenly realized how much depended on the man’s skill. ‘I’ll be flashing up when I’ve finished supper.’
‘How long before we can steam?’
‘Can’t say to the nearest hour, sir. It’ll be some time tomorrow, unless we run into more snags. There’s the boiler room to pump out, and a lot of cleaning up besides. It’ll only be one screw, I’m afraid. The other’s nearly locked; the shaft must be badly bent.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Bridger came in with the Chief’s supper, and for a little while there was silence as he ate. Then, between bites, he asked: ‘How’s the midshipman, sir?’
‘Pretty nearly gone. God knows what keeps him alive. His chest’s in an awful mess.’
Chief looked round the room, and said, ‘It’s funny to see this place empty.’
There was silence again till he had finished eating. They shared the same thoughts, but it was less discomforting to leave them unspoken. Bridger, coming in with the Chief’s coffee, broke the silence by asking the Captain: ‘Will you be sleeping down here, sir?’
‘No, in the asdic hut again.’
‘Will you see Petty Officer Adams, sir?’
‘Yes. Tell him to come in.’
There was a whispering in the pantry, and Adams came in cap in hand. ‘Same routine tonight, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Adams. Two look-outs, and the signalman on the bridge.
I’ll be in the asdic hut.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Things seem to be going all right. We should get going some time tomorrow.’
Adams’s severe face cracked into a grin. ‘Can I tell the hands, sir?’
‘Yes, do.’ The Captain stood up, and began to put on his duffle coat. ‘How about some sleep for you, Chief?’
The Chief nodded. ‘As soon as I’ve finished up, sir. There’ll be a bit of time to spare then.’ Relaxing, with coffee cup in hand, he looked round the wardroom. ‘New Year’s Day, I wish we had the radio. It feels so cut off.’
‘With luck you’ll have your bedtime music tomorrow.’ He went out, stepping over the dozen sleeping men who crowded the alleyway, and made his way forward to the bridge again. With luck tomorrow might bring everything they were waiting for.
The sea was still calm, the glass unwaveringly steady.
He awoke suddenly at five o’clock, startled and uneasy. For a moment he puzzled over what had disturbed him: then he realized gratefully what it was. The lights had come on, and the little heater screwed to the bulkhead was glowing. It meant that the dynamos were now running properly, and the switchboard, which the Chief had been reserving for the engine room circuit, was able to deal with the full load. With a surge of thankfulness almost light-headed, he got up and went over to the side table. On it lay a chart and pair of dividers, ready for a job which, impelled by yet another of those queer fancies, he had sworn not to tackle until this moment had arrived. The course for home … He took out his pencil and prepared to calculate.
The only mark on the chart was Pilot’s neat cross (too damned appropriate) marking their estimated position when the torpedo struck them, with the time and date – 1630/31/12. From this he started to measure off. Distance to Clyde – 520 miles. Distance to the nearest of the Faeroes – 210 miles, and nothing much when you got there. Distance to the nearest point of Britain – the Butt of Lewis, 270 miles. And just round the corner, another thirty miles or so – Stornoway … That was the place to make for, he knew. It had no big repairing facilities, but it would be shelter enough, and they would be able to send tugs to bring them the rest of the way home. Stornoway – 300 miles. Say three knots. A hundred hours. Four days. Good enough.