The Cruel Sea (1951) (47 page)

Thank God it wasn’t
his
worry, anyway. He had a particular worry of his own.

The convoy was ‘north-about’ – that is, it was routed past the coast of Scotland, between the Isle of Lewis and the mainland, through the troubled, tide-ridden water of the Minches, and then westwards from Cape Wrath towards the open sea.

They sailed past the Isle of Man, and the smug neutrals of Ireland, and the Lowland Scottish hills: the Bristol portion of the convoy joined them, and then the Clyde contingent: a day and a night passed, and they were steaming northwards through the last of the sheltered water before they made their turn westwards. But ‘sheltered’ did not mean much, where the Minches were concerned: this stretch of narrow sea between Stornaway and the Scottish coast was one of the wildest anywhere round Britain, an uneasy area with swirling currents, violent overfalls, and, at the northern end, the ceaseless swell of the Atlantic coiling in to set up a wicked cross sea at any state of the tide. Ships here were never still, sailors here were never easy:
Compass Rose,
with her convoy, was moving past one of the loveliest meeting places of sea, sky, and land in the world – past a brave seacoast with the sunlight sparkling on its fringe of breakers, past whitewashed cottages at the heads of lochs, and lighthouses and beacons standing guard at their entrance, past royal purple hills with the first snow of winter already lying on their peaks:
Compass Rose
had this to look at, this to enjoy, and all that her company could think about was the prospect that the ship, harried by this wilful sea, would roll so far in one direction that she would be unable to make a recovery towards the other.

It had never happened yet; but they had already learned that, in war, there was a first time for everything.

Presently, however, when towards evening they came level with Cape Wrath, the awkward motion subsided, and the noise of their passage changed to a steady threshing as
Compass Rose
turned westwards with the convoy and headed for the main Atlantic. Just before nightfall, a rain squall blotted out the craggy and forbidding cliff which would be their last sight of land for many days.

Now they were setting out again: leaving the Island, and facing the tiredness, the nerve strain, the huge question mark of the journey: taking it all on again, confronting once more, with a possessive hatred, the things they had got used to, the ordeal they understood.

It was very cold within sight of Iceland:
Compass Rose,
running south-westward past the frozen coastline after delivering four ships independently to Reykjavik, had a rime of bitter frost all over her upper works. The watch on deck, stamping their feet and blowing through numbed lips, stared indifferently at this strange island, on which the pale afternoon sun glinted as upon an iced cake left by the kitchen windowsill. It looked just as Iceland ought to look – no more, no less: it had plenty of snow, it had black cliffs and white mountains and a broad glacier. It did not seem to repay them for the many extra degrees of cold involved in approaching near enough to take a peep.

At four o’clock Ericson came up to the bridge, checked their position, and rang down for increased speed. The diversion had put them a long way astern of the main body of the convoy, and he wanted to catch up before midnight, if possible.

It grew colder still as night fell.

The torpedo struck
Compass Rose
as she was moving at almost her full speed: she was therefore mortally torn by the sea as well as by the violence of the enemy. She was hit squarely about twelve feet from her bows: there was one slamming explosion, and the noise of ripping and tearing metal, and the fatal sound of seawater flooding in under great pressure: a blast of heat from the stricken fo’c’sle rose to the bridge like a hideous waft of incense.
Compass Rose
veered wildly from her course, and came to a shaking stop, like a dog with a bloody muzzle: her bows were very nearly blown off, and her stern was already starting to cant in the air, almost before the way was off the ship.

At the moment of disaster, Ericson was on the bridge, and Lockhart, and Wells: the same incredulous shock hit them all like a sickening body blow. They were masked and confused by the pitch-dark night, and they could not believe that
Compass Rose
had been struck. But the ugly angle of the deck must only have one meaning, and the noise of things sliding about below their feet confirmed it. There was another noise, too, a noise which momentarily paralysed Ericson’s brain and prevented him thinking at all; it came from a voice-pipe connecting the fo’c’sle with the bridge – an agonised animal howling, like a hundred dogs going mad in a pit. It was the men caught by the explosion, which must have jammed their only escape: up the voice-pipe came their shouts, their crazy hammering, their screams for help. But there was no help for them: with an executioner’s hand, Ericson snapped the voice-pipe cover shut, cutting off the noise.

To Wells he said: ‘Call
Viperous
on R/T. Plain Language. Say—’ he did an almost violent sum in his brain: ‘Say: “Torpedoed in position oh-five-oh degrees, thirty miles astern of you”.’

To Lockhart he said: ‘Clear away boats and rafts. But wait for the word.’

The deck started to tilt more acutely still. There was a crash from below as something heavy broke adrift and slid down the slope. Steam began to roar out of the safety valve alongside the funnel.

Ericson thought: God, she’s going down already, like
Sorrel.

Wells said: ‘The R/T’s smashed, sir.’

Down in the wardroom, the noise and shock had been appalling; the explosion was in the very next compartment, and the bulkhead had buckled and sagged towards them, just above the table they were eating at. They all leapt to their feet, and jumped for the doorway: for a moment there were five men at the foot of the ladder leading to the upper deck – Morell, Ferraby, Baker, Carslake, and Tomlinson, the second steward. They seemed to be mobbing each other: Baker was shouting: ‘My lifebelt – I’ve left my lifebelt!’ Ferraby was being lifted off his feet by the rush, Tomlinson was waving a dishcloth, Carslake had reached out above their heads and grabbed the handrail. As the group struggled, it had an ugly illusion of panic, though it was in fact no more than the swift reaction to danger. Someone had to lead the way up the ladder: by the compulsion of their peril, they had all got there at the same time.

Morell suddenly turned back against the fierce rush, buffeted his way through, and darted into his cabin. Above his bunk was a photograph of his wife: he seized it, and thrust it inside his jacket. He looked round swiftly, but there seemed nothing else he wanted.

He ran out again, and found himself already alone: the others had all got clear away, even during the few seconds of his absence. He wondered which one of them had given way . . . Just as he reached the foot of the ladder there was an enormous cracking noise behind him: foolishly he turned, and through the wardroom door he saw the bulkhead split asunder and the water burst in. It flooded towards him like a cataract: quickly though he moved up the ladder, he was waist-deep before he reached the top step, and the water seemed to suck greedily at his thighs as he threw himself clear. He looked down at the swirling chaos which now covered everything – the wardroom, the cabins, all their clothes and small possessions. There was one light still burning underwater, illuminating the dark green, treacherous torrent that had so nearly trapped him. He shook himself, in fear and relief, and ran out into the open, where in the freezing night air the shouting was already wild, the deck already steep under his feet.

The open space between the boats was a dark shambles. Men blundered to and fro, cursing wildly, cannoning into each other, slipping on the unaccustomed slope of the deck: above their heads the steam from the safety valve was reaching a crescendo of noise, as if the ship, pouring out her vitals, was screaming her rage and defiance at the same time. One of the boats was useless – it could not be launched at the angle
Compass Rose
had now reached: the other had jammed in its chocks, and no effort, however violent, could move it. Tonbridge, who was in charge, hammered and punched at it: the dozen men with him strove desperately to lift it clear: it stuck there as if pegged to the deck, it was immovable. Tonbridge said, for the fourth or fifth time: ‘Come on, lads – heave!’ He had to roar to make himself heard; but roaring was no use, and heaving was no use either. Gregg, who was by his shoulder, straining at the gunwale, gasped: ‘It’s no bloody good, Ted . . . she’s fast . . . It’s the list . . .’ and Tonbridge called out: ‘The rafts, then – clear the rafts!’

The men left the boat, which in their mortal need had failed them and wasted precious minutes, and made for the Carley floats: they blundered into each other once more, and ran full tilt into the funnel guys, and shouted fresh curses at the confusion. Tonbridge started them lifting the raft that was on the high side of the ship, and bringing it across to the other rail; in the dark, with half a dozen fear-driven men heaving and wrenching at it, it was as if they were already fighting each other for the safety it promised. Then he stood back, looking up at the bridge where the next order – the last order of all – must come from. The bridge was crooked against the sky. He fingered his life jacket, and tightened the straps. He said, not bothering to make his voice audible: ‘It’s going to be cold, lads.’

Down in the engine room, three minutes after the explosion, Watts and E.R.A. Broughton were alone, waiting for the order of release from the bridge. They knew it ought to come, they trusted that it would . . . Watts had been ‘on the plate’ when the torpedo struck home: on his own initiative, he had stopped the engine, and then, as the angle of their list increased, he had opened the safety valve and let the pressure off the boilers. He had followed what was happening from the noise outside, and it was easy enough to follow. The series of crashes from forward were the bulkheads going, the trampling overhead was the boats being cleared away: the wicked downhill angle of the ship was their doom. Now they waited, side by side in the deserted engine room: the old E.R.A. and the young apprentice. Watts noticed that Broughton was crossing himself, and remembered he was a Roman Catholic. Good luck to him tonight . . . The bell from the bridge rang sharply, and he put his mouth to the voice-pipe: ‘Engine room!’ he called.

‘Chief,’ said the Captain’s faraway voice.

‘Sir?’

‘Leave it, and come up.’

That was all – and it was enough. ‘Up you go, lad!’ he said to Broughton. ‘We’re finished here.’

‘Is she sinking?’ asked Broughton uncertainly.

‘Not with me on board . . . Jump to it!’

D plus four minutes . . . Peace had already come to the fo’c’sle; the hammering had ceased, the wild voices were choked and stilled. The torpedo had struck at a bad moment – for many people, the worst and last moment of their lives. Thirty-seven men of the port watch, seamen and stokers, had been in the mess decks at the time of the explosion: sitting about, or eating, or sleeping, or reading, or playing cards or dominoes; and doing all these things in snug warmth, behind the single closed watertight door. None of them had got out alive: most had been killed instantly, but a few, lucky or unlucky, had raced or crawled for the door, to find it warped and buckled by the explosion, and hopelessly jammed. There was no other way out, except the gaping hole through which the water was now bursting in a broad and furious jet.

The shambles that followed was mercifully brief; but until the water quenched the last screams and uncurled the last clawing hands, it was as Ericson had heard it through the voice-pipe – a paroxysm of despair, terror, and convulsive violence, all in full and dreadful flood, an extreme corner of the human zoo for which there should be no witnesses.

At the other end of the ship, one peaceful and determined man had gone to his post and set about the job assigned to him under ‘Abandon Ship Stations’. This was Wainwright, the leading-torpedoman, who, perched high in the stern which had now begun to tower over the rest of the ship, was withdrawing the primers from the depth-charges, so that they could not explode when the ship went down.

He went about the task methodically. Unscrew, pull, throw away – unscrew, pull, throw away. He whistled as he worked, a tuneless version of ‘Roll out the Barrel’. Each primer took him between ten and fifteen seconds to dispose of: he had thirty depth-charges to see to: he reckoned that there would just about be time to finish . . . Under his feet, the stern was steadily lifting, like one end of a gigantic see-saw: there was enough light in the gloom for him to follow the line of the ship, down the steep slope that now led straight into the sea. He could hear the steam blowing off, and the voices of the men shouting further along the upper deck. Noisy bastards, he thought, dispassionately. Pity they hadn’t got anything better to do.

Alone and purposeful, he worked on. There was an obscure enjoyment in throwing over the side the equipment that had plagued him for nearly three years. The bloody things all had numbers, and special boxes, and checklists, and history sheets; now they were just splashes in the dark, and even these need not be counted.

Someone loomed up nearby, climbing the slope with painful effort, and bumped into him. He recognised an officer’s uniform, and then Ferraby.

Ferraby said: ‘Who’s that?’ in a strangled voice.