Keeton felt the deck lift under his feet; he seemed to be whirling in space, helpless, unable to save himself; and then he was falling into a deep pit and something burst between his eyes in a cascade of stars. And after that blackness dropped over him as a snuffer might drop over the flame of a candle.
Chapter Three
The Trap
Keeton came to his senses with the impression of being suffocated. There was no light, and the air around him was close and heavy, impregnated with the distinctive odour of ammunition. Where he lay there was an inch or two of water and he seemed to be wedged in a kind of trough. It took him some minutes to reach the conclusion that the sides of this trough were in fact the steeply sloping floor of the magazine and the steel wall that rose from it at right-angles.
Keeton’s head throbbed with pain. He put a hand to his forehead and discovered a gash there, the blood still wet. He supposed that in falling he must have been struck by some sharp projection, possibly the corner of an ammunition box, and that it was this that had knocked him unconscious. He wondered how long he had lain there. He listened for sounds of gunfire and could hear none. He could hear no shouting either. From outside came only the sound of waves beating against the ship and of wind blowing rain and spray against the sides of the magazine. Lying there in the darkness he was seized by a feeling of panic that for a moment posssessed him utterly. Then he thought of Bristow. Bristow had been in the magazine with him at the time of the explosion; perhaps he was still there.
His voice sounded strange even to himself; it was little more than a croaking whisper.
‘Johnnie!’
He heard Bristow’s voice answering him at once, only a few inches away. It was sharp, high-pitched, but there was unmistakable relief in it.
‘God, Charlie, I thought you weren’t ever going to wake up. I been trying to wake you. I thought you must be dead.’
Keeton sat up with his head resting against the wall of the magazine. His head made a clamour of protest and there was a pain in his shoulder where the door had struck it. He felt Bristow’s groping hand touch his cheek.
‘I thought you must be dead‚’ Bristow said again.
‘How long have I been out?’
‘How long? I don’t know. How could I? Long enough. The door’s jammed. I been shouting. Nobody came. Nobody answered. I never heard nobody after that last shell hit us.’ The note of hysteria had crept into Bristow’s voice again. He clawed at Keeton’s shoulder as if to convince himself that he was not alone. ‘I believe they’re all gone. I believe they’ve left us.’
‘What do you mean — gone?’
‘Abandoned ship. Saving their own rotten skins. She’s sinking, ain’t she? And there’s been no firing for a long time now. That sub must’ve known we was finished, or maybe it got too dark for him to see us any more.’ Bristow’s fingers kneaded Keeton’s shoulder. ‘We been left behind. We can’t get out and we’ll go down with this filthy crate.’ He was almost sobbing. ‘The bastards! The slimy, rotten bastards!’
Keeton knocked Bristow’s hand away and struggled to his feet. There was an acute slope to the deck; the angle changed as the ship wallowed, but the deck never became level even for a moment; the list to port was permanent. Keeton leaned against the steel wall of the magazine until his head stopped whirling.
He said: ‘Have you tried the door?’
‘Of course I’ve tried it. Can’t budge it. It’s like as if something was piled up against it outside.’
‘Let’s have another go‚’ Keeton said. ‘The two of us might manage it.’
And then he realized that he had lost his bearings. He had no idea where the door was. There was no light at all, not a glimmer.
‘Where is the door, Johnnie?’
‘Over here. You can feel it.’ Bristow’s voice came from the left. Keeton groped his way along the wall until his shoulder touched the other man’s.
‘Here’s the catches‚’ Bristow said. ‘I’ve made sure they’re turned back. They aren’t holding it.’
Keeton leaned against the door; it was like a continuation of the steel wall, hard and unyielding.
‘Let’s give a heave together when I give the word.’
‘All right‚’ Bristow said without enthusiasm. ‘But it won’t budge. You’ll see.’
‘Now!’
They both pressed against it. The door did not move.
‘Again! Put all you’ve got into it. Now!’
The door gave no hint of opening. It seemed to be as fixed and immovable as the riveted plates of the ship’s hull. Bristow was panting.
‘I told you. It’s no good. It’d take a charge of dynamite to shift that door.’
Keeton had the feeling that Bristow was right. Something really heavy must be holding the door.
‘We’re trapped,’ Bristow said. ‘Even if the ship doesn’t go down, we’re trapped. We can’t never get out — never. If she goes down we’ll be drowned and if she doesn’t go down we’ll starve to death.’ He gave a cackling laugh, and the hysteria was there ready to take control. ‘It’s a sweet choice, ain’t it? Either way we’ve had it.’
‘Stow that‚’ Keeton said. He moved away from the door, away from Bristow. He could hear the ammunition boxes creaking as the ship rolled and floundered. It was as though a hundred different voices were complaining in that tiny space, a hundred voices communicating their fear of death.
‘Them rotten bastards‚’ Bristow said, his voice rising to a whine. ‘They never ought to have gone and left us here. Just looking after their own skins. It was that Rains, you bet. I said what would happen with him in charge. And I was right. My God, wasn’t I just right and all.’
‘So you were right‚’ Keeton said. ‘Where does that get you? How does that help us now?’
‘It was the shell.’ Bristow seemed unable to stop talking. ‘That last shell. It must’ve landed on the poop or near to. Maybe it killed the other lads. Of course — that’s what it must’ve done. Don’t you see?’
‘See what? I can’t see anything in here.’
They thought we was dead too — with the rest of ‘em. That’s why they didn’t come for us. That’s why they left us in here. They didn’t know we was alive and they didn’t even trouble to make sure.’
‘We’ve got to think‚’ Keeton said. ‘Just shut up, will you, Johnnie, and let me think.’
Thinking won’t get you out. It’ll take more than sweet thoughts to bust that door down, and there ain’t no other way out.’
‘Stow it, Johnnie, stow it.’ Keeton was trying to think, but there was a hammering in his brain, and the warm darkness pressed upon him like an oily blanket. And Bristow was right: no amount of thinking would get them out of the magazine; it was a trap and there was no way of springing it.
The ship trembled as the sea pounded it. It rolled to port and recovered sluggishly. The shell that Keeton had dropped was rolling about on the floor of the magazine; he felt it strike his right ankle, jarring the bone. He bent down and felt the cold cylindrical and deadly shape under his fingers. He lifted it and staggered in what he judged was the direction of the rack from which the shell had come. He found an empty space and wedged the shell into it.
‘What are you doing?’ Bristow demanded querulously.
‘Housework‚’ Keeton said.
He heard Bristow swearing softly. ‘You’re cracked.’
The wind was like a blustering marauder seeking a way in. Sea-water dashed against the magazine as against a rock.
‘Listen to that,’ Bristow said. ‘Just listen to that, will you? It’s getting worse out there. How long do you reckon this old tub will stay afloat?’
Keeton made no answer. Since there was nothing to be done, he resigned himself; and since it was difficult to stand, he decided to lie down and find what little comfort he could. The noise of the storm continued outside, while inside there were the boxes creaking and Bristow’s voice, querulous, complaining, fearful, mumbling on. Keeton listened to all these sounds for a long time, but at last they faded out of his consciousness and in spite of everything he fell asleep.