Читать книгу Storm Below - Hugh Garner - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

Stoker Petty Officer Jim Collet stood on the deck plates of the forward boiler room, and instructed Second Class Stoker “Frenchy” Turgeon in the changing of a broken water gauge glass. In his hand he was holding a gland nut, and was showing Frenchy how to fit new packing rings.

“Dis kid, he broke ’is arm, eh?” Frenchy asked.

“Yeah.”

“Dat’s de firs’ time I ever know somebody to die wit’ dis.”

“He didn’t die of a broken arm, stupid.”

“What ’e die of, den?”

“Old age,” said Jimmy, fitting the new glass.

Whenever there is an emergency upon a ship of war, there are men detailed to take care of it, and except for these men, the other members of the crew carry on with their normal routine. The job that Collet and Turgeon were doing this morning, down below in the boiler room, was a small one, and yet it was important to the lives of every man aboard.

A ship crossing the ocean in wartime, except in cases of dire necessity, cannot stop. The pulse of the engines is so vital, and so necessary, that the men begin to believe nothing can ever happen which will break down that inexorable forward thrust, which is so much a part of their lives afloat. Were the engines to stop, the ship immediately ceases to be a fighting unit, and becomes a floating hulk, prey to enemy action, and prey also to the vast seething sea lying beneath it, ever ready to boil and froth and suck this saucy thing of steel and wood and human bodies into its vortex.

Frenchy put some tools away before he said, “Dis kid was but — un jeune garçon — young boy. ’Ow could ’e die of old age?”

“Okay, make an argument out of it,” answered Jimmy.

“I don’t unnerstan’?”

“Neither does anybody else.”

Jimmy climbed up the vertical ladders from the stokehold and took the gauntlets from his hands in order to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He stood for a minute or two framed in the hatch, watching the approach of the destroyer St. Helens, as she came sliding up on the port side.

From beneath him he could hear the clang of the engine room telegraph, and the sound of Frenchy answering the voice pipe in the stokehold. Frenchy’s voice had an argumentative ring, with its French-Canadian accent and the Gallic inflections on the word endings. It wafted up through the hot air from the boilers, “Sure, wat you t’ink? Je’ Chris’! I shut him off ten minute ago!”

Poor Frenchy! He was the only one of his kind among seventy-seven jeering French-baiters. From morn until night he listened to the talk about the “pea-soupers” and the Quebec draft dodgers. The crew kidded him, laughed at his accent, and drove him almost to madness, yet there wasn’t a man aboard who wouldn’t have given him his shirt. And when they talked about the anti-war sentiment in Quebec (without quite knowing what it was all about) they made an exception of Frenchy.

Jim turned around, and lowering his head inside the hatch, yelled, “Quiet, you pea-souper, they can’t hear themselves on the bridge.”

Frenchy made an uncomplimentary remark about what they could do on the bridge if they didn’t like it.

Collet crossed to the railing around the engine room fiddley and leaned there watching the activity of the crew aboard the destroyer. They were lowering a boat from the davits, and with the ship still underway they were being careful that it did not capsize when it hit the water.

With a small cloud of spray, and some mad scrambling by, its crew to get rid of the lines, it was cast off, and the crew began pulling towards the Riverford. In the stern sheets sat two officers, one of them the surgeon and the other the officer in charge of the boat.

Jim let his eyes take in the destroyer crew who were lined along the weather deck. Standing abaft the torpedo tubes was a friend of his, a chief stoker, and he tried to get his attention by making motions as though he were hoisting a glass of beer. The other would not look in his direction, but centred his gaze on the boat.

It was a lot of use to send the MO aboard now, after the kid was dead. Why did the Old Man want to have the doctor come and tell him what everybody knew? It must be a formality or something, he thought.

Peebles, the leading cook, climbed up the ladder and stood beside him, his face glistening in the cold air. “Is this the MO coming aboard?” he asked.

“Yeah,” answered Jimmy curtly. He resented having to give Peebles a civil answer, who never to his knowledge had spoken civilly to anybody in his galley.

“It’s about time.”

“Yeah.”

“That kid died of internal hemorrhages,” Peebles said. “The tiffy should have known what to do.”

“How would he know?”

“He could have found out.”

“Oh, balls; he’s not a doctor! A person can’t know everything. For instance, you can’t bake bread,” he said, getting in his sting.

“I don’t see you chucking it over the side.”

“You don’t see me eating it either.”

They were quiet as the boat was made fast to the corvette’s side. A ladder was lowered and the surgeon, trying to appear accustomed to climbing out of small boats in the middle of the Atlantic, came inboard.

He was a tall, gangling young man of uncertain age, wearing glasses. He carried his head high with a hauteur which could have been due to his rank, or may have been caused by astigmatism. The first lieutenant met him and led him through the hatch to the captain’s flats. The doctor’s demeanour was a study in the effect of lieutenant’s stripes on a bedside manner. It looked as though he wanted to appear officious and businesslike, but was prevented by his professional charm.

“He looks as though he’s going to deliver a baby,” said Peebles. “It looks to me as though he’s just had one,” answered Jimmy. The telegraph rang and the ship got underway again.

When the captain entered his cabin from the bridge, after seeing to the transfer of the surgeon, the doctor jumped to his feet, but was waved down again. The first lieutenant said, “This is Lieutenant-Commander Frigsby. Sir, may I present Surgeon Lieutenant Craddock?”

The captain shook his hand. “It’s getting cold out,” he offered by way of greeting.

“Yes, sir, it is,” Craddock answered. He had noticed the DSC ribbon on the captain’s uniform which was hanging in the closet.

Not a very prepossessing man, he thought. Short and thin, very English. Not altogether “old school tie,” but a damn good facsimile. Merchant Navy type. Probably not as much spit and polish as some, but everything in damn good working order.

“Your boat will pick you up at eleven hundred,” the captain said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Probably a bore riding with us until then, but we’ve got to regain our position with the other ships.”

“I understand, sir.”

“You know, of course, that your patient is dead?”

“I wasn’t aware of it, sir,” answered Craddock without showing his surprise.

“He died about an hour ago.”

Craddock looked at him, as though asking why, then, he had been summoned.

The captain surmised his thoughts. “I’d like you to take a look at the body,” he said. “We have to know the cause of death and things of that sort.” He thought, this man hasn’t been a doctor very long. Probably a medical school graduate who is doing his internship in the navy.

Craddock rose from the chair in which he had been sitting and followed the blue-sweatered form of the captain up forward to the seamen’s mess. Some of the men jumped to their feet at the entrance of the officers, but the captain murmured, “Carry on,” and they sat down again.

The doctor pulled the sheet from the body of Knobby, and looked him up and down, flexing the unbroken arm, and looking into the eyes. The captain whispered a few words to the first lieutenant who left the mess, reappearing again a moment later followed by the sick berth attendant.

When the doctor looked up and saw the red cross on the sleeve of the tiffy’s jacket, he asked officiously, “When did you first see this man?”

“As soon as they got me up, sir, about seven o’clock. Maybe a little before that.”

“What was his state then?”

“Unconscious, sir.”

“Where was he?”

“Lying here on the table, sir.”

“What did you do?”

“I had him undressed, and applied splints to his broken arm.”

“Did you notice anything else?”

“I took his pulse. It was slow and erratic.”

“Was his coma prolonged?”

“He never woke up, sir.”

“What was your diagnosis? I mean after you noticed his pulse?”

“I had none. I notified the captain that I was afraid there was more wrong with him than a broken arm.”

“Were you not aware that he was suffering from a fractured skull?”

The captain answered before Bodley. “There was no hemorrhage then. The sick berth attendant wrapped him up, and mentioned to me that we should call on you. I believe that this is the standard practice in cases of this kind. If he had been aware that the man’s skull was fractured he could have done nothing more than keep the patient warm and apply cold cloths.”

“Quite so,” the doctor answered. He thought, this bird is tough, and he sticks up for his men.

“Are you finished with Bodley?” the captain asked, pointing at the tiffy.

“Yes. Oh, of course.”

“Carry on, Bodley,” said the captain.

Later on in the wardroom the captain gave Craddock a drink of rum and Coke. When the MO had made a tentative sip at his drink, the captain asked, “How long will a body keep, Doctor?”

“It depends of course on the temperature, and the state of injury or cause of death.”

They are like lawyers, the captain thought, never give a straight answer for fear it is the wrong one. Hedge and wander around a question like a child licking an ice-cream cone. “How long will that lad’s body keep aboard a ship? One, two, maybe three days?”

“I think so.”

“The reason I’m asking is that I’d like to take him into St. John’s and have him buried ashore. Some day, after the war, his parents might like to visit his grave. That sort of thing means a lot to a parent.”

The doctor thought, I like him; he’s hard, and he doesn’t like me, but I like him. He answered, “I think you could carry the body that long.”

“Good. Where do you suggest we put him?”

“Somewhere cool. On the upper deck, or the icebox.”

“No, not the upper deck, and I’m afraid that the icebox is out too.”

“Anywhere that is reasonably cool.”

The captain called, “Steward!”

“Yes, sir,” the steward said, appearing like a genie from the pantry where he had been eavesdropping.

“Get the coxswain and the chief ERA.”

In a few minutes the two chiefs appeared outside the wardroom. The coxswain, a short, bandy-legged Great Lakes sailor with a heavy set of black whiskers, was nervously twirling his cap in his hand. The chief ERA was a much older man than any of the others aboard, a Merchant Marine reservist who had spent thirty-five years on Grand Banks trawlers. A pair of solid legs held up a gigantic belly. His face was round and red-mottled behind its three-day beard.

“Come in, please,” said the captain. He introduced them to the surgeon lieutenant.

“We have a problem on our hands,” he said. “We have decided to carry the body of Ordinary Seaman Clark to St. John’s for burial ashore. Can either of you suggest where we can place it for the next two or three days?”

The coxswain said, “How about the icebox, sir? There isn’t much meat and stuff in there now, and we could —”

“No, the icebox is out. I don’t want a mutiny aboard.”

The coxswain laughed self-consciously.

“How about you, Chief?” asked the captain, facing the CERA.

“Well, sir, you could put him down in my stores. It’s cool down there — well below the water line — and it’s private.”

“Good! That’s an excellent suggestion.” He looked at the coxswain, who was thirstily staring at the doctor’s half-finished rum. “Now, Coxswain, I want you to take three or four of the older men, Wright and McCaffrey and one or two others, and get the sail-maker to sew the boy up in a hammock. I don’t want him to be made ready for a sea burial or anything like that, but fastened so that the body will be protected until we can put it ashore. The chief will have his men ready the stores, and you’ll place the lad down there, making sure that he is wrapped securely, and properly stowed. Any questions? Good. That’s all.”

After they had left, the captain rang for the steward and told him to bring the doctor another rum. “I wonder if you’d have a look at another patient while you are here?” he asked.

“Why yes, sir, what is wrong with him?”

“The usual. He is a signalman who is currently suffering from an occupational disease common to young sailors, picked up, I believe, in a bistro called the Silver Harp in Belfast. The sick berth attendant has been feeding him sulpha pills, but I thought that it wouldn’t hurt if you had a look at him.”

“A case of the quick and the dead,” the doctor said as the rum began to warm him.

“Not quick enough I’m afraid,” answered the captain with a short laugh as he let himself down, tiredly, on to the settee.

Chief Petty Officer Frank Cartwright, the coxswain of the Riverford, entered the seamen’s mess, took off his cap, and called across to the hammock which held Leading Seaman McCaffrey. “Hey, Mac, I’ve got a job for you.”

McCaffrey pushed himself up on one elbow and, hanging on to the hammock next to his own, asked, “What?”

“Get up and I’ll tell you.”

“Oh, Jesus, Frank! Let me get my head down. I’ve been up during the morning watch, you know.”

“I know, but this is orders from the Old Man.”

He could hear McCaffrey sitting up somewhere across the expanse of swaying hammocks, then his legs came into view as he pulled on his socks over his dirty feet. McCaffrey jumped down to the deck and found his sea boots under the lockers and pulled them on. When he came out from beneath the hammocks he was rubbing his eyes, which were bloodshot and bright against the dark, ten-day stubble of beard.

“What the hell is it now, Frank? Can’t you get any of the other leading hands for a change?”

“The Old Man told me to get you,” the coxswain replied, sitting down on one of the benches and ducking his head under a low-slung hammock. He gave a critical glance across the deck at the pool of black water with its flotsam of cigarette packages and bread crusts that was slopping to and fro under the lockers with every movement of the ship.

“What does the Old Man want? Two hands to paint the subby’s cabin?” asked McCaffrey sarcastically.

“We’ve got to stow the kid here for the rest of the trip,” the coxswain answered, pointing behind him at the still form on the table.

“Stow him!”

“Yeah, we’re taking him with us to Newfy.”

“Oh, good God! Why?”

“I don’t know. The Old Man and the doc from the St. Helens had me and the chief down in the wardroom. They asked us where was the best place to stow the body until we got in.”

“We can’t carry a stiff that far. How many more days does he think it’ll take?”

“Two or three, I guess.”

McCaffrey shrugged, pursing his lips distastefully. “Where will we put him? In the tiller fiats?”

“No, in the engineer’s stores.”

“Thank God for that!”