A low growl of “Amen” rose from the ranks of sailors, and Arthur Hallet found in his mind the words of another prayer which, not long ago, it had been his duty to read to his men:
“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the sea…”
Over each peaceful ship in the harbour, a Church Pendant hung motionless in the still, hot air. The sea lay flat, blank-faced, hiding its million secrets.
Arthur Hallet knocked on the door of the Cuddy, heard the loud “Come in!”, placed his cap under his left arm and turned the door handle with his right hand.
“Gin or sherry, Hallet?”
“Gin, thank you, sir.” The Staff Officer, Operations, was there with Captain Meadows.
“‘Morning, Arthur.”
“Hello, Stinky.” He used the nickname under his breath. If Captain Meadows had discovered that his S.O.O. was commonly known as Stinky, that officer would never have heard the end of it. As things were, he had very little peace. Meadows was a big, florid man: he looked the conventional country squire, but that part had been allotted many years ago to his elder brother. He was a popular Captain (Submarines), as popular with the sailors as with their officers: his loud voice, powerful physique and even stronger language had endeared him to them all. Over and above that, he had a wide and accurate knowledge of his job, and a shrewd insight into the makings of a man. For a stranger it took a little time to learn these truths, since his bluff, sailor-like appearance and address gave a first impression of a man who was a bit of an old fool. Meadows was no man’s fool.
“Plymouth, Hallet,” he observed, pointing to the gin bottle as his steward poured out the liberal measure that he had been taught to pour. “Lots of chaps say that Plymouth isn’t what it was, but I can’t drink anything else. Pink?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Well, Hallet, first of all I’ve to tell you that you’ve got a bar to that D.S.O. You’ve earned it. Shut up, you young ass. I hope to get a D.S.C. for your Number One and your Chief, and we may manage a Mention for young Ferris. By the way: I’ve had a complaint about him, from some woman called Compton, in Kandy. But we’ll talk about that another time. With any luck we’ll get a decent allocation of medals for your Ship’s Company: not a word, of course, until I’ve got it on paper.”
The S.O.O. began to murmur congratulations, but Meadows cut him short.
“Now, Hallet, where’ll we send you this time? Somewhere nice and quiet, for a rest?”
“I don’t think that ‘d do any of us any good, sir. I’d like – may I make a suggestion, sir?”
“What the hell do you think I asked you for?”
“Well, sir, we can find our way through that minefield, now. There’d be some targets lower down.” Meadows grinned broadly, took a sip at his gin.
“What do you think, S.O.O.? Send him down to make a shemozzle off Malacca, eh?”
“I think it’s a good idea, sir, so long as he comes out straight away when he’s shown he’s down there. Can’t get caught hanging around in that alley.”
“All right. Fix it. Steward! Fill these officers’ glasses. And mine… here’s to you, Hallet.”
Half-past nine: Sub, in Seahound’s Wardroom, was busy with some official correspondence: there was more to be dealt with, and tonight, when he was Duty, was the time to get it done. But to hell, he thought, there are lots of duty nights to come. He shoved the papers back into their cardboard folders, slid the folders into a converted gas-mask locker. He had a new Peter Cheyney story that had arrived in the last post: he pulled it out of his drawer, settled himself in a corner and began to read about Slim Callaghan and the women with long shapely legs and lots of money. This was undiluted escapism. They didn’t fall like that, not in real life: you had to fight for them, one way or another.
He put the book down, wondered what the noise was about. That was Shadwell’s voice: “Why, y’little pimp, I’ll kick y’ flippin’ –—— up y’ flippin’ –——!” Feet rushing, shouts, Rogers shouting, “Ar, shut it, Shaddy, for flip’s sake!” A thud, more angry voices, a roar from Bird: “Stow it, y’ silly bastards!” A series of bangs that sounded like a man’s head being thumped on the deck. The Sub leapt out of the wardroom, ran for’ard: where in hell was the Duty Petty Officer?
In the for’ard compartment, half-a-dozen men were fighting on the deck. Three of them were trying to hold down Shadwelclass="underline" it took only one to hold the telegraphist, who was evidently the cause of the big torpedoman’s displeasure.
“Get up, and stop that Goddamned row!”
The Sub was dwarfed when Shadwell, obeying the order, flung two men off his back and rose to his feet. The telegraphist, a man named Barney Rookes, stood panting heavily, his back to the bulkhead door. The Sub stood between them: he noticed a galley knife in the telegraphist’s hand.
“Drop that knife, Rookes.”
“I wasn’t going to use it, sir. I just ‘ad it in me ‘and.” Rookes’ mouth was split and bleeding.
“Drop it.” The knife clattered on the iron deck under the torpedo racks.
Shadwell growled, “Like flip you wasn’t goin’ t’ use it, yer dago bastard!”
“That’s enough from you, Shadwell. Bird, where’s the Duty P.O.?”
“Went inboard, sir. To fetch something.”
“Go and get him. Rookes, go and wait in the Control Room.”
“I didn’t start it, sir.”
“I didn’t say you did. Go aft.” The telegraphist lurched away. Chief Petty Officer Rawlinson dropped through the hatch. Sub moved out of the compartment, beckoned him. He walked aft as far as the Petty Officers’ Mess.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Went up to the Mess, to get this book, sir.”
“You know damn well you’ve no business to leave the boat without my permission.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Shadwell and Rookes were fighting. Find out what it was all about, and report to me in the wardroom.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
The Sub sat down at the wardroom table, cursing quietly. Now both men would have to come up as defaulters: there was enough to do, enough to worry about, without this sort of thing.
Rawlinson reported. The telegraphist had knocked into Shadwell, who was writing a letter. Shadwell had cursed him, told him that just because he never wrote letters to his whore at home there was no call to go buggering up other people’s letters. Rookes had assumed the term “whore” to have been applied to his wife. He had grabbed the knife, which had been lying on the lockers, and had flung himself on Shadwell.
Shadwell said that he hadn’t even known that Rookes had a wife. All he knew was that the bastard had a lot of pictures of naked women stuck up all over the Wireless Office: he didn’t like Rookes, he said, and he reckoned that he’d bumped into him on purpose. Then Rookes had attacked him with a flippin’ great knife, and he, Shadwell, had only defended himself.
“All right. Bring them up now. Rookes first.”
He walked into the Control Room, heard Rawlinson bark, “Telegraphist Rookes: get y’ cap!”
One at a time they came before him: Rawlinson ordered, “‘Shun! Off cap!” and read the charge.
“Anything to say?”
Each told his story, Rookes bitter, conscious of his battered face, Shadwell innocent and apparently shocked at the other man’s rough behaviour.
“First Lieutenant’s Report,” snapped the Sub. Tomorrow morning they would see Number One, who would either deal with the matter himself or, if he thought the case more serious, pass it on to the Captain. Sub wondered if he couldn’t save everyone a certain amount of trouble: he called the two men together, unofficially.