The Cruel Sea (1951) (72 page)

But it was good to justify their existence at such a time, when others were doing so in such brutal and bloody measure. Otherwise, thought Ericson, they hardly counted in the main tide of war at all: they remained on the outside, looking in. Even his own son was more closely involved.
His
ship had gone in on D plus 3 . . .

Back, soon, to their Atlantic beat, which now seemed like patrolling the streets of a dead town, which everyone had deserted in favour of something more interesting. Now it was, in truth, a victorious ocean: scarcely a U-boat was to be seen, and huge convoys – one of them a record one of 167 ships – made the journey unmolested, bearing the vital supplies which the expanding battlefields of France must have. Some of
Saltash’s
charges were now routed direct to Cherbourg – a strange turn of fate, compared with the old days, when they had, with enormous difficulty, under constant air and sea attack, crept mouse-like into Liverpool Bay . . . But that was the way of it now, and so it continued to the end of the year: the U-boats, denied their bases in the Bay of Biscay, were being pushed back to Norway and even to the Baltic – and the Baltic was a very different matter, when it came to trying to keep up the pressure in the Western Approaches.

There was plenty for the Navy to do, because the needs of the cross-Channel shuttle service meant that there was a chronic shortage of escorts; and there was always a chance that German strategy might change, and try to strangle the supply line at the Atlantic end. But it was mostly hard, monotonous sea time, with nothing to brighten it and no crises to cope with: it was rather like the first months of the war, when there were not enough U-boats to make a show, and what few there were had not yet worked out a plan of campaign.

Now they had had their campaign, and it was five years later, and for all the good it had done them, they might have saved themselves the trouble, and spared many ships and men.

But perhaps it had to be proved, thought Ericson, bringing
Saltash
up, for the twentieth time, alongside the quay at St John’s, Newfoundland, with a featureless fourteen-day crossing behind her, and the ship needing nothing except fresh stores and a lick of paint. Perhaps it had to be proved, and there was no other way of doing it, no other way of sleeping peacefully in their beds, save at the fearful cost that lay in their wake.

Christmas in home waters, Christmas at anchor in the Clyde.

They all felt that it was the last Christmas of the war, but the thought was never phrased aloud, for fear of reprisals from history. They had a wardroom party, but it was just like other wardroom parties: they drank a lot, Ericson joined them and then left at a discreet moment, the stewards got mildly drunk and upset the brandy butter sauce on the turkey. At the head of the table, Lockhart presided, observing custom automatically: this was like last Christmas, and the Christmas before that – part of the war, part of the job that never ended. Last year there had been Julie, this year there was not: it was sad if you thought about it, so you didn’t think about it: you ate and drank and chaffed the midshipman about
his
girl . . .

That afternoon while the ship slept, he had paid a visit to the hideous mass grave where she lay. But there was no special feeling, even about that; it was just a cold day, and an ache inside him, and being alone instead of being together. The usual empty thoughts, the usual hunger and wretchedness.

‘Number One!’

‘Sorry.’ He jerked to attention. ‘What did you say, Mid?’

‘I’ve got the bachelor’s button out of the pudding.’

He made an appropriate comment.

Presumably things would get better, after a time.

1945: The Prize

‘And that is why,’ said Vincent, plodding to the end of his lecture, ‘it was absolutely essential to go to war in the first place, and why it’s even more important to make sure that we do a proper job of winning it now.’

He shut his notebook with an unconvincing snap, and put on top of it the
Army Bureau of Current Affairs
booklet, on which his lecture had been based. Then he looked up, facing uncertainly
Saltash’s
lower mess deck, and the rows of stolid men who were his audience. The serried eyes looked back at him unblinkingly, with very little discernible expression: a few of them were bored, a few hostile, most of them were sunk in a warm stupor: they were the eyes of men attending a compulsory lecture on British War Aims. As on so many previous occasions, thought Vincent, the heady magic of ABCA had not worked . . . He cleared his throat, sick of the whole thing, knowing only one way to play out time.

‘Any questions?’

There was a pause, while silence settled again; many of the eyes dropped or turned aside, as if fearful of establishing contact with Vincent at this crucial moment of demand. The dynamos hummed loudly;
Saltash
swung a point to her anchor, and the shaft of sunlight through the porthole moved across the deck and over the feet of the men in the front row.

A man at the back cleared his throat, and spoke at last.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, Woods?’ It was bound to be Signalman Woods: Woods always asked the first question, sometimes the only one. Woods was hoping for a recommendation for Leading-Signalman, and Vincent was the only man who could give it to him.

‘Sir, if we get rid of all the Nazis, who’ll run the country? Germany, I mean. Who’ll be the government?’

I should really encourage him, thought Vincent, I should say: Now that’s a very interesting question. But it’s not, it’s a bloody silly one, because it means he simply hasn’t been listening at all.

‘As I mentioned,’ he said, with just enough emphasis to make the point, ‘we are quite sure that there are enough non-Nazis in Germany to form a proper government. All they have to do is come forward, and—’ he finished lamely, ‘that is what will happen.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Woods politely, his effort accomplished. ‘I just wanted to be sure.’

Silence settled again. This should be a brisk and lively discussion, thought Vincent sadly, but it isn’t working; there ought to be a quick series of questions, a little argument, a fresh approach by some highly intelligent sailor, a great upsurge of speculation on this crucial question . . . Most of the failure was his own fault, he realised; the matter interested him, but he had not been able to communicate that interest to any of them; it had been just another lecture period, filling in the time between ‘Stand-Easy’ and ‘Hands to Dinner’ – preferable to gun drill or painting ship, not as interesting as playing tombola or doing nothing.

But here was someone else with a question, one of the stokers for a change. ‘Sir,’ said the man haltingly, ‘when you said about fighting for a better world . . .’ But had the phrase sounded as appalling as it did now? ‘Did you mean the League of Nations, like? No more war?’

A better world, thought Vincent – now how could he sum it up in terms which would mean something to a second-class stoker who had been a boilermaker’s apprentice before the war? He knew in his own mind what it involved – the Four Freedoms, the rule of Law, an end to tyranny, the overthrow of evil; but he had listed all these things in the course of his lecture, and explained them as best he could, and gone into detail whenever detail was worth while – and clearly it had meant absolutely nothing to his questioner, it hadn’t made a single ripple . . . I can’t go through it all again, he thought despondently; there isn’t time, and there’s no point either, if the words and phrases that mean so much to me are meaningless to this man, this roomful of men like him.

‘The League of Nations, or something of the same sort,’ he said, ‘will certainly be part of the post-war world. One of the things we’ve been fighting for is that international law should become strong again – that is, if one nation wants to start a war, the rest of the world really will combine to stop them. But when I talked about a “better world”’ – he swallowed – ‘I meant a better world for everyone – freedom from fear, no big unemployment, security, fair wages – all those sort of things.’

Silence again. Had his words meant anything to them, Vincent wondered: did they kindle any spark? – was there indeed a spark to be kindled?

Another man spoke, simply, doubtfully: ‘Is it all going to be different, then?’

What was the answer to that? I hope so. ‘I hope so,’ he said.

A third man spoke, scornfully, out of some personal political copybook he carried for ever in his head. ‘There’ll always be the bosses. Stands to reason.’

That’s outside this discussion, thought Vincent – and yet, should
anything
be outside this discussion? If this man has been fighting for a world without ‘bosses’, why shouldn’t he say so? If he thinks that his particular fight has been a failure, why shouldn’t he say that as well? But it isn’t really a fight about bosses – not in the sense he means; and I very much doubt whether he gave that aspect of it a single thought when he enlisted, or was conscripted. Yet ‘bosses’ or ‘no bosses’
was
a post-war problem: it could even be true that the war, obscurely, was being fought to end the whole range of boss-tyranny – big bosses like Hitler, little bosses like the foreman with the rough tongue. If that were true, then it was a dangerous subject: the pamphlet hadn’t said anything about the master-and-man relationship, it had treated with oppression at the international level only . . . And that was what he had failed to interest them in – the large-scale pattern, the moral issue: those things had rung no bell at all.

He was about to answer non-committally when Signalman Woods came through again, this time in prim reproof.

‘It’s got nothing to do with the bosses. That’s a lot of talk. It’s war aims – what to do when we’ve won.’

At that there was a final blanketing silence: the moment of spontaneity was lost for ever. Last week’s lecture had been so much better, thought Vincent; but then, that had been on venereal disease . . . He cast about him for some phrase which might stimulate further questions, and found none; the subject had been dealt with, the potent leaven distributed, and the result now confronted him, unalterable, totally defeating. Then, far away, came the sound of a pipe: the audience brightened and shuffled: the pipe came nearer, and with it the quartermaster’s voice: ‘Hands to dinner!’ There was movement at the back of the mess deck, a stirring, a heightened receptivity towards the first attractive idea of the morning. Vincent picked up his papers.

‘That’s all,’ he said. ‘You can carry on.’

Back in the wardroom, Allingham looked up when he came in.

‘What’s the matter, Vin? Brassed off?’

‘Yes,’ said Vincent. He went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. ‘I don’t think these lectures of mine are much use.’

‘What was it this time?’

‘War aims – post-war prospects . . .’ He swung round. ‘It ought to be interesting. It
is
interesting to me. But it doesn’t seem to raise a single spark, for anyone else.’

‘For some of them, surely,’ said Allingham helpfully.

Vincent shook his head. ‘No . . . It’s so difficult to make it sound convincing, or even to explain it properly. And morally speaking, people shouldn’t really be called upon to fight, if they don’t understand the real issues and wouldn’t believe in them if they did.’ He looked at Allingham with curiosity. ‘Do
you
think it matters?’

‘That we should explain – dress the war up a bit, make it a matter of conviction?’

‘Yes.’

Allingham considered, frowning. ‘I used to. I started the war like that, anyway. Now I’m not so sure. We’ve got to win the bloody thing, whatever material we use – willing or not . . . Perhaps it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference, either way, when it comes to action – fighting, danger. Able-Seaman Snooks doesn’t shout: “Another blow for democracy!” when he looses off a couple of rounds at an aircraft: he says “Got the bastard!” if he hits, and “— it!” if he misses. He just doesn’t want to get killed, and he doesn’t need any special inspiration or moral uplift for that.’

‘But you feel the need for it yourself?’

‘I don’t even know that. I came a long way to fight this war, and I thought it was some sort of crusade then – but maybe I’d have come anyway . . .’ He smiled, and rose, and came towards the sideboard and the gin bottle. ‘No good being left out, you know, even if you’re an Australian.’

‘But if it’s just a
war,’
said Vincent despondently, ‘it’s not worth winning, it’s not worth all the trouble.’

‘It’s even less worth losing,’ said Allingham, with conviction. ‘That’s one thing sure . . .’ He raised his glass, and drank deep, as if toasting the prospect of victory and survival. Then he smiled again. ‘Cheer up, kid! It’s too late to worry about it now, anyway.’

Now there was a lull – but it seemed a friendly, not a foreboding lull: this was the pause before going on holiday, not the halt on the edge of the grave. The transatlantic convoys went on, unceasingly, but convoys were different now – once again, they were like the convoys at the very beginning of the war: ships and men occasionally ran into trouble, but they were always other ships, other men – strangers who had had bad luck, amateurs who had probably made some silly mistake . . . For the most part, the U-boats held off, for a variety of reasons which could only be guessed at: it might be fear, it might be insufficient numbers, reorganisation, the saving of strength for some huge final effort. Whatever it was, the spring of that year gave them what all springs should give – ease, hope, and promise, in abundant measure.