The Cruel Sea (1951) (69 page)

Lockhart met the smile, ruefully acknowledging what had been in his mind. ‘I won’t see her for ages,’ he said glumly.

‘War is hell,’ said Ericson, with cheerful conviction. He welcomed the prospect of the refit, wherever it was to take place, and the news that they were to spend it in novel and attractive surroundings had put him in a holiday mood already.

‘America,’ grumbled Lockhart again, frowning down at the signal. ‘Never heard of the place. What do they know about repairing ships?’

But that criticism, at least, did not survive their arrival, four days later, off Long Island Sound, and their sailing past the Statue of Liberty, up to the fabulous skyline of New York and the entrance to the East River, and into the teeming maw of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Not less than anyone on board, Lockhart found himself reacting to the first impact of America. The country might, from the English point of view, be rather a long way from the centre of affairs; but, judging by the evidence so far, going by size and noise alone, these people
must
be able to do things . . . The impression of efficiency was presently confirmed, when
Saltash
came alongside and was invaded by a horde of quick-moving, entirely silent men who paid no attention to anyone on board, but simply set to work tearing things to bits.

‘Now just you take a rest, Commander,’ said one of the dockyard officials, when Lockhart asked some questions about shore lighting. ‘We’ll fix your ship up real pretty . . . Know what I’d do, if I were you?’ he added, with no alteration of his expression. ‘I’d get to hell out, and come back around six weeks from now.’

‘It’s so difficult,’ said Lockhart later to Scott-Brown. ‘You don’t even know whether they’re being rude or not . . .’

‘It works both ways,’ said Scott-Brown judicially. ‘
They
don’t know whether our feelings are hurt.’

As soon as they were docked, and before any shore leave was granted, Ericson addressed his crew on the quarterdeck.

‘We’re here,’ he began, ‘primarily because the shipyards at home are too busy to take us for refit, but that doesn’t mean that we’ll do badly out of the exchange. I’m quite sure that this shipyard will look after us just as well as one on the Clyde or at Liverpool – and if anyone thinks otherwise, I want him to keep it to himself. There are two or three things,’ he went on, ‘that I want to say about our stay here. First is that, as soon as we go ashore, we are guests of this country – and guests have to behave themselves especially well, they have to fit into their host’s house and into his habits, even though they don’t find it easy. Anything else is bad manners – and don’t forget that people here will judge England by the way you behave. If you are noisy and rude, that means that England will get the same reputation . . . Secondly, no matter how differently things are done here, don’t criticise them out loud – and above all don’t laugh at them until you’re quite sure that Americans are prepared to laugh at them too. It’s even possible that they do some things better here than they do in England – and even if that’s not true, it doesn’t do any good to make comparisons about different methods and different standards.’ He paused. ‘The other thing I want to mention is your own personal behaviour. I hope you’ll make lots of friends. But don’t try to overdo it, especially where women are concerned. Just because you’re in a foreign country, that doesn’t mean that every woman you meet is a potential prostitute, and that you can treat her like one. Treat women as you would at home – because they
are
the same as the women at home: there are the good ones and the bad ones, and they’re in exactly the same proportion as they are in London or Glasgow. You’ll find,’ he ended, ‘that the beer here is rather weak, but the whisky’s rather strong – and cheap. If you want to get drunk, do it in private. Don’t fall flat on your face in Fifth Avenue, because that’s liable to get into the newspapers, and’ – he became briefly stern – ‘no one in Royal Navy uniform, and especially no one from this ship, is going to get into the newspapers, in that connexion or in any other.’

The radio building was large, shiny, and bustling: the studio where Lockhart was being interviewed resembled an aquarium, through whose glass walls other men and women, ridiculously silent, moved their mouths like suppliant fish.

‘Just a short talk,’ said the programme organiser, a grey man with a look about him of secret and permanent torture. ‘But plenty of action, of course. Let’s see, now . . . Have you sunk a lot of submarines?’

‘Only two,’ said Lockhart.

‘Gee, that’s too bad. But we’ll think of something . . . Have you worked with the US Navy at all?’

‘We’ve run across one or two of your destroyers. We haven’t worked in a group with them.’

‘It’ll come, it’ll come,’ said the other man, with a faint flicker of encouragement. ‘Just as soon as you get yourselves organised . . . How long have you been on combat duty?’

Lockhart hesitated. ‘What do you mean by combat duty, exactly?’

The radio man stared. ‘Gee, Commander, you’re out of touch aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Lockhart, ‘I’m terribly out of touch.’

‘Well, I want to do this programme, anyway. It’s a cinch from the Allied solidarity angle. And they said you gave them a right smart talk yesterday, at – where was it?’

‘Women’s Section of the Bundles for Britain organisation.’

‘Sounds like Mother’s Day in hell . . . Well, let’s get something down on paper.’

In a corner of the huge popular restaurant on Times Square, Scott-Brown, the doctor – correct, austere, self-sufficient – was enjoying a singularly tender steak. At his side the waitress, a buxom young woman dressed in frilly apple-green, watched him intently, hand on hip. Each time he conveyed anything to his mouth, her interest seemed to reach a new crescendo.

When he became aware of the scrutiny, Scott-Brown turned and smiled. The waitress answered the smile, with a ready twist of shoulders and hips.

‘You a Britisher?’ she asked, after a pause.

‘Yes,’ said Scott-Brown politely, ‘I’m from England.’

The waitress nodded, enormously pleased. ‘Can tell you boys a mile away, just as soon as you start on the meat dish. Know why?’

‘No,’ said Scott-Brown. ‘How do you recognise us?’

The waitress pointed at his left hand, then at his right. ‘Knife and fork stuff,’ she answered. ‘Both hands together, like you was driving a team or something. No one else does that. Kills me every time.’

Midshipman Holt stepped into the automatic elevator behind a large tough-looking woman with blue-white hair. They were alone in the elevator, and there was silence as it began its descent. Then the woman, who had been eyeing the two red patches and the twisted braid, denoting his rank, which marked Holt’s lapels, said suddenly: ‘Say, can you tell me something?’

‘Certainly, madam,’ said the midshipman, who had dined well for his age.

‘It’s those things on your jacket.’ She pointed to the red collar patches. ‘What’s it mean?’

‘I’m not really allowed to tell anyone,’ said the midshipman.

‘No kidding?’ said the woman. ‘I think you British are the cutest things.’

‘But I’ll tell
you
,’ said the midshipman, with an alarming leer. ‘It means the secret service – MI5.’

‘No kidding?’ said the woman again. She beamed at him. ‘So young, too.’

The man, a United States marine corporal with a sodden face and two rows of medals, stood in Allingham’s path, swaying slightly. The crowds on the sidewalk moved past them, carefully indifferent to what was going on. There were plenty of such scenes on the streets of downtown New York, and they were good scenes to avoid.

The marine tapped Allingham on the chest.

‘What the hell sort of uniform is that?’ he asked thickly. ‘Where you from, bud?’

‘Australia,’ said Allingham. He moved to get past.

‘That’s a kind of Limey country, ain’t it?’ said the marine, detaining him.

‘It’s part of the British Empire, yes.’

‘”Part of the British Empire”,’ mimicked the marine savagely. ‘Why you all talk like a bunch of whores?’

Allingham said nothing.

‘God damn Limeys,’ said the marine. His sweating face gleamed in the lamplight from the nearest shop window. ‘Reckon we’ll have to clean you up next, after the Japs.’

Allingham said nothing.

‘No talk, huh? Guess you’re right, bud. No fight, either. That’s what I heard. Come all this way in a pretty uniform, just to eat good American food and lay a lot of our dames. When you going to start fighting?’

‘Not this evening,’ said Allingham.

‘Not any evening,’ sneered the marine. ‘Leave it all to the Americans – the world’s top suckers.’ He swayed forward against Allingham, who gave way a pace, his fingers twitching. ‘If you won’t, you won’t,’ went on the marine. ‘But don’t get in my way again, or I’ll beat the hell out of you, wherever you come from and however fast you’re running.’

‘I’m not running,’ said Allingham hardly. ‘But I’m not scrapping in the street, either.’

‘Christ!’ said the marine, ‘they’ve started drafting the fairies . . .’ He turned suddenly, and rocketed through the nearest doorway, leading to a large, brassy bar. The quick disappearance, cancelling the ugly crisis, came as a relief, dissolving some of Allingham’s anger. It was a good deliverance, from most points of view . . . Something unusual about the entrance to the bar attracted his attention, and presently he saw that it was the ornate illuminated sign over the door.

‘WELCOME ALL US HEROES!’

And underneath:

‘THROUGH THESE PORTALS PASS THE FINEST FIGHTING MEN IN THE WORLD.’

Ericson stood on the bridge of the new American destroyer, saying nothing, watching how they did it all. He was very glad to be on board, making the trip down the Sound as a guest on one of the ship’s working-up exercises; a day at sea, after he had been so long tied to the land, was exactly what he wanted.

The American captain bent to one of the voice-pipes. ‘What are you steering?’ he asked his quartermaster below.

‘Two hundred degrees, sir,’ came the answer, in a ripe New Jersey accent.

The American captain turned to Ericson, smiling in a vague and friendly way. ‘Fine day,’ he said. ‘Glad you came along . . .’ Then, forgetful, he bent to the voice-pipe again. ‘What are you steering down there?’

‘Jesus, captain!’ came the same voice in answer. ‘I just told you.’

‘They’re not a bit like us,’ said Johnson, the engineer officer, looking round the wardroom dinner table, reproof in his voice. ‘No discipline at all.’

My darling one
[Julie wrote]
, I’m starting a baby – at least I think I am, and the frogs will say yes or no tomorrow. I’m sorry. I thought of not telling you, and then I thought how close we’ve become, and so I’m telling you after all. But even so it is nothing to worry you with. It hasn’t happened before, because we haven’t been lovers before, but it isn’t the end of the world: I’ll take a quick trip to London, where (you once told me in a lordly sort of way) they understand these things.
You are not to worry.

But come back soon: it is lonely, it is dull, it is a little ache of missing you, all the time. New York women may have everything else to commend them (you must make me a list of what they have) but they haven’t got this heart that beats and warms for you. I will show you what I mean as soon as we are together again: and please make that as soon as possible.

Lockhart held the letter for a long time, without moving; it was as if her heart were lying in his hand. Swift pictures of her multiplied, just behind his eyes: feelings of shock and of tenderness strove within him, making him guilty and deeply loving at the same time.

The letter was so exactly like her. There was no panic, no reproach, no query of any sort: she had accepted the situation, and was about to deal with it competently. Perhaps she had done so already. In any case she seemed in no doubt that he would agree to what she had in mind.

Her ready acceptance, her competent planning, hurt something deep within him. She was accepting the situation, taking for granted her next step and his endorsement of it, because of his own clumsy manoeuvring; because he had said, or implied, many times, that they could not think of marriage until the war was finished with, that their love and their loving had been ‘a break with reality’.

He remembered the crass words with shame and disgust.

He knew now that they were not true. She was the person he must have, not some time in the future, but now: he needed her – to love and be loved by, to salve the dreary war, to keep intact the bright warm promise that lay between them, whether they were together or apart.

The child would be the occasion of their marriage, not the reason for it. That reason was something deeper, stronger, more moving altogether. They had found it when they became lovers – perhaps a moment before – and it was not to be lost again. Not by his act, not by hers.

The simple fact was that she had become a precious part of his life, always to be cherished and now to be made sure of; and behind this need of her loomed his huge regret, and the hideous idea of her body being tampered with.