Read Online HMS Marlborough Will Enter Harbour (1947) by Nicholas Monsarrat - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nicholas Monsarrat
Tags: WWII/Navel/Fiction
Ads: Link
stained white overalls.
‘Well, Chief?’
‘Pretty good, sir.’ He crossed to the pantry hatch and hammered on it, demanding his supper. Then he sat down in his usual place at the foot of the table, and leant back. ‘The switchboard’s done, and they’re working on the dynamo now: it had a bad shake-up, but I think we’ll manage.’ He was obviously very tired, eyelids drooping in a grey, lined face. The Captain suddenly realized how much depended on the man’s skill. ‘I’ll be flashing up when I’ve finished supper.’
‘How long before we can steam?’
‘Can’t say to the nearest hour, sir. It’ll be some time tomorrow, unless we run into more snags. There’s the boiler room to pump out, and a lot of cleaning up besides. It’ll only be one screw, I’m afraid. The other’s nearly locked; the shaft must be badly bent.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Bridger came in with the Chief’s supper, and for a little while there was silence as he ate. Then, between bites, he asked: ‘How’s the midshipman, sir?’
‘Pretty nearly gone. God knows what keeps him alive. His chest’s in an awful mess.’
Chief looked round the room, and said, ‘It’s funny to see this place empty.’
There was silence again till he had finished eating. They shared the same thoughts, but it was less discomforting to leave them unspoken. Bridger, coming in with the Chief’s coffee, broke the silence by asking the Captain: ‘Will you be sleeping down here, sir?’
‘No, in the asdic hut again.’
‘Will you see Petty Officer Adams, sir?’
‘Yes. Tell him to come in.’
There was a whispering in the pantry, and Adams came in cap in hand. ‘Same routine tonight, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Adams. Two look-outs, and the signalman on the bridge. I’ll be in the asdic hut.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Things seem to be going all right. We should get going some time tomorrow.’
Adams’s severe face cracked into a grin. ‘Can I tell the hands, sir?’
‘Yes, do.’ The Captain stood up, and began to put on his duffle coat. ‘How about some sleep for you, Chief?’
The Chief nodded. ‘As soon as I’ve finished up, sir. There’ll be a bit of time to spare then.’ Relaxing, with coffee cup in hand, he looked round the wardroom. ‘New Year’s Day, I wish we had the radio. It feels so cut off.’
‘With luck you’ll have your bedtime music tomorrow.’ He went out, stepping over the dozen sleeping men who crowded the alleyway, and made his way forward to the bridge again. With luck tomorrow might bring everything they were waiting for.
The sea was still calm, the glass unwaveringly steady.
He awoke suddenly at five o’clock, startled and uneasy. For a moment he puzzled over what had disturbed him: then he realized gratefully what it was. The lights had come on, and the little heater screwed to the bulkhead was glowing. It meant that the dynamos were now running properly, and the switchboard, which the Chief had been reserving for the engine room circuit, was able to deal with the full load. With a surge of thankfulness almost light-headed, he got up and went over to the side table. On it lay a chart and pair of dividers, ready for a job which, impelled by yet another of those queer fancies, he had sworn not to tackle until this moment had arrived. The course for home … He took out his pencil and prepared to calculate.
The only mark on the chart was Pilot’s neat cross (too damned appropriate) marking their estimated position when the torpedo struck them, with the time and date – 1630/31/12. From this he started to measure off. Distance to Clyde – 520 miles. Distance to the nearest of the Faeroes – 210 miles, and nothing much when you got there. Distance to the nearest point of Britain – the Butt of Lewis, 270 miles. And just round the corner, another thirty miles or so – Stornoway … That was the place to make for, he knew. It had no big repairing facilities, but it would be shelter enough,
‘Well, Chief?’
‘Pretty good, sir.’ He crossed to the pantry hatch and hammered on it, demanding his supper. Then he sat down in his usual place at the foot of the table, and leant back. ‘The switchboard’s done, and they’re working on the dynamo now: it had a bad shake-up, but I think we’ll manage.’ He was obviously very tired, eyelids drooping in a grey, lined face. The Captain suddenly realized how much depended on the man’s skill. ‘I’ll be flashing up when I’ve finished supper.’
‘How long before we can steam?’
‘Can’t say to the nearest hour, sir. It’ll be some time tomorrow, unless we run into more snags. There’s the boiler room to pump out, and a lot of cleaning up besides. It’ll only be one screw, I’m afraid. The other’s nearly locked; the shaft must be badly bent.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
Bridger came in with the Chief’s supper, and for a little while there was silence as he ate. Then, between bites, he asked: ‘How’s the midshipman, sir?’
‘Pretty nearly gone. God knows what keeps him alive. His chest’s in an awful mess.’
Chief looked round the room, and said, ‘It’s funny to see this place empty.’
There was silence again till he had finished eating. They shared the same thoughts, but it was less discomforting to leave them unspoken. Bridger, coming in with the Chief’s coffee, broke the silence by asking the Captain: ‘Will you be sleeping down here, sir?’
‘No, in the asdic hut again.’
‘Will you see Petty Officer Adams, sir?’
‘Yes. Tell him to come in.’
There was a whispering in the pantry, and Adams came in cap in hand. ‘Same routine tonight, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Adams. Two look-outs, and the signalman on the bridge. I’ll be in the asdic hut.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Things seem to be going all right. We should get going some time tomorrow.’
Adams’s severe face cracked into a grin. ‘Can I tell the hands, sir?’
‘Yes, do.’ The Captain stood up, and began to put on his duffle coat. ‘How about some sleep for you, Chief?’
The Chief nodded. ‘As soon as I’ve finished up, sir. There’ll be a bit of time to spare then.’ Relaxing, with coffee cup in hand, he looked round the wardroom. ‘New Year’s Day, I wish we had the radio. It feels so cut off.’
‘With luck you’ll have your bedtime music tomorrow.’ He went out, stepping over the dozen sleeping men who crowded the alleyway, and made his way forward to the bridge again. With luck tomorrow might bring everything they were waiting for.
The sea was still calm, the glass unwaveringly steady.
He awoke suddenly at five o’clock, startled and uneasy. For a moment he puzzled over what had disturbed him: then he realized gratefully what it was. The lights had come on, and the little heater screwed to the bulkhead was glowing. It meant that the dynamos were now running properly, and the switchboard, which the Chief had been reserving for the engine room circuit, was able to deal with the full load. With a surge of thankfulness almost light-headed, he got up and went over to the side table. On it lay a chart and pair of dividers, ready for a job which, impelled by yet another of those queer fancies, he had sworn not to tackle until this moment had arrived. The course for home … He took out his pencil and prepared to calculate.
The only mark on the chart was Pilot’s neat cross (too damned appropriate) marking their estimated position when the torpedo struck them, with the time and date – 1630/31/12. From this he started to measure off. Distance to Clyde – 520 miles. Distance to the nearest of the Faeroes – 210 miles, and nothing much when you got there. Distance to the nearest point of Britain – the Butt of Lewis, 270 miles. And just round the corner, another thirty miles or so – Stornoway … That was the place to make for, he knew. It had no big repairing facilities, but it would be shelter enough,
Similar Books
