Intercom blaring out, quartermaster's voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, each order being preceded by a shrill blast from a small whistle that he carried about his neck, very effective through a microphone, "Stand by for leaving harbour - close all screen doors and scuttles", to all this blaring the marine band struck up on the quarter-deck, the ship slowly swinging out into the fairway, with flags flying, tugs hooting and puffing importantly and a line of dabtoes standing smartly to attention full length of the Port side. For the natives who swarmed on the wharf it must have been better than going to the pictures. I bet there were one or two sore crutches amongst that lot. Could hear the engine room telegraph clanging backwards and forwards until finally it became silent, the turbines settling down to a steady muffled roar as they pushed us out to sea. Clearing the landfall, went up on deck and watched the last lights of Trinidad becoming fainter and finally mingling with the multitude of stars that filled the universe, throwing a soft light on the gently heaving ocean, slashed by our foaming, phosphorus flecked wake stretching back into the night.
The ship became quiet and appeared deserted; except for the watchkeepers everyone had turned in. Went below, bending forward to get past the slowly swinging mass of hammocks, rummaging about in my locker. I disturbed Trunky, who was stretched out on top of them. "Where have you been, you lying bastard," he said quietly, his eyes glinting in the emergency lights.
"Out with the sky pilot, bang for bang all the way," I added hoping to shut him up.
"Well that's a new one, I always thought you were strictly 'ladies only'," he persisted.
"Pull your head in." He changed the subject. "There's some mail for you." I thought for a moment of Lyddia. "It's in my locker."
Groped about till I found them, holding the letters up so that I could see the writing in the semi-darkness, recognised it as being from a couple of birds in the UK
"Well, aren't you going to open them?" he said impatiently.
He suffered from frustration, being unable to stop blushing within a cable's length of a woman, so he followed my activities whenever he could, a sort of secondhand thrill. Threw the letters at him.
"Here," I said, "read them yourself,"
knowing that he wouldn't, so much as he would have liked to, would have to wait till I was ready , then like as not I would invent something that they had said. Hardly know what made me torment him , tried to get him off me but he was like a leach in spite of the treatment . He was furious, I knew, at my getting away with the Padre, but I always made him that way, it must have been the laid back attitude I adopted towards everything; his own life was organised to the minute, yet, as far as he was concerned, most things fell my way.
On one occasion, upset him so much that waiting until my back was turned, he smashed me in the spine with everything he had - this was on the mess deck - thinking that he could rouse me in some way to make me do something to show that I had feelings. He nearly succeeded: Remember lying there on the deck with this terrible pain in my back, fighting hard to get a grip on myself, the whole mess was in silence, waiting for me to explode. Knew that if I did do this, then it would kill him. Slowly pulled myself up on the bench, going over the pros and cons of doing it - probably would get life, although had not provoked him physically; but to my way of thinking a mental provocation was infinitely worse and might get a prosecutor that thought the same way - no, didn't feel like making my hands dirty on such a rat. The solution was obviously to keep a grip on myself and act as nothing had happened, which is what I did, staggering off down to the office. All those with any intelligence knew what was happening; Tunky evidently broke down and cried, so although spoke to him as usual, it must have been just agony for him.
The following morning, managed to wake up in time to hear 'cooks to the galley' being piped; Nobody bothered much to come up here to shake me, one snag, that of being able to be seen from the bridge, so that had to get washed up within reasonable time. For a while, watched the gulls wheeling over the mast head which slowly arched across the sky, then swinging out of the mick folded the blankets into it so that the whole thing formed a rough cylinder, lashing it tight with a rope so that it became a solid bolt of bedding that theoretically could be used as a plug for any odd shell holes that we might run across, a further use, according to the rule book, was that it should be able to support you in water; this I noticed nobody had been willing to demonstrate at the training school.
Breakfast being dished up when I arrived down on the mess deck, brought down from the galleys in trays, the boys whose turn to do this being roistered as "Duty Cooks"; a messy affair, they having to serve it on to plates and then pass it down the tables. Today's menu evidently an inspiration of the chief cook, consisting of kippers and apricots all sloshed together; we were used to lousy food but this variation, a bit much for some, who insisted on making a complaint, something heard of being done but never witnessed as rather an involved affair.
The person complaining has to take his complaint to the officer of the watch, which necessitates a long walk aft, besides the treatment on getting there. Could see the killick of the mess looking about for some 'volunteer' to go aft, he jumped on Hatchet's flunkey, Varney, a big useless type who had a skin thick enough to tackle anything. So he went off aft, plate of kippers and apricots in hand. A few of us went too - just to watch the reactions of 'Jimmy the One' who happened to be on duty. Varney marched onto the quarter-deck, saluted no one in particular, then stood to attention with the plate stretched out before him. It took what seemed to be a long time before anyone could bring themselves to admit his existence, until the Jimmy, after walking round him a couple of times, suddenly took a breath and fronted up to the situation.
"Well?" he bawled.
Varney stood firm, coming if possible even more to attention.
"Sir, please Sir, I want to make a complaint."
"You want to what!?" the Jimmy bellowed.
"Yes sir, it's like this sir, the boys on the mess have instructed me to complain about the breakfast."
Jimmy poked his nose in the plate. "What's that?" he choked out.
"Begging your pardon, sir, we think it's kippers and apricots."
The Jimmy went very red, having become aware of an audience watching this little farce. "Dismiss, leave that here."
"Aye aye sir." Varney looked round for somewhere to put it, and not seeing a likely place, thrust it towards the Jimmy, who took it without realizing it, for too late, Varney had stepped back, saluted, about turned, and marched off.
At "Up spirits" when the grog was dished out that morning sippers all round for Varney. But he wasn't one that could hold it, and passed out. We had to hide him in the hammock rack, hoping that Hatchet was able to make his own bed for once.
The day passed easily enough; during the forenoon we were joined by a sister ship, some 'Battle
The Fleet settled down to station keeping, each ship maintaining a fixed position in relation to the others. This involved a more or less constant change of revs - a good time for the lower deck to even the score with the upper, especially in the middle watch when nobody felt particularly happy ... an upstart on the bridge who rang for a change in speed every three minutes. This, usually tolerated for a while, but after that the lieutenant would find that the ship not responding to his magical touch - in fact those bloody E.R.A.s must be asleep. He would try again... the boys would stop yarning, look at each other and increase or decrease the revs, plus or minus those he previously rung down, thereby making the ship gain or lose much too quickly; more clanging on the telegraph to correct this, until everyone was having a lovely time with grins all round in the engine room, and the furious flashings from the flagship to the lieutenant, who was wishing that he had taken his father's advice, stayed home and become a parson.
Always the constant problems of monotony and tension due to the overcrowding; the boys tried to keep to themselves as much as possible, spending most of their time reading, dobhying. Occasional evenings, a film show, which always coincided with 'Evening rounds'. While we were at sea this was carried out by the upper deck commander who would burst in, invariably when the villain was just about to do her, snap the lights on and the jaunty, who always went with him, would squeak out "Attention for rounds", bringing us all back to earth with a thump.
The old boy would give us a look over as though we were so much vermin and if possible book somebody for something, particularly the stokers, for one evening he had come marching down to the mess and seeing a tickler tin standing on the scuttle ledge had knocked it to the floor. Unfortunately it had been full of urine, having been left by one of the more thoughtless gentlemen of the mess. Never had we seen such an expression on his face as when he realized, by the smell, that what was staining his uniform was definitely not gin and tonic. Not a muscle twitched on anybody's face; we just stood hoping that the ship would sink. He started off with low murmurs of disbelief, but after all he had been in the Navy before I was born and must have known that the practice was rife on any ship - fill a tickler-tin and chuck it out of the scuttle, making sure of the wind's direction first, but some, as in this case, never had sufficient energy to complete the maneuver. He finished up raving, lost control and revealed himself as he was - an overfed, overbearing oaf. He tried to get the lot of us on jankers; really he wasn't able to do much about it until he found the person responsible. Fortunately the skipper took a hand in it and the whole thing fizzled out, with the chief stoker coming down and with alternate pleas and threats told us to be more careful in the future.
The chief came round and detailed some of us for a landing party. Enjoyed these runs ashore, although could hardly agree with the intimidating motive behind them.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The following forenoon found us heaved-to about half a mile offshore of what appeared to be a deserted island. We could see the surf breaking with an easy rhythm, from the fleet, a long crocodile of boats making towards the white sandy shore. We crowded into the longboat, which was then dropped over the side, being towed towards the beach by the first motor boat, which kept continually stalling so that we would broach into the sea and have to get the oars out to stop ourselves from being swamped. The nearer we came to the shore, the bigger the surf seemed to get. From somewhere there come a crowd of locals to watch the fun, which was going to be good, for the surf was becoming littered with struggling mateloes. We cast off from the motor boat, and tried to roll in on a breaker, but our judgment was bad and we rolled over, finding ourselves struggling with rifles, pack and gear in a surf that seemed mountainous. I tried to hang on to the boat, everybody else having the same idea. The beach seemed very near and I let go of everything and struck out. By this time a crowd of the boys had arrived to rescue, dragging us out; some consolation to see the motor boat too had stalled at the crucial moment and had Sunk.
It took quite a time to count heads and salvage the boats, the tide being on the ebb, leaving them partly out of the water, although the surf didn't do them much good. We dived about for the gear, getting most, other than a few rifles which no doubt the natives would find, as they were expert in such matters.
Eventually some order was brought about. We formed up looking rather the worse for our wetting, uniforms hanging limply, boots squelching on the sand. Unfurling the flags and with fixed bayonets we set out, marching about the island, the intention no doubt being to impress the ragged, pathetic, childlike inhabitants.
At various stages we halted; on the first occasion I had thrown myself down in the shade and had rummaged in my pack, and finding some soggy D.F.s and chocolate, handed it round to the locals who thought lovely. However, Simpson happened to be watching and hastily put a stop to such fraternization, telling us that he had said "Stand Easy", which did not mean lying on our backs in the shade! We had all struggled back into some sort of line again, the boys shouldering their rifles, found it convenient to lose mine in the sea.
We arrived back on board during the afternoon, by which time a cluster of natives round the gash shute, floating about on old baths and bits of wood, waiting for somebody to tip some rubbish down, they would then dive in excitedly, grabbing anything that was edible, quite enjoying the change of diet.
My own reaction to this was to feel a little guilty and start throwing D.F.s over the side, but this always caused such a commotion: they must have all been cigarette addicts by the way they fought and argued, that it just wasn't worth it. The more enterprising would come alongside the mess scuttles and trade fruit and coconuts and local handiwork for anything useful or otherwise, not a good idea to leave your gear lying about for somebody would flog it for you, yet convenient really for all the old boots, coats and waterproofs that clogged the mess disappeared like magic. Going below and on to the mess I found that most of the boys still had their heads down. The first dogwatchmen were brewing up tea; other than for the occasional grunts and belches the mess was quiet. Stripping off my gear I shoved it into a bucket and took it into the shower room, and with some 'pussers hard' and a scrubbing brush set to, laying the uniform out on the floor and going over it as systematically as possible - a good way to keep slim, especially when there were others in there, all with the same idea; the place would seem full of naked steaming swearing sailors, slipping about endeavouring to get that Persil white look on a uniform that insisted on remaining gray.
To wring the gear out only necessary to fold it round like a pipe then twist - as simple as that. Returning to the mess feeling pretty fit, I poured some tea from the huge metal kettle. Big Geordie was still stretched out in my usual position. He was an ugly brute with a slow idiotic way of speaking. He ran the barbers, charging sixpence a time, but none of our mess went near him as his skimping meanness was both unnatural and resented. There not being anywhere else to sit I took hold of his knees and lifted them enough to give me room, finding myself opposite 'Trunky' Lambert - a three badge killick stoker with a big pock marked nose. He lived only from one tot time to the next, at least so we had thought up till the last time in Chatham
"Here," he had said, "one of you bastards give me a pull off with this monkey suit."
One of the boys had obliged, the shirt coming off too, leaving Trunky stripped to the waist. "Now what have you to say to that?" he said, proudly showing us his back which was lacerated with scratches and bites, making the large eagle that he had tattooed on it almost unrecognizable. We were all suitably impressed, the boys taking their cue, giving appreciative whistles and the usual compliments.
"Dirty old bastard."
"What was it, a he or a she?"
"It took two of 'em," he said, his beady little eyes gleaming.
"Boasting again, you doddering old piss pot."
"Oh I am, am I?" he went on, getting indignant. "Let me tell youse sumfink, I got married yesterday." He looked at us, satisfied at the effect.
"Well then," we asked, "Where does the two come in."
He didn't answer that one right away, just looked cagily round, licking his lips and wiping his nose, which persisted in running, with the back of his hand.
"Simple, me wife and her mate," he said with satisfaction, as though the whole population went through the marriage ceremony in such a generous way.
"Whadja give 'er for a wedding present?" somebody asked.
What the bleeding 'ell dya fink I give 'er - a bloody stroke of Jake course," he said as though wondering how we could be so ignorant.
He had never been quite the same since getting 'Married' - always having a preoccupied look - wondering, I guess, which one he would lay and when, or whether or not to risk both at once. He was a wiry old bird, and if he let Sammy his winger in on it then there could be many variations. Rather thought something of the last idea, he and Sam always behaving as if married and becoming very sore if you mentioned the fact.
Sammy was quite a well-cut guy, about my own height, 5'10'', he too being the stringy, rough type. They had both been in the Navy. "When you were just a gleam in your old man's eye" as they so tactfully put it, and at same time never letting us NS ratings forget the fact that they had wrung more water out of their socks that I had ever sailed on.
These boys, however, were the Navy, pliable, conscientious, clean, easily taken advantage of; just talk to them pleasantly - a few gins and tonics in the ward room and they would do anything, including signing their lives away for another seven and five. Still, their life, knew no other, naturally having the best jobs below, nothing dirty or arduous.
They must have learnt something from us NS ratings; only six of us on board, but I'm sure we were much more trouble than sixty regulars, constantly needling them as to why they continued to remain working in conditions that should have died out with Nelson. Both of them being due for demob on arrival in Chatham, evidently they needed more inducement than a little pep talk to sign on, for the last time I saw them was as two very smart stoker POs.
Still Trunky had this all to come, for looking at him across the bench he seemed unusually depressed.
"Come on Trunky, slap it on the bilge." I said, hoping to get a bite out of him.
"Shit in it," he replied without animosity, but revealing his thoughts, for he continued with the usual "I'll be glad to get back and sign off away from all you bastards."
"Won't I? Won't I?" he said, getting excited, as the subject always made him. "You wait and ferking well see."
Before we could go on with this old argument we were interrupted by "Close all screen doors and scuttles."
"We're off again," I said getting up and pushing a native back out through the scuttle as he was appealing for D.F.s. I slammed the glass, tightening it down with wing nuts - he was yelling something at me from outside but I couldn't hear a word of it, the armour plate glass being a couple of inches thick. Trunky had got up and started to close the screen doors that led out of the mess.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hang on, I have got to go down to the Office," where I made myself busy typing out the duty roster for the officers; they worked one watch in five, the crew one in three. This had taken quite a bit of getting used to, for usually we came off of watch and had to close up for some exercise or the other, the boys being lucky to get 6 hours free in 24. This had been going on for four months, with the occasional break in Trinidad and the surrounding islands. Lost interest in the whole business: having achieved my ambition of being selected for the Navy I was now very disillusioned. Felt sorry for those boys who hadn't been able to get through the selection committee and had signed on for 12 years just to get in - with no way of getting out. There should have been a probationary period of 6 months or so when either side could call it quits, but I imagined that they wouldn't have any forces at all if this was brought in, unless of course, the conditions and pay were improved, instead of just hiding behind it all and saying it is to toughen you up; those boys are plenty tough without having to put up with the conditions that possibly the R.S.P.C.A. wouldn't approve of. Still my number was up and I was finished as soon as we returned to the UK
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Mulholland came into the Office and stood looking over my shoulder, then pointing down the typed list, said:
"You have spelt my name wrong right through."
Suppose for such an orderly mind as his this was almost treason, but I just said "Aye Aye Sir." He gave a snort and throw himself down in the chair. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him watching me, stroking his nose with his long feminine forefinger.
"Tell me," he said, "when are you going to get those few hair off your face?"
He was talking a dig at my beard, which he said reminded him of a cross between Jesus Christ and a Billy Goat, knowing as well as I did that I wasn't allowed to 'Shave off' until 6 months from the time of being given permission to grow a beard, his own face being like a baby's bottom although he must have been about five years older than myself, I didn't answer this because they had even left me alone on the mess deck with this subject.
"When do you think we will get back to civilisation?" I said, not expecting to get any definite answer, but to my surprise he warmed to the subject, possibly thinking of his new wife and the 'pink and duck egg blue bedroom', saying that he would refuel the following day and then leave for the UK taking about 17 days for the trip as there were to be exercises. This last prospect wasn't very thrilling - still, we were going in the right direction, not round and round these bloody islands, the only apparent purpose apparently to keep a firm grip on them for what could be squeezed out, and to maintain a holiday resort for the Royal Family and their capitalist supporters - with the blessing of the working class who were quite willing to condone such luxury.
It struck me that I could be back in civvy street within three weeks and this was rather a shock; what the hell could I do? Go back to the Borough Council, work there for 40 years and drop dead the day I drew my pension? No, didn't think that was quite me somehow. The Navy had done something for me; it had shown me that life could be different - a great deal so. But how far one could pull oneself out an environment without money, connections or qualifications,. Somehow determined not to start life in two rooms, no bath, old stove out on the landing. Guess this was another reason why the boys signed on.
During the last leave, had been to Pickerings
"You're Peter," she said, twisting her face into a smile.
"Yes," "Jack's gone back to get some beer."
"You had better come up." The stairs were dark, half the banisters missing. "Mind the top step," she said, "I have been after the Landlord to get it fixed for weeks." Wondered who the Landlord was - this might well have been Dickens' time, electric light, but the wall paper was peeling back, doors and woodwork riddled with rot. Had to force myself to go into the "Living room', furniture consisting of what had once been a three-piece suite, an old wooden table with some dirty crockery in a tin bowl on top of it. The finishing touches supplied by photographs and artificial flowers on the mantelpiece.
"Have a cup of tea?"
"No thanks," I said, hurriedly looking at the crockery,at the same time feeling both guilty and desperate.
She knew what was on my mind but never said anything - just let go a round of abuse at the kids who were screaming and fighting on the sofa. We tried hard to talk about something - the last trip - the weather - but hard work, finally, saying I was going to fetch Jack practically ran down the stairs into the street, the air being reasonably fresh by comparison. Never bothered about Pickering
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The tanker drew parallel with us the following forenoon, quite a heavy swell, visualised the pipes parting as they had done on a previous attempt - the ship being sprayed by writhing jet of fuel oil. The old man had nearly gone mad! This time no chances were taken, the convoy easing back, plenty of slack being given in the connecting lines: the operation uneventful, the tanker dropping back, refueling the fleet in turn. Weather came up and by the first watch we were plunging into the heaving darkness under a heavy mantle of rain, the wind maintaining a constant moaning melody through the stays and superstructure. Struggled up on the deck and slung my mick on the lea side, under the bofords, hoping that they wouldn't change course or continue playing with the guns. A fight to get the mick up but once inside it, with my head well under the blankets, I became pretty impervious to the wind and spray that lashed about. Realised after a while that instead of the usual slow rolling movement that the mick made, shaking violently; above the wind could hear what sounded like the chief calling, and coming to the surface... him all right.
"Come on you silly bastard, out of it. If you go over the side who's to know?" I admitted that he did have a point there, as the mick almost swung over the guard rail in a heavy roll.
"Okay chief, since when have you been so interested in my welfare?"
"Never mind about that," he went on, the wind tossing his voice about. "You'll have to do the middle in B boiler room tonight."
"What!" I shouted, struggling to lash down the madly flapping gear. "I've been turned to since six this morning."
"Well, if you bastards kept away from those poxy bitches ashore then I would have enough hands to go round."
Knew that half the gang was running about with penises the colour of rainbows; each day the queue at the sickbay becoming longer, the worst part of it, the ice water supply, these boys having to drink so many pints a day, which resulted in long lines waiting at the two measly trickles supplied by the government.
Going below and putting myself down for a shake at 23.50, crashed down on the mess table; a warm stench hanging over everything. For a while I lay listening to the waves as they crashed into the ship's side, making her creak. In the semi-darkness, just possible to make out the name and number on the hammock swinging above me. Lambert and he wasn't sleeping too well, by the way he groaned and tossed. Probably thinking how to explain away to his wife that he had contracted a 'knap hand'. It seemed that somebody touched me as soon as my eyes closed, but I was awake immediately.
"What's it like below?" I said, struggling into a boiler suit.
"If you can keep with the contortions of the engine room, then you're bloody clever."
"Like that is it?" I said.
"Yes, they must have gone mad up on the bridge."
He went on, dropping on to the table and apparently falling asleep immediately, complete with boots on.
Making my way below, let myself through the boiler room airlock and waited till the tub levelled itself, then sliding down through the maze of machinery pipes on to the boiler front I gave a mock salute to the P.O. We had been on watch together before, nothing to say, automatically doing a quick check over the feed water, steam pressure, fuel pressure and the rest of it. The P.O. responsible for everything, more or less recognized that he only controlled the forced draught fans and the feed pumps. He would indicate anything else by banging with a wheel spanner. Waste of time trying to shout above the noise. The engine room telegraph rang up increased speed; jumped and flashed a couple of oil burners. Simple enough, just turn on a tap, bang a couple of flaps in and out and according to the book, you should get a jet of flames shooting into the boiler. Altogether, eight to each of the two boilers, so a matter of hopping about, smartly banging them on and off to keep the steam pressure constant. No sooner did we adjust the pressure than they rang for another change.
"This is going to be lovely," shouted to the P.O. He nodded in a tired way. Occasionally we could hear bursts of Gunfire, those dabtoes never stopped playing games. About 0.200 things settled down, evidently they'd had enough, for we dropped back to "economical cruising", a saying coined probably for the benefit of the taxpayer. Plenty of water sloshing about in the bilge so fiddled about with the bilge pump, usually making a balls of it, instead of pumping out, would get the reverse, trying to fill the ship with the Atlantic . However, it worked well enough this time. The P.O. was supposed to do this but he didn't care much what happened. He'd lost interest. Having had three good conduct badges, but had dropped two over a fight with a marine in Trinidad . Coming back on board looking as though he had been rammed by a destroyer. Brewed up some kye - thick brown cocoa which we sipped while resting our backsides on the fuel pumps, from that position being able to watch the boiler front and keep an eye on the airlock door, in case we had visitors.
"You're going out when we get back," he said suddenly, his voice raised above the din. I nodded, wiping the sweat off me with a piece of cotton waste.
"What you going to do?" he went on, moving close to me so that he didn't have to shout so hard.
"Don't know - anything that comes, probably. Might go to New Zealand
"Yes," he said, becoming expansive. "You could do worse - it's a bloody long way from home, though."
"You been there?"
"Yeah, had a smashing root there - her old man had a sheep farm, whatever you call it. He wanted to buy me out, I was a silly bastard for not letting him." Had to agree with him on that point.
The phone whirred shrilly.
I picked it up. "That 'B' boiler room?"
"No," I roared down it, recognizing Tunky's voice. "This is the Savoy Grill."
"Don't be like that," he said, "I only wanted to tell you that Whittle is heading your way, so you better make out you're alive."
"Thanks - you can nick over when he's gone and I'll give you some kye."
Dropped the phone and pointed up.
"Whittle's on the way over from the engine room."
He stood up and stretched himself. I felt much the same way.
The airlock door opened, the engineer coming in. We watched him through the gratings as he pottered about above, checking the gear. Finally he slowly lowered himself down to our level, step by step. His fat backside reminded me of a balloon floating down to earth. He ignored us, but not knowing what kind of a mood he was in, started wiping the brasswork down with the cotton waste, rather than just stand about. The P.O. took a sudden interest in the bilge pump, playing about with the valves, while at the same time keeping an eye on the boiler front. Hard to imagine these regulars treating each other the same during the war. This boiler room was a death trap - a barn of a place below the water line; the chances of getting out would be nil if anything in the way of a missile hit here, the superheated steam would turn into dripping providing you survived the initial explosion. Still the stupidity of the whole business was not for me, I'd had enough in the blitz. But what made men unable to see further than the end of their noses? He is British, Good, he's German - Bad, just like that. Both sides praying to God for 'Victory' whatever that means.
The telegraph clanged over to 'Full ahead'. Automatically I snapped on a couple of burners. The P.O. increasing the machinery, its sustained note moving up the scale. The high pitched whistle of the turbine fans dominant over the roar of the furnaces, and the tapping, gasping chorus of the auxiliaries. Whittle went to panic stations over this signal, starting to wave his arms about, no time to pay attention to him. They must have opened the old bitch right up, for the steam pressure was falling away. We gave her the full treatment, everything wide open. By the time we had her back to a steady 400 lb. Whittle had disappeared, being more concerned with happenings in the engine room. Momentarily the thought occurred to me that it would probably be the last time I would have this exhilarating experience, almost regretting it. Taking a look into the smoke glass couldn't see any light at all: we must have been chucking out clouds of black smoke. Hurriedly I checked out all the burners, finding one that hadn't flashed, the oil pouring on to the furnace floor where it conflagrated... making hell look like a Guy Fawkes bonfire by comparison, a good chance of burning out the boiler tubes. Unable to make it flash I turned the jet off and replaced the burner; all this in a lather of sweat, at the back of my mind I could hear the phone going crazy and the P.O., who was tied to the machinery, was yelling himself hoarse. We were dropping the pressure but if anybody could do the job quicker they could bloody well take my place. The ship vibrating, every rivet rattling in the seams.... most unusual to have her flat out, top speed was supposed to have been 32 knots, but that calculation must have been made with a great deal of wishful thinking and an eye on public opinion. Things settled down, she seemed to be holding together; the weather too must have dropped off a lot, for she had just a slight pitching motion. After an hour they rang down 'half ahead'. We made a readjustment and flopped down. Tunkey dropped onto the footplates a few moments later.
"What was all that about?" I said.
"Dunno, probably trying to see how good we were - we clocked 28 knots."
"28 arsholes," the P.O. chipped in dryly, making Tunky flush. I pottered about with the kia, shoving it under an exhaust jet, heating it express style.
"Here, drink this, and then get up and shake my relief."
"Bugger me, it's hot," he said, taking a sip from the jug. "And where's the sugar?".
"Sugar? Where dya think you are, on your father's yacht?" I called over to the P.O. "What do you think of this cheeky bastard? He wants sugar!"
"Sugar!" the P.O. roared, taking his cue, "I'll take him behind the boilers and sweeten him up if that's what he wants."
We stood grinning at each other, the P.O. moving over against the companion with a mock casualness.
"Now you're trapped," I said. Trunky gave a short cough, at the same time looking about for another means of escape. His face became suddenly serious indicated as if there were somebody above, an old trick but the P.O. fell for it, moving away into his usual position, while Trunky leapt up the companion like a monkey, hurling abuse at us.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was after 4.00 am before was able to get up and take the air. The weather had cleared, leaving the fleet moving along easily; a few ships brightly silhouetted by Venus, low on the water, other stars dull by comparison. Vaguely my mind turned to the bird in Trinidad , visualizing her in bed with just a sheet thrown over . Strange how a woman went against everything in a moment of weakness: somehow, hardly thought she would write.
Going below, stretched out on the lockers without bothering to undress..it would be “wakey wakey” in a couple of hours.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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