The Cruel Sea (1951) (10 page)

But gradually they improved: they learned various tricks and idiosyncrasies of the ship and the asdic set, they learned to anticipate what a hunted submarine would do next, they learned when it was safe to guess and when it was essential to make sure before moving in any direction. Their wits sharpened, and their applied skill too. And finally there came a day when in the course of six successive ‘runs’
Compass Rose
picked up the submarine each time and held it right down to the mock ‘kill’: when indeed, the submarine, surfacing at the end of its last encounter after trying every device and every evasion, signalled to them: ‘You’re too good. Go away and try it on the Germans.’ At that moment of small triumph, it seemed a very good idea – and anything else a waste of energy. The time was very near when they would outgrow the schoolroom altogether, and insist on trying their armour on the adult world. They were confident that that armour would take a lot of denting. Even Chief E.R.A. Watts, when straight tackled, would admit that
Compass Rose
was running sweetly enough, and that his engines, at least, were proving themselves robust, tireless, and dependable. From Petty Officer Tallow there was now less talk of the glories of the
Repulse
: on a smaller scale,
Compass Rose
had won his affection.

There was one thing which did not improve, though they were busy enough to be able to ignore it most of the time: the situation in the wardroom. Ericson, watching his officers at work, was satisfied enough with their progress, from the professional angle: it was off duty, when they were isolated on board (there was nothing for them to do ashore, even when they braved the winter cold in search of distraction), that the bickering and the ill-humour started up again, taking the place of their working cooperation. It came to a head on one occasion, and he was forced to recognise it and to take action: he did so unwillingly, since discipline necessitated his admonishing the wrong man, but with the best will in the world he could not ignore a direct clash between Bennett and the other two.

It started with Ferraby: most things did: he was now established as the vulnerable element, the weak link that betrayed the rest of the chain. He tried hard enough, he was still eager to make a success of it: but that eagerness was blunted and poisoned all the time by the knowledge that, whatever he did, Bennett would find fault with it. Given any sort of encouragement, and an occasional word of approval, he might have measured up to the new standard of effectiveness which
Compass Rose
as a whole had reached – he was not stupid, by any means, he was adaptable and enthusiastic, he wanted above all to give of his best. But since this giving always met with the same reception, since whatever he did was wrong, and the fact was pointed out to him in the crudest terms, it was no wonder that he slipped deeper and deeper into a miserable hesitation. He grew to loathe and to fear that rough voice, which might at any moment call out ‘Ferrabee!’ and then pick to pieces whatever he was trying to do; and hesitation, loathing, and fear were not a compound which was of any use either to himself or to the ship.

Lockhart saw what was happening, and did his best to stand in the way of Bennett’s rougher attacks: it was this effort to shield Ferraby that led to an open rupture. It took place in the wardroom, one night when Ferraby, as Officer-of-the-Day, had come below again after Evening Rounds. Though he had been up to the bridge, he had forgotten to check their anchor bearings – a pure formality in this case, since there was no wind and in their sheltered harbour it would take a tidal wave to make
Compass Rose
drag her anchor; but Bennett, seizing the occasion as usual, had made it the subject of a prolonged and brutal tirade which Ferraby accepted without protest. When he was finally and contemptuously dismissed, and had left the wardroom, Lockhart, who had been a spectator, muttered something not quite under his breath. Bennett, who was standing by the sideboard pouring himself a drink, swung round.

‘What did you say?’ he snapped.

Lockhart came to a decision. ‘I said,’ he repeated more distinctly, ‘why don’t you leave him alone? He’s only a kid, and he’s doing his best.’

‘It’s not good enough.’

‘It would be if you gave him a chance.’

Bennett slammed down his glass. ‘That’s enough,’ he said roughly. ‘You keep out of it. I don’t have to argue with you.’

‘You don’t have to argue with anyone,’ said Lockhart moderately. ‘But can’t you see that it’s no good going on at Ferraby like that? It only makes him worse instead of better. He’s that sort of person.’

‘Then he’d better change, pretty quickly,’ sneered Bennett.

‘He’s doing his best,’ Lockhart repeated.

‘He’s not. He’s been no bloody use ever since I stopped him dipping his wick at Glasgow, and that’s been the trouble all along.’

Lockhart looked at him for a moment, and then said, with all the dispassion he could muster: ‘What a horrible man you are.’

Bennett suddenly stiffened, his whole body rigid with fury. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ he shouted. ‘By God, you’d better watch out, or I’ll land you in hell’s own trouble! I’ll see you stay a sub-lieutenant for the rest of the war, for a start.’

Lockhart, who had had the one extra drink which took him over the borderline of discretion, looked pointedly at the two rings on Bennett’s sleeve, and said: ‘I’m not sure I want to be a lieutenant after all.’

Bennett, now nearly beside himself, walked across the wardroom and stood over his chair. ‘One more crack like that, and I’ll report you to the Captain.’

‘Try it,’ said Lockhart. He was beginning to feel fatalistic about the outcome of the scene: it might be suicidal to keep on, but if he knuckled under now it would cancel out the whole stand he had made. ‘Try it,’ he repeated. ‘The Captain’s not
such
a bloody fool. I bet he knows how you treat Ferraby, at all events.’

‘He knows I treat Ferraby like that because Ferraby’s a lazy bastard who’s no bloody use to anyone.’ Bennett focused a venomous look on Lockhart’s face, daring him to counter-attack. ‘And that’s about true of you, too.’

‘It’s not,’ said Lockhart, stung out of his control at last. He abandoned caution. ‘We both do a damned sight more work than you, anyway.’

After which, there was really nothing to do but put on his cap and follow Bennett up to the Captain’s cabin. The respectful gaze of Leading-Steward Carslake, who had been an enthralled audience and who now came out of the pantry to watch the tense procession go by, was sufficient commentary on the seriousness of the clash. It seemed that only some vital exercise of authority could resolve it.

But the subsequent encounter in the Captain’s cabin was an odd one, and less conclusive than either Bennett or Lockhart had expected. Ericson listened while Bennett put his case – fairly enough, since he was on impregnable ground; but even on the admitted facts he could not really decide how to deal with it. He had been expecting something of the sort for quite a long time, and now here it was: Lockhart had been a fool not to keep his temper, Bennett had been his natural unpleasant self – and he, as Captain, had to find the right answer, with a strong bias towards the maintenance of discipline. But what sort of discipline did he want to maintain?

The ideal solution was to tell Lockhart to behave himself, and Bennett not to be so tough; but that did not quite square with King’s Regulations, and it was the letter of the law that had to be appeased. The next best thing was to find some negative ground on which to settle the matter, and he had an opening when Lockhart, in answer to a question about the origin of the row, said: ‘I think Ferraby gets a rough deal, sir.’

‘It’s not your concern whether someone else gets a rough deal or not,’ Ericson cut in briskly. ‘You’ve got your own job to do without worrying how the First Lieutenant treats his officers.’

‘I realise that, sir.’ Lockhart, standing formally to attention, was still sensitive to atmosphere, and he guessed the Captain’s dilemma; but having come so far he did not want the whole situation to melt away in vague generalisations about minding one’s own business. ‘But if you think a friend of yours is being unfairly treated, the natural thing to do is to try and help him.’

‘Is it?’ said Ericson ironically. ‘I should say that much the best plan was to keep clear of it, and let him work out his own salvation. Then we don’t get this sort of argument, and—’ he looked grimly at Lockhart, ‘argument between you and the First Lieutenant is something I’m not going to stand for.’

‘I know that, sir. I got a bit worked up, and—’ he was about to say he was sorry, but somehow he could not bring himself to form the words. Instead he finished: ‘I’m not trying to get out of the consequences. But I do think that this sort of treatment’ – he gestured towards Bennett – ‘is having an appalling effect on Ferraby. He just hasn’t an ounce of self-confidence left.’

Bennett, without looking at him, said: ‘I don’t want any lectures on how to treat Ferraby.’

Ericson glanced from one to the other – from Lockhart’s serious, determined face, pale under the electric light, to Bennett’s flushed self-confidence. Privately he thought: there’s no solution really – they’re just two unmixable people. Then he caught sight of his own face between them in the mirror: it was tough, square, a competent barrier between two opposing forces. He looked, in fact, a lot more convincing than he felt; he knew he was not handling this thing well, and it had to be handled perfectly, to dispose of it without a hangover. The trouble was that he was dog-tired. The cabin, with its portholes closed since ‘darken ship’ was piped five hours ago, was now stuffy and airless: they had had a long day at sea, and there was another one tomorrow. The Admiral’s habit of slipping aboard ‘to see how things were getting along’, without any more notice than the sight of his barge leaving the quay, was proving a constant source of irritation. Tonight, Ericson had not a great deal of energy left, and none at all for this sort of domestic upheaval.

But he made another effort, seeking to deal with the thing in black-and-white terms, without subtlety, disregarding the gross cleavage that lay in the background.

‘Now look here,’ he began, ‘this has gone far enough, and it’s not going to go any further. It’s bad for you, and it’s bad for the ship.’ He looked at Lockhart. ‘I’m not going to have you interfering like this in things that don’t concern you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Lockhart. On this basis, he was now ready to let it go: he had not won, but neither had Bennett – unless there was something more to come.

Apparently there was nothing more. ‘Remember that, then,’ said the Captain. ‘I don’t want to hear any more complaints about you, or I shall have to take some action – action you won’t like. Now just forget about the whole thing. There’s plenty to do, without this sort of scrapping.’

He stopped, and turned away: it seemed to be their dismissal. Bennett opened his mouth to speak, unable to believe that the matter was thus disposed of: what about the insolence, what about Lockhart’s cracks, what about the denial of authority? He could not leave it like this. But he did not want to start things up again with Lockhart listening: it needed a less formal approach. He said: ‘May I have a word with you, sir?’

Ericson, who had been expecting it, said: ‘All right, Number One.’ He nodded to Lockhart, who turned and left the cabin. ‘Well,’ said Ericson, a shade less cordially, ‘what’s the trouble?’

‘Sir,’ said Bennett, ‘I think Lockhart got away with it.’

Ericson, disregarding the temptation to answer: ‘I quite agree with you,’ which would have been nearer the truth, said: ‘You’ve got to make allowances, Number One. He’s a very new officer, and I think we’ve all been working pretty hard. It
was
a bit rough, I know, but I don’t think it will happen again.’

‘I’ve had a lot of trouble with Lockhart,’ said Bennett aggrievedly. ‘I hoped you’d pull him up, sir. He needs stamping on, good and hard.’

Ericson looked at him, tense and sweating in the close cabin, and thought: one of these days someone is going to hit you, and that means a court martial, all because you’re a tough character and have to show it all the time. He remembered a first mate rather like Bennett, back in the old days in the Far East Line: foul-mouthed, ready with his fists, never giving an inch of ground or a word of praise. He’d ended by killing his man – a Chinese seaman foolish enough to argue about some bad food. He’d got off with manslaughter, but that had been the end of him. On a less dramatic plane, Bennett might go the same way – or push someone else to it. There
were
people like that, doomed by their own intransigence, damned by their crudity: it was bad luck that one of them had landed up in
Compass Rose.

He said, shortly: ‘I want to avoid having to stamp on people as far as possible, Number One. There are other ways of getting them to work properly.’ He felt like adding something about Ferraby, and the need to treat him less roughly, but perhaps Bennett had had enough hints for one evening. Instead he said: ‘Give Lockhart a fresh start, and see what he makes of it,’ and then he turned away with a finality which even Bennett’s thick skin could not resist. This was a scene which might go on for ever: he had had enough of it.

When Bennett had gone, his face registering the protest which had scarcely been allowed to come to life, much less to develop properly, Ericson walked out of his cabin, parted the thick blackout screens at the entrance to the companionway, and stepped on to the upper deck. The fresh air, though bitterly cold, came as a welcome relief: the night was clear, the little harbour easily seen, the small waves slapping against the ship’s side an endless accompaniment to their vigil. He looked up at the sky: wispy clouds round the moon promised some wind later, but tomorrow’s weather seemed as secure as their anchorage. Round him the familiar shipboard sounds were reassuring: the hum of the dynamos, the noise of a gramophone from the fo’c’sle, the clumping of the quartermaster’s seaboots as he made his rounds farther aft – all these were part of a life and a moment he savoured to the full. Night in harbour, after a hard day’s work: there should be nothing to beat that.