The Cruel Sea (1951) (75 page)

‘On, sir!’ said Raikes.

‘Slow astern, both!’ Ericson called out, and then, as
Saltash
gathered gentle sternway, enough to lay out the cable in a straight line on the sea bottom, he said: ‘Stop both . . . Let go!’

Allingham raised his hand in acknowledgement, and repeated the order to his leading-hand. There was a clunk as the stopper was knocked off, and the anchor plunged down with a rattle and a roar, waking the echoes all round them, making the seabirds chatter and cry. The ripples spread, and faded:
Saltash
came to a stop, tugging gently.

‘Got her cable, sir!’ Allingham called out to the bridge.

Ericson drew a deep breath, stretching a little under his duffle coat. That was all . . . Over his shoulder he said: ‘Ring off main engines.’

Though the rest of the upper deck had long been deserted, Lockhart was not surprised to find Ericson up on the bridge: the big figure, looming suddenly out of the darkness, did not startle him at all. He might have guessed where the Captain would be, at this closing hour . . . Ericson turned when he heard his step, and said: ‘Hello, Number One,’ as if he too were unsurprised. They stood side by side in the cold darkness, saying nothing for a space, sharing the moment of relaxation and the grateful calm round them.

It was still early evening, but by now it was almost dark; the moon was already entangled in the rigging, and one by one the shore lights were coming on – the stars of peace, the first lights since the beginning of the war. The edge of the loch could be seen, and the shadowy hills above it: astern of them, the clutch of U-boats lay silent and immovable – solid black patches on the restless water. Outside their sheltered haven the wind moaned, as if still greedy for
Saltash,
and in the far distance the cruel sea beat and thrashed at the entrance to the loch.

Lockhart knew why they were standing there together, leaning against the side of the bridge under the frosty open sky, though he was not sure that the moment could be adequately honoured. They were there because it was the last day of the war they had shared: the Atlantic battle was done with, and secretly they wanted to review it, even if it were by vague allusion only, even if no word were spoken. It was a time to draw the threads together – but perhaps, thought Lockhart, there were too many threads to this story: perhaps there was too much to be said, and to say it would entail a foolish babbling which the moment did not deserve . . . But then this man, for whom he had such an enormous affection, would not babble, would not cheapen.

‘Five years, it’s taken,’ said Ericson suddenly. ‘Getting on for six . . . I wonder how far we’ve steamed.’

‘I added it up for
Compass Rose
,’ said Lockhart, grateful for the lead. ‘Ninety-eight thousand miles . . . But I never did it for
Saltash.
It seemed to be unlucky.’

The noises of the ship rose vaguely to them: as was usual in harbour, somewhere a radio was playing, somewhere a small wave curled and broke against their hull, somewhere a heavy-stepping quartermaster made his rounds. Now the U-boats, the black shadows with no more fear in them, were caught in the track of the moon, and held there for their pleasure.

‘I wish some of the others could have seen this,’ said Lockhart, presently. ‘John Morell. Ferraby.’

Ericson nodded. ‘Yes, they deserved it.’

Lockhart, drawing some lost names from the shadows of his mind, murmured aloud: ‘Tallow. Leading-Seaman Phillips. Wells.’

‘Who was Wells?’ asked Ericson.

‘The yeoman in
Compass Rose.’

‘Oh yes . . .’

‘He used to say to his signalmen: “If you get worried, just sing out and I’ll be up straight away”.’

‘This is the time that you miss them.’

‘M’m . . . But perhaps there are really too many people, to remember them properly. The names are just labels, in the end. Young Baker. Rose. Tonbridge. Carslake. All those chaps in
Sorrel.
And the Wrens we lost, on that bad Gibraltar convoy.’

‘Julie Hallam,’ said Ericson suddenly, trying it for the first time.

‘Yes, Julie . . .’ For Lockhart’s surprised heart, a twinge, and then nothing again. Perhaps, after a year, she really slept now, and he as well. It had been much the same with
Compass Rose:
there must be a special kind of war memory – showing mercy in fading quickly, drowning for ever under the weight of sorrow.

‘You didn’t get any medals,’ said Ericson inconsequently. ‘But I did my best for you.’

Lockhart smiled in the darkness. ‘I can bear it.’

‘You deserved something, Number One.’

‘I can still bear it . . . Remember when we had that lunch in London, and I said I wanted to stay with you in
Saltash?
’

‘Yes. Made a lot of difference to me.’

‘Same here.’

One thread, at least, was tied: one of the things they had not been going to say was happily said after all.

Ericson sighed again. ‘And we only sank three U-boats. Three, in five years.’

‘We worked hard enough for them, God knows.’

‘Yes.’ Ericson brooded, leaning heavily against a corner of the bridge where he must have spent many hundreds of hours. Out of the deep dusk he said – and after sixty-eight months it was still a shock to hear him use the words: ‘I must say I’m damned tired.’

Hermanus, Cape Province – Johannesburg, Transvaal

April 1948 – May 1950

Published by House of Stratus

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