Read Online The Cruel Sea (1951) by Nicholas Monsarrat - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicholas Monsarrat
Tags: WWII/Navel/Fiction
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and said tentatively: ‘Bit cold up here, sir.’
It was the first remark he had volunteered since they came on watch, and Ferraby looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew him by sight already: his name was Rose – a young, newly-joined rating, younger even than Ferraby and only just qualified as an ordinary signalman. He was something like Ferraby in manner, too: shy, unsure of himself, ready to believe most of what he was told in totally new surroundings. Earlier, at the change of the watch, Ferraby had heard Leading-Signalman Wells handing over to him, using an encouraging, almost fatherly tone which must have been reassuring to a boy standing his first night duty. ‘Now you don’t need to get rattled,’ Wells had said, ‘you know the challenge, and the reply, and that’s about all there’s likely to be, when we’re routed independently. But if we meet anyone, and there’s a signal, sing out for me straight away, and I’ll be up to give you a hand.’ The contrast between this friendly backing, this verbal arm-round-the-shoulder, and the sort of thing he himself had to endure from Bennett, had been so marked that momentarily Ferraby had found himself wishing that he could be an ordinary signalman, with Wells to help him, instead of a sub, with a tough First Lieutenant bullying him all the time. But he was not so sure of that feeling now, after half an hour in charge of the ship. If only it could always be like this . . .
He said: ‘Yes, it’s damned cold,’ and feeling the need to lead the conversation, he added: ‘What’s it like below?’
‘Warm enough, sir,’ answered Rose. ‘But it’s very crowded. And the walls’ – he corrected himself hurriedly – ‘the bulkheads sweat all the time. Makes everything wet through. It takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘Is this your first ship?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long have you been in?’
‘A month, sir. Just the training.’
‘What were you before you joined?’
Rose hesitated, and then answered: ‘I helped with a van, sir.’
A van boy . . . A van boy, and now a signalman in a ship that might go anywhere in the world and meet God-knows-what hazards . . . There was enough of a parallel between Rose’s change of status, and his own, for Ferraby to be conscious of a strong fellow feeling with him. But was that a relationship which was encouraged by the Royal Navy? He shied away from the thought, and, hunching his shoulders which were stiffening with cold, said: ‘I wonder if we could get some tea?’
‘There’s some cocoa on in the galley, sir,’ Rose volunteered. ‘Shall I ask the bosun’s mate?’
‘Yes, do.’
The cocoa, when it came up, was sweet and strong and very comforting. They drank it together, side by side under the cold sky, while beneath their feet the ship lifted gently to the swell, and the sea fell back from her cleaving bow and turned outwards in a mile-long furrow, and their track was lost in the darkness astern.
Later in the watch, a cluster of lights low in the water told Ferraby that they were running into another bunch of the fishing boats which were all round the coast that night. This fleet of them lay directly on Compass Rose’s course, and he wondered if he ought to call the Captain: but his spell on the bridge had given him plenty of confidence, and on an impulse he bent to the voice-pipe and spoke his first helm order.
‘Port ten.’
The quartermaster’s voice answered him. ‘Port ten, sir . . . Ten of port wheel on, sir.’
‘Midships.’
‘Midships . . . Wheel’s amidships, sir.’
‘Steady.’
‘Steady, sir . . . Course, north, twenty-five west, sir.’
They held the new course for five minutes, till the fishing boats were abeam and well clear of them. Then he brought the ship back on her former course, and was just about to make a note of the manoeuvre in the deck log when from the Captain’s voice-pipe there came a sudden call: ‘Bridge!’
‘Bridge, sir,’
It was the first remark he had volunteered since they came on watch, and Ferraby looked at him out of the corner of his eye. He knew him by sight already: his name was Rose – a young, newly-joined rating, younger even than Ferraby and only just qualified as an ordinary signalman. He was something like Ferraby in manner, too: shy, unsure of himself, ready to believe most of what he was told in totally new surroundings. Earlier, at the change of the watch, Ferraby had heard Leading-Signalman Wells handing over to him, using an encouraging, almost fatherly tone which must have been reassuring to a boy standing his first night duty. ‘Now you don’t need to get rattled,’ Wells had said, ‘you know the challenge, and the reply, and that’s about all there’s likely to be, when we’re routed independently. But if we meet anyone, and there’s a signal, sing out for me straight away, and I’ll be up to give you a hand.’ The contrast between this friendly backing, this verbal arm-round-the-shoulder, and the sort of thing he himself had to endure from Bennett, had been so marked that momentarily Ferraby had found himself wishing that he could be an ordinary signalman, with Wells to help him, instead of a sub, with a tough First Lieutenant bullying him all the time. But he was not so sure of that feeling now, after half an hour in charge of the ship. If only it could always be like this . . .
He said: ‘Yes, it’s damned cold,’ and feeling the need to lead the conversation, he added: ‘What’s it like below?’
‘Warm enough, sir,’ answered Rose. ‘But it’s very crowded. And the walls’ – he corrected himself hurriedly – ‘the bulkheads sweat all the time. Makes everything wet through. It takes a bit of getting used to.’
‘Is this your first ship?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long have you been in?’
‘A month, sir. Just the training.’
‘What were you before you joined?’
Rose hesitated, and then answered: ‘I helped with a van, sir.’
A van boy . . . A van boy, and now a signalman in a ship that might go anywhere in the world and meet God-knows-what hazards . . . There was enough of a parallel between Rose’s change of status, and his own, for Ferraby to be conscious of a strong fellow feeling with him. But was that a relationship which was encouraged by the Royal Navy? He shied away from the thought, and, hunching his shoulders which were stiffening with cold, said: ‘I wonder if we could get some tea?’
‘There’s some cocoa on in the galley, sir,’ Rose volunteered. ‘Shall I ask the bosun’s mate?’
‘Yes, do.’
The cocoa, when it came up, was sweet and strong and very comforting. They drank it together, side by side under the cold sky, while beneath their feet the ship lifted gently to the swell, and the sea fell back from her cleaving bow and turned outwards in a mile-long furrow, and their track was lost in the darkness astern.
Later in the watch, a cluster of lights low in the water told Ferraby that they were running into another bunch of the fishing boats which were all round the coast that night. This fleet of them lay directly on Compass Rose’s course, and he wondered if he ought to call the Captain: but his spell on the bridge had given him plenty of confidence, and on an impulse he bent to the voice-pipe and spoke his first helm order.
‘Port ten.’
The quartermaster’s voice answered him. ‘Port ten, sir . . . Ten of port wheel on, sir.’
‘Midships.’
‘Midships . . . Wheel’s amidships, sir.’
‘Steady.’
‘Steady, sir . . . Course, north, twenty-five west, sir.’
They held the new course for five minutes, till the fishing boats were abeam and well clear of them. Then he brought the ship back on her former course, and was just about to make a note of the manoeuvre in the deck log when from the Captain’s voice-pipe there came a sudden call: ‘Bridge!’
‘Bridge, sir,’
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