The Cruel Sea (1951) (2 page)

Those were trivialities, anyway. Perhaps the real trouble had to do with this precise moment of history, the start of a war. Ericson had been just too young to be closely involved in World War I: now he was secretly wondering if he were not too old to play a worthwhile part in the second round of the same struggle. At the moment he had, as his novel responsibility, a new job, a new ship, and a new crew. In theory he was proud of them all; in practice, he was unsure of the ordeal and concerned about his fitness for it.

He felt remarkably out of practice . . . Ericson had been axed from the Navy in 1927, after ten years’ service: he had been on the beach for two hard years, and then spent the next ten with the Far East Line, feeling himself lucky all the time (what with the depression and Britain’s maritime decay) to have a seagoing job at all. He loved the sea, though not blindly: it was the cynical, self-contemptuous love of a man for a mistress whom he distrusts profoundly but cannot do without. Far East Lines had been a tough crowd: progress was slow, with the threat of dismissal always poised: in ten years he had only had command of one ship, an old two-thousand-ton freighter slowly pounding herself to bits on the Dutch East Indies run.

It was not a good introduction to responsibility in war. And now here he was, almost masquerading as Lieut.-Commander G. E. Ericson, with one of His Majesty’s ships of war to commission, a crew of eighty-eight to command, and a hundred things in the realm of naval routine to relearn, quite apart from having a fighting ship to manoeuvre and to use as a weapon.

A fighting ship . . . He raised his eyes from the interminable office boy job of checking stores, and looked at
Compass Rose
again. She was odd, definitely odd, even making allowances for her present unfinished state. She was two hundred feet long, broad, chunky, and graceless: designed purely for anti-submarine work, and not much more than a floating platform for depth-charges, she was the prototype of a class of ship which could be produced quickly and cheaply in the future, to meet the urgent demands of convoy escort. Her mast, contrary to Naval practice, was planted right in front of the bridge, and a squat funnel behind it: she had a high fo’c’sle armed with a single four-inch gun, which the senior gunnery rating was at that moment elevating and training. The depth-charge rails aft led over a whaler-type stern – aesthetically deplorable, but effective enough at sea. Ericson knew ships, and he could guess how this one was going to behave. She would be hot in summer – there was no forced draught ventilation, and no refrigerator – and cold, wet, and uncomfortable at most other times. She would be a natural bastard in any kind of seaway, and in a full Atlantic gale she would be thrown about like a chip of wood. And that was really all you could say about her – except that she was his, and that, whatever her drawbacks and imperfections, he had to get her going and make her work.

The crew he was less worried about. Both the discipline and the habit of command instilled by the Royal Navy died very hard: Ericson knew that he had them still. All things being equal, he could handle those men, he could make them do what he wanted – if he knew himself. The flaw might be in the material he would have to work on: in a rapidly expanding navy, a new ship’s company was likely to be a scratch lot. The advance guard of a dozen key ratings had already arrived, to take charge in their various departments – gunnery, depth-charges, asdic, telegraphy, signalling, engine room. As a nucleus, they were satisfactory: but the numbers might be made up, and the gaps filled, by anything from professional hard cases just out of Detention Barracks to green ‘hostilities-only’ ratings fresh from the farmyard. And his officers – a First Lieutenant and two subs – could make a hash of anything he might want to do with the ship . . .

Ericson frowned again, and then stopped frowning. Whatever his doubts, they were not to show: that was a cardinal rule. He was a seaman: this was a seaman’s job, though it didn’t feel like it at the moment. He bent to his desk again, wishing he could develop some sort of a taste for paperwork: wishing also that his First Lieutenant, whose work incidentally should have included the file in front of him, was a slightly more reassuring character.

Lieutenant James Bennett, R.A.N.V.R. (the ‘A’ for Australia), First Lieutenant of
HMS Compass Rose
, strode round the cluttered upper deck as if he owned every rivet of it, with Petty Officer Tallow, the coxswain, following him at a disrespectful distance. Bennett looked tough, and knew it, and liked it: everything about him – the red face, the stocky figure, the cap worn at an unusual angle – all proclaimed the homespun sailorman with no frills and no nonsense. That was the picture he had of himself, and with luck it was going to carry him through the war: certainly it had got him his present job, aided by fast talking and a selection board preoccupied with more important things than sifting claims about past exploits.

Chance had found him in England at the outbreak of war, instead of clerking in a shipping office in Sydney: his commission in the Volunteer Reserve was undeniable: the rest had been easy – an anti-submarine course, an interview in London, and the job of First Lieutenant in
Compass Rose.
It wasn’t
all
that he wanted – too much paperwork, for a start, though the subs would take care of that as soon as they arrived; but it would do until something better turned up. And meanwhile he was First Lieutenant of this little crap barge, and he was going to act the part.

‘Coxs’n!’

‘Sir?’

Standing by the four-inch gun, Bennett waited for Tallow to catch up. It took a little time, for Petty Officer Tallow (seventeen years in the Navy, three stripes, due for Chief P.O. any moment now) was feeling disgruntled. This certainly wasn’t what he had volunteered for – a fiddling bloody little gash boat instead of a proper ship (his last ship had been
Repulse
)
,
a First Lieutenant like something out of the films, and Christ knows what sort of a ship’s company due to join next week. But Tallow, like the Captain, was a product of the Navy, which meant, above all, acceptance of the current job and the current circumstances: only in the subtlest ways (and none of them destructive) would he indicate that this sort of thing was
not
what he was used to.

As Tallow came up: ‘This man,’ said Bennett heavily, pointing to the rating who was working on the four-inch gun, ‘is smoking during working hours.’

Tallow restrained a sigh. ‘Yes, sir. Not working proper routine yet, sir.’

‘Who says not?’

The seaman under discussion surreptitiously disposed of his cigarette, and bent to his task with extraordinary concentration. Tallow tried again. ‘I was going to leave it until we had the full ship’s company aboard, sir.’

‘That makes no difference,’ said Bennett briskly. ‘No smoking except during Stand-Easy. Understand?’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

‘And don’t you forget it.’

Jesus, thought Tallow, what sort of a country is Australia . . . Following once more in the First Lieutenant’s wake, he sank a little deeper into resignation. This bastard was all wind, and the only other officers were two green subs (he’d had a glance at the scheme of complement). Barring the Captain, who was OK, it looked as if he’d have to carry the bloody ship himself.

The door of the dockside hut flapped open, letting in a ferocious draught. The Captain looked up, and then turned in his chair.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘And shut the door very firmly.’

The two young men who stood before him were, physically, in strong contrast with each other, though their uniforms, with the single thin wavy stripe on the arm, gave them a surface similarity. One of them, the elder one, was tall, black-haired, thin-faced: he had a watchful air, as though feeling his way in a situation which only needed a little time to fall into its proper category, alongside hundreds of other situations which he had dealt with competently and effectively in the past. The other one was a simpler edition altogether: short, fair, immature – a very young man in a proud uniform, and not yet sure that he deserved the distinction. Looking at them, Ericson suddenly thought: they’re more like father and son, though there can’t be more than five or six years between them . . . He waited for one of them to speak, knowing well which of them it would be.

The elder one saluted and said: ‘Reporting for
Compass Rose,
sir.’ He proffered a slip of paper, and Ericson glanced at it.

‘You’re Lockhart?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’re Ferraby?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘First ship?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Lockhart answered, as the natural spokesman. ‘We’ve just come up from
King Alfred.’

‘How long were you training there?’

‘Five weeks.’

‘And now you know it all?’

Lockhart grinned. ‘No, sir.’

‘Well, that’s something, anyway.’

Ericson looked at them, more closely. They were both very smart: number one doeskin jackets, gloves, gas masks – they might have stepped straight out of the
Manual of Training.
They had talked of this question of dress, on the long journey up from the South Coast to the Clyde: their orders had been endorsed ‘Report to Admiral Superintending Contract-Built Ships’, and it had seemed politic to dress the part . . . The Captain, in his old serge working jacket with the faded gold lace, seemed theatrically shabby by comparison.

After a pause, Ericson asked: ‘What was your job in peacetime?’

‘Journalist, sir,’ said Lockhart.

The Captain smiled, and waved his hand round the room. ‘What’s the connexion?’

‘I’ve done a lot of sailing, sir.’

‘M’m . . .’ He looked at Ferraby. ‘What about you?’

‘I was working in a bank, sir.’

‘Ever been to sea?’

‘Only across to France, sir.’

‘We might find that useful . . . All right – take a look at the ship, and report to the First Lieutenant – he’s somewhere aboard. Where’s all your gear?’

‘At the hotel, sir.’

‘It’ll have to stay there for a bit – we won’t be sleeping on board for a week or so.’

With a nod, Ericson turned back to his desk. The two young men saluted, somewhat uncertainly, and made for the door. As Ferraby opened it, the Captain said, over his shoulder: ‘And by the way, don’t salute me indoors when I haven’t got a cap on. I can’t return it. The proper drill is for you to take your cap off when you come in.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Lockhart.

‘It’s not vital,’ said Ericson. They could hear the friendliness in his voice. ‘But you might as well get it right.’

When they had gone, he paused for a moment before returning to work. Journalist . . . bank clerk . . . trips to France . . . sailing . . . It didn’t sound very professional. But they seemed willing, and the older one, Lockhart, had some common sense, by the look of him. You could do a lot with common sense, at sea. And you could do precious little without it . . . He picked up his pencil again.

Lockhart and Ferraby walked across the dock and then paused, looking up at the ship. They saw her with different eyes. Lockhart could, to a certain extent, appraise her lines and her design: to Ferraby she was entirely novel, in every detail, and this, like a lot of other things, worried him. He had been married only six weeks: saying goodbye to his wife two nights previously, he had confided once more his uncertainty, his doubt about what he had taken on. ‘But darling,’ she had said, with that loving smile which he found so moving and so beautiful, ‘you can do
anything.
You know you can. Look how happy you’ve made
me
.’ It was illogical, but it was very comforting all the same. Everything about their marriage was like that. They were just getting over their shyness together, and finding the process singularly sweet.

Ferraby had said goodbye to a new wife: Lockhart had said goodbye to nothing. He had answered ‘Journalist’ to the Captain, but he was not at all sure he deserved the title. He was twenty-seven: for six years he had scratched a living, freelancing in and around Fleet Street: it had taught him a lot, but it had not given him an ounce of security or a moment’s freedom from worry. He was not even sure that that was what he wanted, in any case. He had no parents living, he had no ties: the only woman he had taken leave of had said: ‘Why ever didn’t we do this before?’ as he climbed out of bed and into his uniform, in the cold London dawn. That had been symptomatic of his whole life: uncertain, impermanent, shifting in emphasis and intensity. He had joined up because there was a war: he had joined the Navy because he knew about ships – small ships, anyway – and could navigate. Now he felt happy, and free, and confident; and he liked the change.

Ferraby, pointing, said: ‘What’s that wire thing tacked on to the mast?’

‘Some radio gadget, I suppose . . . Let’s go aboard.’

They crossed the rough plank that served as a gangway, and jumped down onto the deck. Here and there it was still rimed with frost, and a hundred things were lying about it – oil drums, tool boxes, welding gear, oddments of equipment. There was loud hammering from a dozen places, and somewhere up in the bows a riveting machine was making a prodigious racket. Lockhart led the way aft, and they looked at the depth-charge gear – a replica of what they had worked on at the training establishment: then they went below, and presently found themselves in the cabin space. There were only two cabins, one with a single berth labelled ‘First Lieutenant’, and a tiny wardroom: the whole thing was cramped and full of awkward corners.