Author: Wal Watkins
Date: 1969-12-31T14:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; General Fiction/Classics; Navy; WWII; Mutiny; Homosexuality
Description: Wayward Warriors is concerned with a mutiny on the Australian destroyer Jacaranda during World War II. A new commander, Hardridge, widely dubbed “The Fuehrer” for his ruthless ideas about the maintenance of discipline on ships, begins by studying the personnel files and soon learns that there is an incorrigible rebel and misfit, McCall, in the crew. Here indeed is a challenge to him. He knows how to deal with the McCalls of this world, despite the advice of his officers that a bit of tact instead of brutality will get him further. McCall does prove incorrigible and spends most of his time unde
Publisher: Robert Hale & Company

WAYWARD WARRIORS

Wayward Warriors is concerned with a mutiny on the Australian destroyer Jacaranda during World War II. A new commander, Hardridge, widely dubbed “The Fuehrer” for his ruthless ideas about the maintenance of discipline on ships, begins by studying the personnel files and soon learns that there is an incorrigible rebel and misfit, McCall, in the crew. Here indeed is a challenge to him. He knows how to deal with the McCalls of this world, despite the advice of his officers that a bit of tact instead of brutality will get him further.

McCall does prove incorrigible and spends most of his time under one sort of punishment or another. But the other men sympathise with him, not because of who he is but out of their intense dislike of Hardridge and his “gestapo” ways, a dislike that is shared by nearly all the officers. So general is the hatred that when Hardridge brings things to a climax by prohibiting sleeping on the decks in a very hot climate (to prevent homosexuality, as he thinks), mutiny breaks out.

By the same author

RACE THE LAZY RIVER

THE WAYWARD GANG

SOLILOQUY IN THE SIMPSON

THE PERILOUS HOURS

ANDAMOOKA

SHADOW OF THE WHIP

PRISONERS IN PARADISE

© Wal Watkins 1970

First published in Great Britain 1970

SEN 7091 1216 5

Robert Hale & Company

63 Old Brompton Road

London, S.W.7

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY

BRISTOL TYPESETTING CO. LTD.

BARTON MANOR - ST. PHILIPS

BRISTOL

To all those men

who lived and laughed with me

aboard a destroyer.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Wayward Warriors is based on lesser known facts of life in the Royal Australian Navy in which I served. Names of ships and characters are fictitious but similar events and incidents did happen and those concerning mutiny and homosexuality were carefully ensconsed by those in authority.

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter One

To each of the wayward warriors: “You are cordially invited to attend the first Anzac reunion of the H.M.A.S. Jacaranda Club at the Kingsway Hotel, Adelaide, on April 24th at 5 p.m.”

You know about Anzac Day. It falls on the 25th of April and commemorates the landing of Australian and New Zealand troops at Gallipoli in 1915. It’s a public holiday in Australia and ex-servicemen have a ball.

It is supposed to be a day for remembering, so come on all you wayward warriors, think back. This is your first reunion in twenty-six years and that takes you back to 1942. But it was a year before that when it all began, remember? April, 1941. England in the spring. The Luftwaffe was pounding hell out of the country every night. Hess had parachuted into Scotland and there were rumours of peace. The enemy was still cheering after sinking the Hood. The British Navy was fighting U boats at sea and licking its wounds in the ports of Liverpool, Glasgow, Portsmouth, Southampton …

Southampton sprawling under a pall of smoke and smog. Bomb craters in the streets and buildings skeletoned from incendiaries. In the harbour, ships wearing all sorts of camouflages; among them, berthed at a south side wharf, a rusty old Australian destroyer on whose upper deck a tall officer walked.

Commander John Rupert Hardridge, better known to the lower deck as The Fuehrer. Earlier on this day the previous commander, Walker, had been rushed ashore for an emergency operation. Hardridge had come aboard at short notice and was still getting the feel of the ship.

Now he began walking aft along the port side of the forecastle. Immaculate in his number one uniform, he walked straight-backed—always straight because of the telescope which was locked under his left arm by his right arm across his back, the hand gripping the lens. He went down the port side ladder on to the iron deck and proceeded aft, passing the forward stack, the pom-pom deck, the after stack, torpedo tubes, and the after steering position. Walking from the iron deck on to the quarter deck, his right hand left the telescope lens briefly to touch his cap in salute.

In the flat space below the quarter deck he felt instantly at home. There were five cabins here; his was the farthest aft, next to the wardroom which spanned the full width of the ship. He hung his cap on its peg behind the door, then took off his coat and hung it on a hanger below the cap—he dusted a speck of dust from the lowest of the three gold rings on one sleeve before stretching out on his bunk.

It was cosy and quiet in the cabin with nothing to distract his thoughts of his first ship of command. He had seen all of her now and could add up the score. She was a relic of the first world war; one of the five destroyers that had become known as “the scrap-iron flotilla Once a coal-burner, now converted to oil. Rusty tubes and old turbines hepped up to drive 1,200 tons of ship at nearly forty knots. Armament: twin 4.7 inch forward and aft, pom-poms and torpedo tubes amidships; depth charge throwers aft; Lewis and Vickers mounted wherever there was space on the upper deck. Old armoury for an old ship. But his ship; seaworthy and ready for war once her crew came aboard. He reached up and pressed the button marked Q.M. on the bulkhead above his bunk.

A few minutes passed before the quartermaster appeared, cap in hand, in the doorway of the cabin. “You rang, sir.”

“Fetch me coffee,” Hardridge said.

“Ay ay, sir.” The Q.M. withdrew and Hardridge lay looking around the cabin that he hoped would be his for the duration of the war. A small desk with padded seating, bolted to the deck in one corner; a tap and handbasin near it. Beneath his bunk large drawers for his clothing and other personal items. On the forward bulkhead, three bookshelves filled with books dealing with the history, customs and regulations of the British and Australian Navies. A neat, compact cabin, and he liked it.

The Q.M. came with the coffee on a tray and Hardridge said: “Put it on my desk.” He rolled off his bunk and stood before the mirror above the handbasin, running a comb through his short black curly hair. The Q.M. was standing back waiting to see if there was anything else. Hardridge let him wait for a while, then said: “That’ll be all.”

The Q.M. went out into the flat and climbed the companion-way to the quarter deck. Nigger Gebbs, the duty leading seaman, was lounging at the guard rails on the port side of the deck and he walked towards him grouching under his breath. His name was Able Seaman Freer and he was small and sallow faced and one of the oldest men on board. He had served all but a week of his final term in the Navy when war broke out and trapped him in the service for the duration. He had been sour with the Navy ever since, especially with those officers who treated him as if he was an ordinary seaman. “Roll on the armistice if I’ve got to lackey for that bastard,” he said as he stood beside Gebbs.

Gebbs eased his long form off the guard rails. “The Fuehrer. What’s wrong with him?”

“What’s right. Fetch me coffee, he says, and I fetch it. Put it on my desk. That’ll be all. No thank you, kiss my arse, or anything.”

Gebbs straightened his cap and hooked his thumbs inside the front of his trousers. “Well, they don’t call him The Fuehrer for nothing.”

The buzzer at the top of the companionway sounded and Freer spun around. “What’s the bastard want now?” he grouched and headed for the ladder.

Hardridge was sitting at his desk looking at service records of the crew when Freer re-entered the cabin. Without looking up, he said: “Tell the first lieutenant I want him.”

“Ay ay, sir.” Freer crossed the flat to Rollinson’s cabin and delivered the message, then went back to Gebbs on the quarter deck. “He wanted The Jimmy. And guess what he’s doing down there.”

“How would I know?” Gebbs said.

“Looking over the service records.”

“Well, he’s got to do that some time.”

“On his first day aboard? I bet he’s lining some poor sucker up for punishment already.”

Gebbs shrugged. “Give him another week and he’ll have the chiefs and P.O.s running around like Gestapo.”

Freer stared across the harbour and whirled his boatswain’s whistle around on its silver chain. “I wish to Christ I’d deserted in my last week of service, that’s what I wish.”

As Rollinson entered the cabin, Hardridge motioned to the padded seat on the opposite side of his desk. “Sit down, number one.”

Rollinson sat down and watched his new commander browsing through service records. He noticed the high cheek bones on which grew black tufts of hair, and he felt nervous. He had never met Hardridge before today, but had heard a lot about him and guessed he might be in for a torrid time as his number one officer.

“There are some things I want to get straight about the crew,” Hardridge said. He searched among the files which contained the service history of each man and the conduct grading of every commanding officer he had served under. He found the file he sought and opened it out. “The Coxswain. Has he proved satisfactory?”

“Yes sir. admirably.”

“Has he really?” Hardridge rested his black eyes on him and Rollinson knew he was being challenged already. “Well… I’d say so, sir.”

“As you know, number one, my previous service has been aboard cruisers. We did not have Coxswains, but a master-at-arms and his staff. I imagine the duties are similar.”

“That is so, sir.”

“Well, Chief Petty Officer Stringer doesn’t appear to have been very active. With the exception of one rating, the men of this ship seem to have unblemished records since leaving Australia.”

“Their conduct has been very good, sir.” Rollinson shifted uneasily in his seat before the piercing black eyes. “Of course, Commander Walker did treat them fairly.”

“Fairly,” Hardridge said sharply.

“Well… leniently, sir.”

“I see.” Hardridge studied the record for a while, then said: “I notice our Coxswain was once attached to the penitentiary at Garden Island.”

“Yes, sir. He was there for about two years.”

“In that case he should be quite capable of administering discipline.”

“I’m sure he is, sir.”

Hardridge put the record aside and looked at him. “Well, number one, I am not a lenient man and I do not allow my officers to be. Is that clear?”

Rollinson wet his lips. “Yes, sir.”

“Kindly make it clear to the Coxswain also.”

“Very well, sir.”

Hardridge opened another file. “Our gunnery officer is Sub-Lieutenant Slee and I notice he is R.A.N.V.R.”

“Yes, sir, he is the only reserve officer on board. He gave up medical studies at the outbreak of war to join us.”

“Have you any complaints about him?”

“No, sir”

“I’m surprised.”

Rollinson hesitated … “Sir.”

“I distrust reservists. They like the uniform but not the life, and they are usually undisciplined.” Abruptly, he picked up another file. “Now about this rating who is apparently the only trouble-maker on board.”

Rollinson glimpsed the maze of red ink entries on the record. “Able Seaman McCall, sir.”

Hardridge raised one hand and began toying with the whiskers on one cheek as he studied the record. “He has served on five ships since he left the training depot in 1938 and each commanding officer has rated his conduct bad.”

“His conduct is rather disgraceful, sir,” Rollinson said. Hardridge stopped playing with his whiskers and looked at Rollinson. “What is your opinion of him?”

“Well, sir, I think he is incorrigible.”

“Incorrigible be damned,” Hardridge said, then before Rollinson could think what to say, he continued: “There is no incorrigible rating in our Navy, number one. Our punishment schedules see to that.”

Rollinson said: “I agree, sir, but this rating is an exceptional case.”

“What’s exceptional about him?”

“Well, sir, he’s past reforming; he’s twenty-two and …”

“I don’t care a damn how old he is.”

Rollinson fell silent. Hardridge looked at McCall’s record again, then checked entries in the log book which lay beneath the pile of files. “This offence which appears to have been his most serious; assaulting Able Seaman Jeckman. What was that about?”

“Well, McCall attacked him, sir. A nasty business. Jeckman had to be put ashore in Singapore for medical attention.”

“What did he attack him with?”

“His fists, sir.”

Hardridge seemed mildly surprised. “And why did he attack him?”

“I believe it concerned an Ordinary Seaman Fennessy, sir. There was an incident in the showers. This Jeckman was molesting Fennessy and McCall intervened.”

“Molesting?”

“Yes, sir. You see, Fennessy is rather an … er … good looking youth.”

Hardridge stared at the log for a while, then leaned back in his seat. “As I was saying, number one, no rating is incorrigible in this Navy. There was a man aboard our flagship one time who was trying to ‘work his discharge’ as the saying goes. I was his divisional officer and it took me five years to correct him. Do you know where he is now?”

“No, sir”

“He’s a petty officer aboard the Alice Springs.”

Rollinson looked away from his commander’s gaze. “Well, sir, that is a credit to you.”

“And to him,” Hardridge said. “Never let us fail to commend a rating who mends his ways.” He pushed the stack of files aside. “Now, officers’ leave expires at sixteen hundred tomorrow, is that correct?”

“That’s so, sir.”

“Good. I shall address them at sixteen-fifty, Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all for the time.”

Rollinson stood up and keeping his lean form upright, walked from the cabin into the wardroom and through it to the pantry. Bicarbonate would settle the nerves of his stomach.

Chapter Two

Rocky McCall and Freddy Fennessy were spending their leave in London, sharing a room at the Y.M.C.A. in The Strand. Oppos at sea and ashore, they were seldom apart; but on this evening Freddy had taken his girl to Kent and Rocky was at the Covent Garden dance hall with Sybil. They were at a table on the balcony floor, waiting for Quentin Reynolds, the American correspondent who was guest for the evening, to come on stage. It was getting late and they had only danced once, in a modern waltz. The floor had been crowded and he’d had to dance close to her. That had been nice and frustrating with him wishing all the time he could get her out of there and home to that doorway opposite where she lived in East Aldgate. This was his fourth and final night out with Sybil and he was determined to do some good for himself.

Quentin Reyonlds came on the stage and started drawling about Mister Schickelgrubber which was what he called Hitler, and about Gabby Goebells. He said something like: “Ah no, Gabby Goebells, there is only one difference between England and America. In England they drive on the left side, and in America they drive on the right side. And England and America will drive down that long white road into Berlin. They’ll take down your swastika and hoist the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes …”

He said a lot more, but Sybil’s knee was resting against McCall’s under the table and he wasn’t much interested in anything except her. And when Quentin finished speaking he got out of there and took Sybil with him.

It was eleven o’clock. The first air raid had not been and it looked as if they might give London a rest this night. At Trafalgar Square they took the underground east and travelled sitting opposite a couple of young goons who kept ogling Sybil and making cracks about yids. Sybil was a Jew and McCall had nothing against the race. If the goons had carried on much longer McCall would have straightened them out, but they reached East Aldgate in time.

The blackout closed around them as they walked away from the station. The night was black and eerie; the kind of night that made you listen for the drone of planes even though you knew you wouldn’t hear them until after the sirens sounded.

They walked down Commercial Road and his arm was round her small waist, his head close to her black, scented hair. I’ve got to make it with her tonight, he thought. This time tomorrow I’ll be back on board and Christ knows when my next leave will be. The dark shape of Rothschild’s building loomed ahead on the opposite side of the road and he was aware of her firm thigh brushing against him. It seemed to take a hell of a long time to reach the doorway.

“It’s like your home,” she said as he pulled her deep inside the alcove.

He kissed her and launched his plea: “I love you, sweety, honest I do. I don’t know how the heck I’ll live after tonight. I’ll go nuts thinking about you.” His hands caressed her hips, then her thighs, and then lifted her frock …

“No,” she said. “No, don’t.”

I’ll take it if she doesn’t come across, he thought, and kissed her again. “It’s my last night,” he pleaded on a different tact. “I know I’ll see you again next leave, but that’s a long way off.” Again he lifted her dress and now felt the hardness of her stockinged thigh and heard her tremulous breathing and the pounding of her heart against his chest. She’s weakening, he thought, and slid his hand up to ferret past elastic and buckles to find the big muscles, and then the curling pubic hair, and then the moist flesh. He pressed there, with all his fingers, and it was like a yielding sponge. Then he pressed the index finger up and drew it forward to find the vital spot which, with increasing pressure, he began to massage. The moisture formed immediately and seemed to flow as she sighed and moaned. He pressed deeper then, with two fingers, and explored slowly, like the weaving antennae of a roving insect…

“I want to, Rocky,” she whimpered. “You’re … the first Aussy … I’ve known. I like you and … I want to, but …” She made a tacky sound that was like a soft kiss, and it was her lips making that sound and he wanted to kiss them as he had kissed the lips of other girls who had gone to honey down there. But how, standing up like this? He lowered his head impulsively and kissed her throat, and then her chest. “No,” she begged. “No, Rocky. Please no.” Oh Christ, if only I could get to her breasts, he thought, and feeling her legs yielding, dropped to his knees, and as he did glimpsed a shadow in the doorway and wheeled. A torch flashed on. Sybil gasped, jerking her dress down.

“Hey, Joe, look what’s here,” the intruder jeered.

Joe came and stood by him and they were two shapes behind a torch beam.

“Go ahead, Aussy, do her over,” the torch-bearer said. “The yid won’t mind us watching.”

McCall realised then that the two goons had left the train after they did and had followed them. He also realised he was in for a fight.

“You’re not fussy who you date with, Aussy,” the one called Joe said. “Or is it that you’re an Aussy yid?”

McCall’s temper was rising fast. He said: “Shove off or I’ll do the pair of you over.”

“Hear that, Joe,” the torch-bearer said, and flashed the torch into McCall’s eyes.

“Why don’t you try it, Aussy,” Joe said, and started taking off his coat.

McCall let him get the coat back far enough to anchor his shoulders, then hit him in the belly with his left. The goon doubled over and caught McCall’s right uppercut in the face. The torch-bearer lashed out, hitting with the torch. It bounced off McCall’s shoulder as he jumped in, shoulder down and ramming into his breast bone. He crashed backwards, his head smacking the wall. He was wearing a woollen scarf and McCall put his left fist into this and jerked him forward into his right. Whack, whack, whack. He hit him three times fast to belly, head, and belly again. The goon yelled out and the torch flew from his hand. Joe was starting to straighten up now so McCall stepped in and busted him in the face with his knee.

“Bastards!” McCall yelled at them as they fled, and then he noticed that Sybil was crying.

“I feel sick,” she sobbed. “I can’t stand fighting.”

He put his arm around her and tried to calm her down. “Forget it, sweety. It was nothing. Just a silly goon trying to take his coat off to fight.” He kissed her but she did not respond. “I feel sick,” she said again. “I want to go inside.”

“For Christ sake. I had to sock them didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, but it was awful.”

He tried for some time to soothe her, but in the end he gave up, kissed her good-bye, and watched her cross the street and go inside. “I should of killed the bastards,” he said aloud and walked away.

He had missed the last bus and had to walk to the Y.M. He did not mind—walking kept him fit and he’d sleep well afterwards. He had gone about three blocks when the sirens started wailing up and down the scale. He was no hero in war and was immediately anxious. The Italian high level bombers which he had experienced in the Mediterranean had been bad enough. But these bloody night hawks raining bombs and incendiaries out of the dark …

The first bomb fell somewhere distant on his right, brumph. Moments later, others fell closer on his left. Then a stick of incendiaries went off ahead of him, brupupupup; and he dived into the doorway he was passing.

He remained there watching the searchlights probing the sky. The barrage had opened up now; the distant guns phutting and growling and the nearer ones banging away ceaselessly. Overhead, a plane was trapped in the cross beams. Shells were exploding around it in puffs of fire, and tracers streaked past it and were lost in the darkness beyond. The plane did not waver, but flew steadily on in its trap of light. Then suddenly it slipped out into darkness and the beams darted left and right and up and down in search of it. And all the time the thumping bombs and the banging guns went on around McCall. He heard a bomb coming, hissing like a jet of escaping steam, then whooshing like a train entering a subway station. Wham. The wall shuddered and plaster fell about him. Brupupup. Incendiaries fell close—there, on the building almost opposite him. He watched the flames dancing on the roof and lighting up the top floor. Another bomb fell somewhere behind him and a slab of plaster smashed at his feet. Stuff this for a joke, he thought, and bolted out of the doorway.

He did not know which station it was that he eventually sheltered in. They were all alike in a raid—concrete caves swarming with people. He walked among the sleeping forms on the platforms and found interest in the unusual: a family of six sitting on a rug and playing cards; a soldier and his girl stretched out embraced, both of them sleeping with their mouths wide open; an old lady wrapped in a blanket, knitting madly, oblivious to everything except her flying needles. People sleeping, working, playing in this and every other tube station for the past hundred nights. You got to hand it to the kippers; they don’t ruffle easy, he thought.

More than an hour passed before the “all clear ” sounded and he rode on the crowded escalator to street level. The “all clear” continued as he walked on home—joyous, one-note music, that brought people teeming out to see the latest scars on London’s face. Fires burned at several points. Away on his right, the low sky blushed and panted like a living thing. And in the high sky, thousands of glowing embers floated in the breeze; fading and dying and being replaced by others rising from the battered city.

McCall walked towards The Strand, thinking about the raid. It had been as bad as any he had experienced on this leave and he hoped his oppo had not been caught in it.

But the kid had arrived home before the raid and was now relaxed in bed waiting for McCall to come in. A romantic novel lay open on a chair by the bed. He had read one chapter of it, but thoughts of his miserable failure this evening had made it futile to read on. The girl had been willing, that was what hurt. She had made no attempt to stop him and he had proceeded, believing that at last he might break through that awesome barrier which had defeated him before. He had gone all the way until his exploring fingers touched the wet depths of the girl. Then the freeze had come upon him and his desire had passed, leaving him revolted and helpless. He did not know why, and now did not care. He was a failure at sex and it was easier to admit it than to go on trying.

He reached for a nail file on the chair. He liked his nails to be clean and shapely and tended them whenever he got the chance. While he worked on them, his thoughts were on his oppo and the news he had for him. He should be home by now —unless he’d got hurt in the raid or something … The thought frightened the kid. It would be a terribly dull war without Rocky McCall.

After about twenty more minutes McCall breezed in. “Hullo, kid, have a good time?”

“Fine. What about you?” the kid asked.

“Not bad, but I missed out on my oats.” He told the kid about his encounter with the two goons. The kid listened, watching him worming his shoulders out of his jacket. He flung it on a chair and glared at it. “Bloody useless thing. All this uniform’s good for is catching shielas.” He flexed his shoulders. “How’d you go with Janet?”

“All right. We’re going to write to each other,” the kid said, and hoped he wouldn’t pursue the subject.

“Sure, but how’d you go?” McCall undid the flap of his trousers. “Did she come across for you?”

“She’s not that type,” the kid said.

McCall threw his trousers on top of the jacket and started unlacing his shoes, thinking about Janet. He had palmed Sybil’s Jewish friend off on to the kid three nights ago so he would be free to date Sybil. The kid had taken her out each night since then and McCall wasn’t sure if he liked her or was just sticking with her to oblige him. Come to think of it the kid never had seemed keen on any dame. He kicked his shoes under the bed. “I’ll let you in on something, kid. You say she’s not the type, but they all go for the stick; wouldn’t be normal if they didn’t. They say no but mean yes. Stop it they say, and if you do they think you’re wet.”

“All right lay off it, Casanova.” The kid was watching him take off his singlet. You only realise he’s big when you see him stripped, he thought, noticing his thick neck and broad shoulders …

“Casanova you call me.” McCall was standing in front of the dressing-table mirror in his underpants. “Christ, if I wasn’t an Aussy no kipper shiela would look twice at me.” He examined himself critically in the mirror. “Fancy an ugly bastard like that telling you about dames.”

The kid looked past him at his face reflected in the mirror. It was a tough face all the way from the ginger hairline down over the high cheek bones, pug nose, and hard mouth. Tough, but not ugly. “You’re not so bad,” he said.

McCall fingered the scarred tissue under his left eye. “Not so bloody good either.” He turned away from himself. “Want to know how I got this way, kid?”

“What way?”

“The face.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your face.”

“Like hell there’s not.” McCall sat down on his bed and lit a Tenner cigarette. “Starts back when I was born I reckon. In Newcastle. You know Newcastle, kid?”

“Only that it’s a coal town in New South Wales.”

“Sure, a coal town and a fight town. Every bastard wants to fight there. All so punchy they spar up to the conney when the tram bell rings.” He coughed on the Tenner and looked at it scathingly. “Anyway, I was born there and my old man run off from my old lady when I started school. The depression was on and the old lady bloody near starved. I quit school early; looked for a job. There was no work though, so I joined up with a bunch of thieving kids. We busted a few shop tills and then the cops landed me and bunged me in a reform school.” He coughed again and flung the Tenner on the floor. “Bloody lung busters. Dunno how the kippers smoke them. Well, by the time I got out of reform I was tough. Some wise bastard saw me clean up a kid one night and said he’d train me to beat the world. So I started pugging in prelim’ fights.

I licked the lightweights so they put me in against the welters. Still only prelims. I was getting punched up; marked a lot but not hurt. After a couple of years of it I took a look at myself in the mirror and woke up what a nut I was.” He sniffed loudly. “So then I quit the fights and joined the Navy to see the world. And what did I see: punk officers who ride hell out of you every time you show some guts.”

The kid lay filing his nails, thinking about his oppo’s background. He liked him more, knowing he’d had a rough time like that and he wished he did not have this news for him.

“Your clothes are going to get creased lying there,” he said. “Why don’t you fold them?”

“To hell with my clothes.” McCall dropped to the floor and started doing physical jerks. The kid watched him on pushups for a while, then got out of bed and began folding his trousers.

McCall rolled on his back and started leg-raises. “Leave the clothes … I’ll fix them later.”

“You’d go aboard looking like a shag and get into trouble.”

“Lousy … bloody uniform. Who … the hell cares.”

“The Fuehrer cares,” the kid said breaking the news.

McCall stopped exercising and stared up at him. “What’d you say?”

The kid had folded the trousers into creases and blocked them and now was in the act of folding the jacket. “I said The Fuehrer cares.”

“What the hell’re you talking about?”

The kid got back into bed. “I ran into Whacker Payne today at Victoria station. He was on a duty run to Navy house. He told me Walker had been taken off for an emergency op’ and The Fuehrer was in command.”

McCall started putting on his pyjamas. “You wouldn’t be kidding would you?”

“No, and neither was Payne—he‘s our divisional P.O., remember.”

McCall got into bed and lay smoking, thinking about The Fuehrer. He had never served under him, but like every rating had heard of him as a tyrant who had ordered more punishment in his brief service than most officers did during their entire careers.

“You’re worried aren’t you?” the kid said.

“Annoyed, not worried,” McCall muttered.

“Well, that’s why I folded your clothes. There’s no sense inviting him to pick you up.”

McCall stubbed out his cigarette in a tray on the chair. “He can get stuffed. Worse pigs than him have tried to crush me.” His eyes narrowed. “Wonder what the bastard looks like. I suppose he’s a little sawn-off with a piece of hair over one eye. Probably gets a kick out of looking like Hitler.” He sniffed loudly. “Well, his type don’t scare me.”

The kid rolled on his side to face him and McCall knew the old argument was about to start.

“Look, Rocky, isn’t it easier to knuckle down than to fight against him?”

“I don’t knuckle down to no pig, you know that.”

“No, you’d rather serve punishment.”

“Sure I would—long as they’re fighting me that is.”

“And you’re fighting them,” the kid reminded him.

“They started it and I’ll finish it.”

The kid shook his head. “Do you really believe you can beat them?”

“Sure I can.”

” When?”

“I dunno. When they stop picking on me. That’s all I ask of the pigs— that they start acting like men instead of school prefects.”

The kid picked up his novel and pretended to read. But after a while he started again “What they’ll do in the end is throw you out.”

“That’ll suit me. It’ll be my victory day.”

“Some victory, being thrown out with disgrace.”

McCall grinned. “Don’t let it worry you, kid. The war will be over and you’ll be back in civilian life before they give up on me.

The kid looked at him sulkily. “You’re crazy. I don’t know what I see in you for an oppo.”

“Neither do I. Now how about you put the light off so we can get some shut-eye?”

The kid switched off the light and lay in the darkness, thinking about his oppo, Rocky McCall. The renegade, the chook. He heard him sniff loudly once or twice and then begin snoring. The kid did not mind; he’d been listening to him snoring every night since they had become oppos and that was more than a year ago. More than a year since that day in the showers when the fat Gypo Jeckman had got carried away with his smooth skin …

That had been the starting point of their friendship. He had followed McCall around the ship for several days afterwards, contriving to work with him and be with him when they were not on duty. He’d made a sort of conquest of it. To be McCall’s friend had suddenly become most important to him. He had not known why this should be; only that with McCall he was happy and away from him he was miserable. He’d kept it up for a week and then, as he had hoped, McCall showed signs of wanting him around. The friendship became solid and meaningful then.

After another couple of weeks they got the Coxswain to transfer them into the same mess; then into the same part of ship; and then into the same watch. They were almost constantly together then and the more he saw of McCall the more he liked him. He still did not know why he liked and admired him so much. The incident in the showers no doubt had something to do with it; but that had been a long time ago and it could not explain this liking which had grown stronger with the passage of time.

McCall’s snoring was loud and harsh now. The kid looked into the darkness and imagined him lying on his back, his lips quivering between the snores. I wish he would stop hating officers, he thought. I’d like to help him do that. But he’s a chook and won’t listen to reason. What else can I do for him then? What does a man like him need? Good looks, that’s all. I’d share that with him if I could. If I could give him half of my looks and him give me half of his courage …

Chapter Three

The liberty men of the Jacaranda were aware of changes in their ship from the moment they returned on board. Rollinson stood at the head of the gangway with Wales, the buffer, scrutinising each man’s dress as he came inboard. Discrepancies were corrected and any who failed to salute the quarter deck were stopped by Wales who whoofed at them through his red beard: “You know the custom; salute the quarter deck.”

They went forward grumbling: “Saluting the quarter deck. What is this, a bloody training ship?”

“Why’s The Jimmy and Wales got shit on their livers?” they asked members of the skeleton crew who had remained on board during the leave period.

“Because The Fuehrer’s got command,” they were told. “Half an hour ago he addressed the officers and now the heat’s on.”

They trooped into the mess deck flats and went forward, passing first the galley, and then the single-berth sick bay, and then the crews’ showers and heads. Then they entered the mess deck and were home.

There were two crew mess decks. The one on the upper deck was for seamen and miscellaneous branches, and directly below this was the smaller stoker’s mess. The seaman’s deck accommodated nearly a hundred men. There were five messes, each having a long table bolted to the deck with a food cabinet adjacent. Clothes lockers ran the full length of the deck on both sides. These were old fashioned box types, providing additional seating at the tables. Inside, the lockers were dark and musty and most of them were ridden with cockroaches. Amidships was the roundhouse of A gun, the most forward 4.7 inch twin on the forecastle; its interior served as a scran bag for stray clothing and general storage. Forward of this was the engine of the capstan directly above on the forecastle. The engine was enclosed with boards on top providing additional sleeping space. Right forward, abutting the mess deck, was the paint shop, only a few feet square and crammed with service grey paint and its subsidiaries. Tween deck space was about seven feet and the only ventilation apart from the port holes was a single shaft leading up to the forecastle.

The drone of many voices filled the deck as the liberty men crowded in. For most of them this had been their first visit to England and they had travelled far. The bawdy types had gone to Glasgow and Blackpool; the quieter ones to the Midlands and the North Country; all had spent at least a couple of days in London.

In two mess, big Snow Hilder stood naked and told how a Piccadilly prostitute had begged for mercy the first night he had slept with her. Hilder was big all over and it was said that night visits to the heads were unnecessary for him because he could roll over in his hammock and dangle it out the port hole. Next, he described a brawl he’d been in at a Glasgow pub. He shadow-sparred, showing off his massive arms and shoulders. “There were three Scotch swatties with me against five kipper civilians. Whack …” he crashed one fist into his other palm … “brother, I hooked this big kipper so hard I’ll bet he’s still travelling. While I was doing that, the Jocks got stuck into the others and we finished up wiping the deck with them.”

And in one mess Dusty Rhodes, the acting petty officer and senior man of the deck, quietly told a different story about kippers in Liverpool. “The place was bombed twice while I was there. I spent both nights in a sandbag shelter and felt ashamed of myself. They were all women and kids in there with me; the men were out fighting fires or home in bed. They’re so used to this bombing they’d sooner have a party than take shelter. I don’t know if they’re brave or stupid, but one thing’s sure: Hitler won’t upset their morale this way.”

And standing on the capstan engine impersonating the Beefeaters of the Tower of London, was Regan with the lank fair hair and monkey face. Regan the musician, actor, clown, crank. “Is that bastard trying to work his ticket or is he really off his rocker?”

“He doesn’t want his ticket; he likes this outfit.”

“For Christ sake, he is nuts then.”

And in four mess, Caneer the coward in war, told of his experience with a queer in Charing Cross Road: “Two o’clock in the morning and he comes up and asks me for the time. He ends up taking me out to this joint in Clapham. Eats and grog galore in his frig. He gets me half stung and then fetches out the dirty pictures. You should of seen them; taken from every angle and in all positions and not a woman among them. Finished up, he wanted to sleep with me—even offered to pay me.”

“Was he a nice drop of skin?” Traitor Lench, the leading torpedo hand asked.

“Was he! He had skin like a baby’s bottom.”

“And did you sleep with him?”

“Ease up. I don’t come at that.”

Traitor produced his friendly smile. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

And listening to all of this was Able Seaman Dalby, who was a homosexual and the petty officer’s messman in harbour. And also listening in five mess, near to the paint shop, were McCall and the kid, sitting side by side on their lockers. The older A.B.s touched the kid as they went past and said: “Hi, kid, how’d the leave go?”

“Did McCall look after you okay, kid?”

“I’ll tell you what, kid, I didn’t see anything in skirts as nice as you while I was away.”

The mess deck quietened down after half an hour and the talk was of the new commander and the future movements of the ship. The buzz was that they would be going north to Scapa Flow to pick up a convoy to Archangel in Russia. They hoped it was wrong—bad enough having to put up with The Fuehrer in temperate zones.

At nineteen hundred hours, just as hands were finishing supper, Freer appeared, piping on his whistle: “Do you hear there. The ship will proceed to sea at 0400 in the morning. Dress of the day will be number twos.”

Shouts of disapproval answered him as he walked through the mess desk repeating the pipe. “Why can’t we wear overalls?”

“Are we at war or on a goodwill cruise?”

“Who the hell’s going to see us leave at that hour?”

“Don’t blame me,” Freer shouted back at them. “I don’t make the bloody rules, I only pipe them.”

But now Coxswain Stringer flounced into the deck, his arms raised to command attention. “Listen everyone. Quiet!” Big, blond, and handsome, he stood looking around the mess deck. “What Freer is piping is on the level. The commander wants everyone in uniform for leaving harbour, and if I see anyone on deck in overalls I’ll put him in the rattle. From now on this ship…”

Booing voices drowned out what he was saying and he waited for them to subside, then continued: “From now on this ship is going to smarten up. What I’ve said is an order and will be obeyed. Like it or not, we’re going to become efficient. I don’t want any back talk. Just do as you’re told or in the rattle you’ll go.”

He walked from the deck and the grouching began: “First The Jimmy and Wales, and now the Coxswain. What’s eating every bastard?”

“A nice miserable bloody ship this is going to be.”

“What’s the betting The Fuehrer doesn’t start kit inspections?”

“Hey, Dusty, what about us getting up a complaint and giving it to him as a welcome aboard present?”

Dusty Rhodes sat in one mess with Nigger Gebbs, shaking his head. “He’s starting on the wrong leg, Nigger. Trying to run the ship like a cruiser won’t work.”

“Yeah, well it’s his first command. Let him play for a week and he’ll come to his senses.”

“He’d better.” Rhodes whistled softly through his teeth and listened to the bitching going on around him. It disturbed him. As the only man with the rank of P.O. in the deck he was a key man for the quarter deck whose officers relied on him to maintain order among the ratings. But his duty lay two ways; he was also a mentor for the ratings, the stanchion on which they leaned in time of trouble. It wasn’t easy keeping them happy. But so far he had succeeded and he knew he must go on succeeding. For life on a destroyer was only bearable when the crew was happy.

It was still dark when the Jacaranda sailed. No one saw the ship leave and it was probable no one would notice the old destroyer had gone for several hours yet. But just the same the crew were fallen in at their parts of ship in full uniforms.

They cleared the heads and steered south into a choppy sea. On the forecastle, iron deck, and quarter deck, the crew speculated on where they might be going. With a southerly course the Scapa Flow buzz now seemed unlikely to be right.

When Southampton passed from view in the breaking day Hardridge had Freer pipe port watch to sea stations and starboard watch to breakfast. He stood on the after bridge and watched the men disbanding from parts of the ship. He could not see anyone out of the dress of the day, so he turned his attention to the officers on the bridge. Rollinson, Merrilton the bearded young navigator, and Dobran the midshipman, were all alert, sweeping the sea with glasses for any signs of craft. There was nothing he could fault there so he walked to the forebridge and looked down on the forecastle. Directly beneath him was B gun and beneath that again, A gun. Crews were already closed up at both guns. The men on B gun were lounging around like tourists on vacation; those on A gun seemed to be enjoying some kind of a joke. “Number one,” he said loudly and clearly.

Rollinson came to his side. “Sir.”

“Are those ratings down there supposed to be at war?”

Rollinson glanced down at the crews and stiffened. “They do appear rather lax, sir. I’ll have the Coxswain smarten them up immediately.”

“One moment.” Hardridge rested his elbows on the bridge railing and gazed out to port where the sun was rising above a murky horizon. “I think a better idea might be to exercise action.”

“Now sir?” said Rollinson in surprise.

“Why not?”

“I only thought, sir … starboard watch is at breakfast and if we manoeuvre …”

“Would the enemy wait for them to finish eating?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Then let’s see how fast this crew can move.”

“Ay ay, sir.” Rollinson turned to Merrilton and Dobran. “Exercise action stations!” he barked, and pressed the alarm button on the compass platform.

In the seamen’s mess deck the starboard watch were half finished breakfast when the alarm bells began clattering and Freer’s opposite number hurried in piping: “Exercise action stations.” They left breakfast on the tables and ran to stations, shouting protests. Playing at war was to be expected but doing it in the middle of a meal was just bloody ridiculous in their opinions.

Action stations for McCall and the kid were on B gun where McCall was a loader and the kid a communication number. There were eight in the crew and Nigger Gebbs was captain of the gun. They closed up at their positions and while the layers and trainers ran the guns through elevation and training limits, McCall got his first look at The Fuehrer standing on the forebridge above him. He’s a mean looking bastard, he thought, and wondered why he grew those absurd tufts of hair on his cheeks.

The simulated action began. The kid received orders on his headphones from the director tower on the bridge and repeated them to Gebbs: “Enemy submarine bearing green four-five. All guns follow director.”

As the guns swung around following pointers, The Fuehrer apparently decided on evasive action, for the ship suddenly gathered speed and began turning hard to port. She heeled over sharply as she turned and the gun’s crew struggled to hold their balance.

“Open fire,” said the kid.

The old routine began. McCall and the other loader rammed dummy shells into the breaches. Gebbs fired on the order and breach numbers flung open breaches for re-loading. The ship continued turning hard to port. Aft, where the draught was shallow, the water poured in over the side, drenching the torpedo tube crews. It wasn’t hard for anyone to imagine what would be happening to all those breakfasts on the tables in the mess deck.

On the bridge, The Fuehrer was seen to lift his glasses and gaze skywards. “Planes right overhead!” he shouted. “All guns, repel aircraft! ”

Seconds later, as all guns were firing into the sky, a dummy shell jammed in the breach of B gun. This was nothing new; it often happened with the old shells whose bases had been mawled in countless exercises. Nigger Gebbs did his best to free the shell, but McCall had rammed it home and it was stuck fast. No one was panicking about it though. All the other guns were in action and their barrage would keep the raiders up high. Then Hardridge decided the planes had gone and motor torpedo boats had arrived: “Check, check, check. Cease firing. Alarm starboard. Enemy small craft approaching, bearing green three-five.”

Gebbs ignored the order. With a shell jammed in the breach there was no sense in doing anything except free it.

“B gun, what in God’s name are you doing?”

That was The Fuehrer shouting at them. “Gunnery officer, get down there and find out what’s wrong with B gun.”

Sub-Lieutenant Slee came rushing down to the gun. His young face was pink with embarrassment. He stood beside Gebbs, watching him working on the dummy shell, while Hardridge continued to glower down, shouting orders: “B gun, we’re being attacked from the surface. Why in hell are you trained in the air?”

“Fetch the bloody gun down,” Gebbs said to his layer.

The layers and trainers brought the gun on target, but the shell was still rammed. Gebbs was cursing as he worked. Slee was looking more embarrassed than ever. The rest of the crew were standing around waiting. McCall was observing the antics of his new commander who suddenly appeared to notice him for the first time. “You down there, McCall. We’re being attacked by enemy torpedo boats. Don’t stand there gaping at me.”

McCall stared up at him. This was the craziest pig he’d ever seen …

“Do something, you idiot.”

McCall had never liked being called an idiot, not even when the kids in the reform school said it in fun. His reply was instant, fired by a blaze of temper: “What the hell you expect me to do—swim out and wrestle with the bastards?”

Hardridge stood motionless, staring down at him. Not since his days of being a sub-lieutenant had he heard such insolence. And from McCall; Rollinson’s incorrigible. He wheeled around to face Rollinson. “Secure from action stations and I want McCall placed on my report.” He rested his elbows on the railing again. His face was grim. “Number one, I am far from satisfied with the performance of this crew. To begin with it took them eight minutes to close up.”

Rollinson coughed nervously. “They were slower than usual, sir.”

“Before this ship reaches Capetown I want the exercise completed in half that time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardridge’s lips formed a thin line. “And I thought you said Sub-Lieutenant Slee was an efficient gunnery officer.”

“He usually is, sir.”

“The incident on B gun was disgraceful. Have Slee brought before me immediately.”

Rollinson departed and Hardridge waited, watching the sea watch take over from the action crews on deck. But his thoughts were on McCall again and the occasion ahead when he would face him across the defaulter’s table.

Shortly, Slee came to the bridge and saluted him. “You asked to see me, sir.”

Hardridge stared at him. “I understand you are the gunnery officer aboard this ship.”

“Yes, sir,” said Slee. His face was red and his voice quavered, but his gaze was unflinching.

“Then perhaps you can explain what happened on B gun.”

“It was an accident, sir. The breach was …”

“Sub-Lieutenant, we are a combat ship and cannot afford accidents.”

“I know, sir, but there was a shell jammed in the breach and we couldn’t…”

“I’m not interested in excuses. As gunnery officer it is your responsibility to see that exercises are not bungled.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see about getting the bases of the shells ground down.”

Hardridge turned and stared out to sea. Slee waited, saluted, and turned to go …

“Just a minute, Sub.”

“Sir.”

“Are you Able Seaman McCall’s divisional officer?”

“Yes, sir. And I’m sorry he spoke to you as he did.”

“When this ship reaches Capetown I want McCall brought before me on a charge of insolence. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And on any other charges he is guilty of. I want him watched and put on report for every offence he commits.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’ll be all.”

Slee hesitated over leaving. “Sir, McCall is rather hard to discipline. He can’t stand being talked down to.”

Hardridge swung on him. “That’s obvious. It is the reason why he must be punished.”

“Yes, sir. I mentioned it because … well, as forecastle officer I’ve seen a lot of him and have come to know him rather well. He’s antagonistic to authority and I believe incentive treatment might prove more effective than punishment.” Hardridge’s face paled slightly and for a moment he was silent. Then he said icily: “If I need your advice on how to discipline a rating I’ll ask for it. Meanwhile obey my orders and try to act as an officer should.”

Slee blushed, saluted, and left.

Hardridge took a good grip on the railing and let out his breath. Damned impertinent reservist. Before long he’d make him wish to God he’d never quit those medical studies.

In the mess deck below there was chaos. Turning at high speed had cleared the tables of everything. Food, tea from pannikins, plates and cutlery, lay strewn about the deck. Men were down on their hands and knees scooping the mess into refuse bins. Everyone was cursing The Fuehrer. He was a prize pig. Hitler was a gentleman compared with him. Only McCall seemed unperturbed. Sitting on his locker, he thought about the coming defaulter’s parade and winked at the kid. “The Fuehrer’s got his uses. He’s just the kind of pig who’ll give me my ticket.”

Chapter Four

The course remained southerly and the days were fine and cool at first, and then muggy as they entered the tropics. The crew wore white shorts and shirts on duty and at other times dressed casually as they sunbathed on the upper deck—that was, when they were not exercising action.

The exercises happened several times each day. It wasn’t always action stations; sometimes they played at collision and abandoning ship, and once, the Fuehrer even had everyone out on deck repelling boarders, stabbing the imaginary krauts with bayonets and heaving them back into the sea. Regan, the clown, enjoyed this immensely. He played a dual role; bayoneted himself and lay gasping out his life until Whacker Payne prodded him back to reality.

As well as exercises there was a tightening up on general routine. Stringer and Wales prowled the deck at night trying to catch someone asleep or dozing on watch. Offenders were charged before the officer of the watch who referred them to a first lieutenant’s report. The list of defaulters waiting to see The Jimmy grew steadily each day.

On the fourth day the sea swelled before a rising wind and by nightfall the ship was plunging through an angry head sea. The upper deck was a wild wet place under spray and wind, but it was healthier there than down in the stuffy mess deck where the port watch spent the first watch sitting around bitching about The Fuehrer. Above them, the storm formed an endless pattern of sound. As the bow plunged down into each trough the port side anchor would bang in its hawsepipe. Then, as the bow lifted on the following wave, spray would swish down across the forecastle and thunder aft: Bang … swish … boom . . . They had to talk loudly in the mess to make themselves heard above the banging anchor. It had been like that in every storm since the ship left Australia a year ago. Dockies in Southampton had fixed everything except that, and the cockroaches which stayed snugly in the lockers until lights out, then scurried forth in search of food.

At midnight they put on their oilskins and filed into the flat to answer Whacker Payne’s roll call before taking the middle watch. McCall and the kid were not quite together at their sea watch stations. McCall was a lookout on the starboard wing of the bridge and the kid was on the port wing. But this did not stop them from getting together when circumstances were right, and this night, with Stringer and Wales both off watch they were able to spend a lot of time together sheltering behind the chart house.

They stood there now, hunched against the storm and talking about McCall and his war with the Navy. The kid said: “It was a crazy thing to do, yelling at him like that. You know what will happen don’t you. When we get to Capetown you’ll be kept on board under punishment while everyone else goes ashore.”

McCall bowed his head against the wind. “Who cares, Capetown’s a hole anyway.”

“Have you ever thought, the way you’re going you’ll spend the whole of your term doing punishment? What about that, it’s another nine years of misery.”

“Sure, I’ve thought about it. I used to figure out how many days that was I had to serve. I don’t do that no more though, because I know I’ll beat them before then.”

“Come off it, Rocky. It’s like Rhodes and Payne are always telling you. The pigs know you want to get your ticket and they hold on to you just to nark you.”

McCall fished a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his trousers and crouched, hands cupped against the wind, to light one. “Know something, kid; I could make them discharge me tomorrow.”

“How?”

The ship lifted sharply and McCall leaned against the kid for support until they plunged down. “Easy. I could throw a spanner in the engines and get caught. Toss a wire around the props. Start a fire somewhere. There’s dozens of ways.”

“But that’s sabotage; you wouldn’t be that crazy,” the kid said.

“I might—if they pushed me far enough.”

They could shoot you for it.”

“According to the rule book they could. But they wouldn’t. More likely they’d bung me into an outside prison for a long term.” He gave a brittle laugh. “So quit worrying; I don’t want no outside prison term. G.I. was bad enough.”

The kid thought about Garden Island prison where McCall had twice served sentences. The island in Sydney’s harbour was notorious as the breaking corner for the bad boys of the Navy. “What was it like there?” he asked.

“The corner? It was a hell of a place.”

The mere thought of the place scared the kid, but he was morbidly curious about his oppo’s past. “What did they do to you there?”

“For a start they gave me a number in place of my name.”

“What was that for?”

“Christ knows. You get this number and every time you pass an officer or go through a door you’ve got to double mark time and keep calling out the number until they give you the okay to pass.”

“It sounds crazy,” the kid said.

“It is. They reckon it takes the spirit out of you. All it did for me was to make me hate the bastards more.”

“Did you work there?”

“Sure, that’s even crazier. Know what you do. You load bricks into a barrow one by one until you fill it up. Then you run it to a stack and unload it brick by brick. Then you load it again and run it back. Over and over like that all bloody day long.”

The kid stared at him. “But if you refused; what could they do?”

“I refused once. They bunged me into solitary.”

“What’s that like?”

“That’s the hell within hell. A cell about six feet square, nothing inside except a piss tin. Dark as hell with a concrete floor and a peephole in the door so the guard can shine his torch in on you. You got to stand up in there and keep awake. Day and night you stand. Go to sleep and the guard comes in and wakes you. Fall over and he prods you back to your feet. Only scran you get is bread and water.” He sucked on his wet cigarette and threw it away. “I didn’t refuse to load bricks again.”

The ship reared and plunged down, reared and plunged.

“They must be animals, the crushers in there,” the kid said.

“Sure they are. And I’ve only told you part of it.”

“Is there anything worse?”

“Plenty. There was this big crusher always trying to ruffle me. I got him alone one day and stood up to him. He spat in my face, a real goosey from deep down. I socked him on the jaw. He started working my kidneys over so I fixed him with a knee in his cods.”

The kid shuddered. “Ugh. They might have killed you for that.”

“They bloody near did. Know what they done. Took me before the king pin. ‘Number twenty-one, you like to fight,’ he said. ‘Well, so do we.’ He put me in the ring with that big crusher I’d done over. I did him again. So then they put another crusher in against me. He cleaned me up, used boots and all. They had half a dozen more crushers waiting to come in if I’d beaten him.”

The ship’s bow drove deep into a trough, then lifted. Wham. A big wave struck and the whole ship trembled. Spray roared down her decks, slashing at McCall’s and the kid’s faces as it passed.

“And now you know why I hate Stringer’s guts,” McCall said.

“Was he at G.I. when you were there?”

“No, but he was there—that’s enough.”

The kid fell silent and McCall let him remain that way for a while, then said: “What’re you thinking, kid. After all that what I’ve told you about the place I risk going there again, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, it ’ud be worth going again; long as I got my ticket when I came out.” He clapped the kid lightly on the shoulder. “We’d better go and see what our stations look like.”

They parted, the kid going to the port wing of the bridge and McCall to the starboard. McCall leaned against the wheel house and looked through slitted eyes into the stormy night. In a while he forgot about G.I. and began thinking of the shielas he’d been with. That had been a tough road, too. He was in bed with a Sydney prostitute when he heard Freer piping somewhere aft: “All the port watch. Port watch to muster.”

The murderous middle had ended.

Chapter Five

Among the orders that Hardridge had issued to his officers was one forbidding the chiefs and petty officers from fraternising with ratings of the lower deck.

The chiefs and P.O.s were finding it difficult to comply with this “frat ruling” as they called it. There were twelve of them aboard and most had been on friendly terms with the crew since leaving Australia. Walker had, in fact, encouraged this, believing it promoted harmony.

Hardridge however, had other ideas, and on this Sunday, the day before the ship reached Capetown, he was in his sea cabin adjoining the bridge, giving the matter of fraternisation serious thought. Since leaving Southampton he had observed signs that his orders were not being obeyed. On several occasions he had noticed Petty Officer Payne lounging at the guard rails near the pom-pom deck, talking to Acting Petty Officer Rhodes and some of the older A.B.s. Also, he had observed an elderly petty officer named Bredgman treating young ordinary seamen with almost fatherly concern. And worse of all, he had once seen the chief boatswain’s mate, Wales, fondling that good looking O.D. named Fennessy. All of this was bad and must be stopped without delay.

He got his cap and went out on the bridge. “Officer of the watch.”

“Sir,” Merrilton came to his side.

“Have number one and the boatswain’s mate report here.”

“Ay ay, sir.”

Merrilton had the boatswain’s mate summon Rollinson from his cabin and in a few minutes they both came on the bridge.

Hardridge leaned on the bridge railing and gazed at the white caps ahead. “Number one, I think we’ll do rounds of the mess deck.”

Rollinson seemed surprised. “At sea, sir?”

“Yes, at sea. And instruct the boatswain’s mate not to pipe until we have entered the deck. I want to surprise them.”

Rollinson hastened to the boatswain’s mate at the compass platform. This unexpected and unprecedented decision by Hardridge had thrown him into a state of anxiety. Rounds at sea! And on a Sunday of all times! The crew would be taken completely by surprise and God only knew what they might find in the mess deck.

At this moment the mess deck was quiet and peaceful. Some of the men had slung their hammocks and turned in to snatch an hour’s sleep before going on watch at noon. Others were sitting at mess tables killing time by reading and talking. Still others were busy pressing their suits for shore leave in Capetown. In one mess, just inside the entrance, two able seamen were playing poker with Petty Officers Payne and Bredgman. These two P.O.s spent almost as much time in the seamen’s deck as they did in their own. Payne had been a P.O. for only a year and remained firm friends with his old mess mates. Bredgman was an ex-merchantman of some twenty years experience who had been in the fleet reserve when war began. He was stubbornly opposed to distinction between officers and men and the only reason he was a P.O. was that the Navy had insisted that a seaman with so much experience should hold some rank.

One of the able seamen was at present sitting out of the game, wearing Bredgman’s cap; the other was engaged in betting with Payne. But now Payne threw down his cards and showed a full house against the A.B.’s straight. The A.B. groaned and shoved a pile of notes and coins across the table. “Whacker, you old bastard, you’ve got more arse than a river barge,” he shouted, and as he did, the boatsmain’s whistle shrilled behind him and Rollinson’s voice cracked: “Attention for rounds.”

There was panic in the deck. Sleepy men tumbled from their hammocks, and at all the tables men jumped to their feet. At the card table, the four got mixed up with their cards and money. Bredgman’s cap, hastily snatched from the A.B.’s head, went spinning across the deck into the path of the officers. The boatswain’s mate stepped over it as he advanced, Rollinson and Hardridge walked around it. Rollinson cast a withering glance at Bredgman and walked stiffly forward. Hardridge followed behind him, his eyes flicking around the deck in search of untidiness. They went down the starboard side and came back the port. The boatswain’s mate trilled on his whistle as they went out and Rollinson called out: “Carry on.”

Back on the bridge a few minutes later, Hardridge leaned against the railing and gazed stonily out to sea. Rollinson stood by him, waiting for the blast.

“Well, number one, what did you think of that small incident?” Hardridge asked.

“The incident with the cap, sir?”

“Yes. How did it sound to hear a petty officer called a … what was it again?”

“Rather a nasty expression I must admit, sir.”

“What was it?” Hardridge snapped.

“I believe it was an old … bastard.”

Hardridge remained staring ahead. “Number one, I relied on you to induce in the men some measure of respect for the officers. It seems you have failed me.”

Rollinson fidgetted. “I’m afraid Commander Walker allowed a great deal of latitude in such matters and …”

“I don’t want to hear another damned thing about Walker. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardridge looked at him coldly. “And since you apparently can’t handle the problem of fraternisation I’ll do it myself. As soon as the ship berths in Capetown I want all chiefs and petty officers layed aft so I can address them.”

“Very well, sir, I’ll attend to it.” Rollinson wanted to say more in the hope of appeasing him. But Hardridge turned his back on him and crossed to the other side of the bridge.

Whatever it was that Hardridge intended saying to his chiefs and P.O.s, he obviously did not want the crew to hear it. He had ordered that all working parties should move forward immediately the ship had berthed, and when the chiefs and P.O.s went aft the quarter deck was deserted.

They grouped near C gun and quietly began speculating on what could be the reason for this muster. It had to be something important. After all, the commander of a ship did not usually address his chiefs and P.O.s personally unless some emergency had arisen.

Opposite them, a worried looking Rollinson paced the deck. Ashore, Table Mountain crouched behind Capetown, beckoning them ashore. The commissioned officers began arriving. Merrilton and Slee came and stood near the companionway. Then came Dobran, Hagen the engineer officer, and the warrant writer, Kilrain. Gum, the warrant torpedo officer, waddled up on his own. The chiefs and P.O.s scuffed their shoes on deck, then were still as Hardridge emerged from the companionway.

Rollinson prepared to call everyone to attention, but Hardridge shook his head and said, “At ease, everyone, at ease.”

The chiefs and P.O.s relaxed. Hardridge stood in front of them, telescope locked in position under his arm. “I’ve called you here to speak about fraternising with the crew. I should not have to remind any of you that the practice is bad for moral. As chiefs and petty officers you must realise that distinction between yourselves and the men is necessary if we are to preserve discipline.” He looked pointedly at first Bredgman, then Payne. “Yesterday, an incident occurred in the seamen’s mess deck which can only be described as disgusting and thoroughly unworthy of the petty officers concerned. If such a thing happens again I won’t allow it to pass with a mere address such as this.” He paused and his black eyes challenged them. “From now on you will enter the crew mess decks only in the course of duty and you will not engage in flippant or unnecessary conversation with the men on deck. In this way you will retain dignity and command the respect you deserve. I hope I make myself clear and I don’t want to have to address you on the subject again.” He looked them over grimly. “Are there any questions?”

There were none and he told Rollinson to dismiss them. The chiefs and P.O.s went forward and Hardridge turned to his officers. “Those are orders and I expect every officer to see they are carried out. Any questions?”

“Sir,” said Sub-Lieutenant Slee.

Hardridge looked at him. “Well, Sub-Lieutenant.”

“Sir, I respect your right to impose restrictions, but I don’t think this will improve the morale of the crew. The men have been on friendly terms with the chiefs and P.O.s for a long time and they will resent the order.”

In the stony silence that followed this, Hardridge took one step closer to Slee. “Sub-Lieutenant Slee, I asked if there were questions; I did not ask for advice. Furthermore, if I wanted advice I should not seek it from a junior reserve officer.”

Slee blushed. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Stand to attention when you address me,” Hardridge rapped.

Slee was already at attention but he stiffened in the position.

“Your manner comes very close to being insolent, Sub-Lieutenant, and I’m tempted to prefer charges of insubordination against you.”

Slee was abashed. The other officers began shuffling their feet and clearing their throats and Slee said: “Sir, I only thought …”

“I’m not interested in what you thought. From here on you will obey orders and hold your tongue.”

Slee clamped his jaws shut and remained stiffly at attention. Hardridge looked around his officers and nodded. “All right, that’s all.”

He watched them disband, jerked his head to Rollinson, and walked to the guard rails on the shore side of the quarter deck. Rollinson followed and stood by him. Hardridge said: “I probably sounded harsh, number one, but I’m sure you’ll agree it was necessary in the circumstances.”

“I do, sir,” Rollinson said.

“Now I understand we have a number of defaulters.”

“Yes, sir. There’s about fourteen altogether.”

“Are there any serious charges—apart from McCall I mean?”

“No, sir. Mostly matters of being lax during watch-keeping, a few minutes late for mustering and so on.”

“I see. Well, I’ll let you deal with them. But inform them that in future reports will have to come before me and that I won’t show leniency.”

“Very well, sir.”

“McCall of course I shall want to see today.” Hardridge glanced at his wrist watch. “Right after lunch would be the best time.”

“Ay ay, sir.”

Hardridge suddenly appeared to relax. He transferred the telescope to his right hand and his shoulders sagged a little. “Are you going ashore, number one?”

“No, sir. I don’t care for Capetown.”

“Have you been here before.”

“Yes, sir. I was here on the goodwill visit of the flagship before the war.”

“Of course. Well, frankly, I like the place intensely. Dutch control. Natives kept down. That’s how it should be.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s the lack of social life that I dislike. There doesn’t seem to be anything in the way of night life; clubs and so on.”

Hardridge swung the telescope casually in his hand. “Speaking of social life reminds me: do you take a drink?”

The trace of a smile hovered at Rollinson’s mouth. “Yes, sir, I like an occasional whisky.”

“Fine. That’s also my drink. Care to join me?”

Rollinson smiled at his commander for the first time since meeting him. “I’d like to very much. And thank you, sir.” Hardridge led the way down the companionway, thinking about companionship. One day he hoped he might be able to do without it altogether.

While Hardridge and Rollinson were drinking whisky in the wardroom, Slee was being admonished by his cabin mate, Lieutenant Merrilton. Merrilton was sitting on his bunk, teasing up his black beard with a comb. “Wake up, Jimmy boy. You can’t talk to any commander like that—least of all Hardridge—and get away with it.”

Slee turned away from the porthole through which he had been gazing at Table Mountain. “You know this crew, Joe, and must know I spoke the truth.”

“Of course you did, but that’s not the point. You made a monkey out of the old man in front of his officers. That’s being insubordinate and if you’ll read the discipline act you’ll discover they can strip you of rank for that.” Merrilton gesticulated with his free hand as he spoke, punching his sentences home.

Slee ambled to his bunk and sat down. “If that’s the case it’s your Navy that should wake up, not me. It’s rulings on conduct are archaic. They support seniority at the expense of morale.”

Merrilton tossed his comb on the bed. “To hell with your analysis. It might be right but it doesn’t alter the fact that you’ll wind up in hot water if you buck Hardridge. The time to buck him is when you can win over him.”

“I wasn’t bucking him; I was trying to help him.”

“Then don’t. It’s not your job.”

Slee leaned forward. “All right, what is my job. What are we officers supposed to do; sit on our behinds and watch him make everyone miserable?”

“That’s right. Obey orders and draw our pay. It’s easy money.”

Slee got up and walked back to the porthole. “It’s a hell of a way to serve, that’s all I can say. And Walker would agree with me.”

Merrilton looked in a hand mirror and stroked his beard. “Jimmy Boy, you’ve got to realise there aren’t many Walkers in our Navy. Most commanders are Nelsons. They’re steeped in tradition and can’t stand being corrected by subordinates. They’re sensitive creatures.”

“So am I when it comes to botching up human behaviour.”

Merrilton stabbed a finger at him. “Now that’s your downfall. This psychology stuff you studied in med school. It doesn’t wash with the Navy.”

Slee was reminded of the career he had left to settle his itch to be in the war. It seemed longer than three years ago that he had walked out of the university and offered himself at the reserve depot for active service. He’d had no intention of abandoning his career, had believed that the experience he gained from the war would be of immense value later in the practice of psychology. And until now he had never regretted the move.

“I’ll tell you how much good psychology will do you in a pinch, Jimmy Boy,” Merrilton was saying. “You’ll wind up facing a court of inquiry and you’ll start spruiking all that human behaviour stuff. Do you know what they’ll say: Who are you to know how to handle men? they’ll say. Are you a psychologist? they’ll ask.”

Slee turned on him irritably. “I don’t have to be a psychologist to understand human behaviour.”

“So you’re just a student, they’ll say. Then they’ll take away your commission and draft you back to depot to learn how to be an officer.” Merrilton stood up grinning. “Take my advice and get wise to the big brass. Be a yes man and stay on the winning side.” He pulled on his coat, shrugged his big shoulders into it, and grabbed his cap. “And now I’m off to work in the chart house and you’re going ashore you lucky dog.”

“I’m thinking about it,” Slee said.

“Go. Go off and have a beer for me.”

Merrilton went out and Slee drifted around the cabin and came to rest at the porthole again. Capetown looked inviting. He should go off. This was his first visit here and God knows he needed a break from Hardridge. Too bad Merrilton was on duty though—he hated going ashore on his own. There was Gum of course, but the man annoyed him spitting cigar juice everywhere and belching across tables. He was still undecided when Midshipman Dobran knocked and entered, cap in hand. “Sir, I wondered if you were going ashore.”

Slee stood a chair at the desk in the corner of the cabin. “Come in and sit down, Phil. Make yourself at home.” Dobran sat down with his back straight and his feet together. He was a fresh-faced boy of slim build. Of the Royal Navy, he had joined the ship for a two-year term on its arrival in England and still had not settled down properly. “I was going off, sir, and I thought… if you’d like to go with me.” Slee grinned. “Why not. Can you give me time to shave and shower?”

Dobran’s face lighted up. “Certainly, sir. I’ll wait on the quarter deck for you.”

“Wait here if you like.”

“No, I might as well take in some fresh air.”

“Suit yourself.” Slee started taking off his shirt and Dobran moved towards the door.

“Phil.”

The boy turned.

“I told you before, don’t call me sir unless someone’s around. Jim’s my name.”

Dobran blushed. “Oh, sorry si’ , . . Jim. I’ll try and member.”

He went out and Slee stripped naked and wrapped a towel around his waist to go to the shower. Dobran still occupied his thoughts. That was another mistake the Navy made. It didn’t make sense treating Middies like school boys; caning them when they got out of line in the training college. It was no wonder that many of them grew up intolerant of the lower deck.

The chiefs and P.O.s mess was situated one deck below the mess deck flats. It was about one sixth the size of the seamen’s mess but was much more comfortable with padded stools and two couches. The lockers were steel upright ones and there were two large vent shafts. At present, the mess was noisier than usual as men dressed for shore. Lunch was over; Dalby, the messman was washing up on a table in the corner and above the sound of clattering dishes, the officers were arguing: “It’s bloody ridiculous if you ask me,” Bredgman said. He was standing, one foot on a stool, and lacing up his shoe. “Whacker and I have been in that deck a hundred times since we commissioned and every man in there respects us.”

“It depends what you call respect,” Wales said, peering in a hand mirror and running a comb through his curly red hair, “An A.B. called Whacker an old bastard in the presence of the old man. I don’t call that showing respect.”

Payne said: “A.B.s have called me worse than that plenty of times, but Walker didn’t used to come snooping around to hear them.” He was lounging at the table, drawing marks in a pool of spilt tea.

Wales got a tea towel and began drying the dishes for Dalby. He winked at him, and Dalby returned him a weak smile.

“Anyway, what’s wrong with being called a bastard in fun?” Bredgman argued. “If anyone here says he’s never been called that he’s a liar.”

“No one has called it to me,” Wales said, shaking a plate at him. “And God help anyone who does.”

Bredgman laughed. “You’re bloody particular all of a sudden. Seems to me you didn’t mind skylarking with the boys when Walker was aboard.”

“Walker’s not aboard now.”

“You’re a turncoat then.”

Wales hitched up his shorts at the waist with his elbows— a habit he had when angered. “I’m a chief and that’s a rank above you. You’d better remember that.”

Bredgman’s weather-beaten face creased in annoyance. “Or-right, don’t get a shitty on with me. You agree with this distinction of rank that Hardridge has started but I don’t. I’m not alone either.”

“Not at all,” Dalton said. “I don’t doubt that the old man believes this sort of thing is necessary, but he’s off beam. Leastways he would be on any of the R.N. destroyers I’ve served on.” Dalton was the chief gunner’s mate and had served ten years in the R.N. before transferring to the R.A.N. He was the object of good natured bantering for being R.N. from all the P.O.s except Wales. Wales clashed fiercely with him at every opportunity such as now: “Don’t fetch the R.N. into this, Dalton,” he sneered. “It’s from you kippers that we got our discipline in the first place remember.”

“Ay, you did, but you took more than your share. I’ve never seen discipline carried so far back home as in your service— especially on your cruisers.”

The discussion spread to embrace the chief E.R.A. and the stoker P.O. and his chief. Payne listened to it for a while then brought his lanky form upright off the table. “Listen, what I’d like to know is what’s the old man’s object. All right, so he fetches down a non-frat ruling. Why? To make the crew respect us; is that what he’s after?”

“No, that’s only one step in the ladder,” Stringer told him Stringer had been sitting back listening, but now was on his feet at the head of the table. “Respect makes for discipline and discipline makes for efficiency. Efficiency, that’s what he wants, and that’s what we’ll give him.”

“Were we efficient before he came aboard?” Payne asked, winking at Bredgman.

“Yes, but we weren’t efficient enough.”

“Like hell!” Bredgman exclaimed. “In the Med we got two subs, shot down three planes, and knocked out that artillery base at Bomba.”

Stringer stuck out his jaw. “We did our job in action, I’m not saying we didn’t. But there’s more required of a ship’s crew than that.”

“Yes, they have to kiss the officer’s arses,” said Bredgman.

Stringer flashed him a dangerous glance. “All right, Shorty, that’ll be enough. You’re not on a freighter now but a warship. Conduct yourself as a P.O. should or there’ll be trouble.” He looked around at the others. “Everyone had better get something straight: we have our orders and will obey them. Now we might as well quit grouching and resign ourselves to duty.”

“Cruiser style,” Bredgman added in an undertone.

Stringer shot him a mean glance and seemed about to argue further when the boatswain’s mate looked down the hatch and piped: “Liberty men fall in.”

The argument ended abruptly. Those going ashore climbed the hatch and moved aft to the gangplank. Only Bredgman seemed unexcited about going ashore in the port he had visited a dozen times before. He trailed in the rear, muttering about “the spit and polish ” Navy whose sailors had to be inspected before they were allowed ashore. “If bullshit was efficiency we’d have sunk the whole German Navy by now,” he said to Payne.

Chapter Six

The first liberty men had gone ashore and McCall was standing at ease on the quarter deck waiting to be called before his commander in default. Stringer had charge of him. Hardridge was already standing at a small table amidships, browsing through a file which McCall guessed contained his service record. Rollinson and Gum stood by, waiting for proceedings to begin. Gum was short, fat, and red faced, and was puffing from the effort of just standing there.

McCall was mildly amused by all this. He imagined Hardridge observing the red ink entries on his service record and trying to think which punishment he should order. Do your best, you old parasite, he thought. I’ve tried all of them so what difference can it make.

Now Hardridge looked up and nodded to Rollinson. Rollinson nodded to the Coxswain. Stringer snapped to attention in front of McCall. “Defaulter … schone! ”

McCall came to attention.

“Right… turn! Double … march! ”

McCall doubled up to the table. Stringer flounced up behind him. “Off … cap! ”

McCall took his cap off—a bloody ridiculous custom, he thought. You took your cap off on three routine occasions in the Navy: to receive punishment, to get paid, and to pray. McCall never had been able to see the connection.

Stringer had moved to the other side of the table and was now reading out the charge: “Able Seaman McCall did speak in a manner insolent to his commanding officer during gunnery exercises.”

Hardridge looked up from the service record and for the first time McCall stared into his black eyes.

“Well, McCall, what excuse can you offer for this offence?” Hardridge asked.

“No excuse,” McCall said.

“Sir,” snapped Stringer. “Call the commander sir.”

“Sir,” said McCall. “You gave me a stupid order and I asked you a stupid question. And I don’t like being called an idiot.”

The effect this had on everyone made McCall want to laugh. Hardridge’s face blanched and he bowed his head. Gum’s face went redder. Rollinson clenched and unclenched his hands. Stringer’s bottom jaw sagged like an offended child’s.

Hardridge raised his head. “McCall, I consider your conduct extremely insolent and I intend to teach you to respect not only me, but every officer aboard this ship. Is that clear?”

“Sure,” said McCall.

“Sir!” barked Stringer, Rollinson, and Gum together.

“You will serve fourteen days number eleven punishment and will have your pay and leave stopped for the same period of time.”

Stringer clicked his heels together. “Fourteen days number eleven, fourteen days stoppage of pay and leave. On … cap! ”

McCall put his cap on.

“About… turn!”

McCall turned about.

“Double … march!”

McCall doubled off the quarter deck and walked forward to the mess deck. The second group of liberty men who were dressing to go ashore pestered him with questions as he entered. What had The Fuehrer said and what punishment had he ordered? McCall gave them the answers and went forward to join the kid in five mess.

“How does it feel knowing you’ve got to work while everyone else plays?” the kid asked.

McCall stepped up on the lockers and looked ashore through a porthole. He saw the wharves, the tall buildings of the city beyond, and Table Mountain brooding in the background. He turned away from it all and sat down. “It’s not worth it.”

“What’s not worth what?” the kid asked.

“Breaking ship to go ashore in that joint.”

“Don’t be crazy. If The Fuehrer gets that on you as well you won’t see shore leave for three months.”

Dusty Rhodes came down the mess and sat next to McCall. “Fourteen of number eleven and stoppage. He doesn’t mess around does he?”

McCall started taking off the number one suit he had worn to face the commander. “Stuff him. He won’t beat me.”

Rhodes smiled tolerantly. During ten years of service he had seen many like McCall. The Navy had broken some of them, but not the real McCalls. He knew he was wasting his time but he had to oblige Slee and Payne and try to reason with him. “Why don’t you give up, Rocky? You can’t get the better of the top dogs in this circus?”

“And they can’t get the better of me.”

“No, but they can wear you down until you’re no good to them or yourself.”

“Like hell. They’ve been at it more’n three years and I’m still all right.”

Rhodes lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the deckhand. “Wouldn’t it be easier to go along with them? Call them bastards if you want to—only do it behind their backs like I do.”

“Couldn’t stand myself if I did that.” McCall grinned. “What is this anyway. You trying to convert me?”

“ I’m trying to help you.”

“Whacker Payne and Slee put you up to it. Right?”

“Rhodes nodded. “They want to help you, too.”

“Tell ’em thanks, but I’m doing fine.”

Rhodes shrugged his shoulders. “Have it your way. But you’ve got a bad bastard riding you now; he’ll give you hell.”

“I’ve had nothing but hell from pigs all along.”

“Not from all of them. There are some gentlemen among officers.”

“Not bloody many. Most are little Hitlers. Power drunk bastards; not happy unless they’re making the lower deck jump like frightened rabbits.”

Rhodes gave this some thought and decided on a different approach. “Whose fault is it with you anyway? You joined of your own free will before the war didn’t you ?”

“Sure I did. Know why? I was hungry. I wanted a crust and thought I had it when I read those jazzy posters they had stuck up all over Australia. Join a man’s service and see the world, they said, and had pictures of matloes with luscious dames. I got sucked in. I put my name on the dotted line for twelve years.” McCall pulled on his overalls and slapped the pockets in search of his tobacco. A group had gathered at the mess to listen to him griping. Rhodes watched him find his tobacco and start rolling a cigarette. “Go on,” he said.

“Then I spent a year in depot learning all the drill. I put up with their bullshit there so I could go to sea and be among men.” He licked the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. “Some bloody hope I had. First thing happened was a crusher didn’t like my ugly puss and started picking on me. Cap not straight, shoes not shined, double here, double there. Christ, it was more of a kindergarten than the depot had been. In the end I clobbered the crusher and got twenty-one days at G.I. I came out of there fighting the bastards and I’ve been fighting them ever since. Stuff them. They won’t break me.”

Rhodes stood up, big and broad. “Too bad, Rocky; you could be a P.O. if you set yourself to do it.”

McCall grinned. “You can have the promotion; you want it.”

Rhodes ambled back to his mess and sat by Gebbs.

“How did it go?” Gebbs asked.

“Like I expected.” Rhodes watched McCall settling down beside the kid. “You get his type in the outfit and there’s nothing will change them. They don’t want to change; all they want to do is cancel out the mistake they made in joining.” He whistled a tune through his teeth and kept watching McCall at the forward end of the deck. “It’s crazy. If you had a bloke working for you in civvy street like that, hating your guts and always in strife, what would you do?”

“I’d sack him,” said Gebbs.

“So would anyone—except the Navy.”

And while they discussed McCall, he argued a different subject with the kid. “Why? Why don’t you want to go ashore?”

“Because I don’t want to,” the kid said.

“But why the hell don’t you?”

“I just don’t fancy Capetown.”

“How do you know—you’ve never been here before.”

The kid looked peeved. “Well, let’s say I don’t fancy the look of the place.”

McCall eyed him suspiciously. “It’s because I’m not going off. Right? Well, you can go ashore without me.”

“Christ, Rocky lay off will you,” the kid said angrily. “I want to stay on board.”

McCall looked into his solemn dark eyes and fell silent. Secretly, he felt glad the kid was staying aboard. It was nice to know he liked his company that much … McCall checked his thoughts there. Got to watch he doesn’t get too involved with me, he thought. This blind loyalty he’s showing isn’t good. Wanting to do my dhobying all the time. Wanting to be with me day and night. Being like a slave to me. I’ve got to watch it…

Chapter Seven

They stayed two days at Capetown taking in fuel and stores and while the crew had shore leave McCall served punishment. Number eleven punishment meant extra work for two hours during the pipe-down period after dinner and two hours in the evening. In depots and on large ships, the offender sometimes had to do rifle drill, “jankers ”, but on small ships where living was cramped and space limited he was spared this ordeal and put to some tedious work.

McCall’s first job was to paint the lower yard arm. It wasn’t so bad up there. He got a nice view of the waterfront and was far enough above the deck to prevent officers from seeing if he was working or loafing.

On the third morning they sailed, and after rounding the cape steered north. The buzz now was Aden or Suez. Hardridge had opened sealed orders after leaving Southampton and knew their destination. But he commanded by the book and told no one.

White buildings on Durban’s foreshore glared in the sun, and on the bridge Merrilton finished fixing the ship’s position by station pointer and joined Slee on the compass platform. They were alone on the bridge keeping the afternoon watch and Merrilton, occupied this far with navigational duties, now had the chance to talk to his cabin mate: “Darling Durban. Now there’s a place to go ashore, Jimmy Boy.”

“Have you been there?” Slee asked, gazing at the shore through his glasses.

“Twice. And both times were unforgettable. They treat the visitor like a long lost cousin—as long as he stays clear of the natives. Let them catch you in the coloured quarter though, and you’re scum—they won’t even stand in your shadow.” Merrilton raised his glasses and the two officers gazed at the place for some time without speaking. Then Slee, feeling something of the old itch to travel still in his bones, lowered his glasses and said: “I suppose it does have its good side.”

“What has?”

“The Navy. The closest most men come to travelling overseas is in the pages of a book.”

“Now you’re talking like a sailor, Jimmy Boy. Good for you. Next thing is you’ll be wanting to transfer to permanent service.”

Slee shook his head. “Only if I had a permanent commander like Walker.”

Merrilton laughed boisterously. “Here we go again. The trouble with you is you lack discipline. You’ve had too much freedom and not enough suppression in life.”

Slee thought about suppression and linked it with Hardridge and the Jacaranda. It seemed like two worlds; quarter deck and forecastle, enemies of each other.

The steps of the bridge ladder clattered and Andy Arthurton, the officers’ steward, appeared with afternoon tea on a tray. He was slender and small and looked neat in his white leading steward’s rig. He walked softly and quickly across to them and set the tray down. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

They greeted him amiably, calling him Andy, and watched him pour tea from the pot into two cups. He put exactly the right amount of milk and sugar in each cup and served first Slee and then Merrilton. His movements were deft; he had been an officer’s steward for ten years and took pride in his work. As he served Merrilton he was aware the lieutenant was watching him, observing his shapely brown legs below white shorts, and he felt pleased. Andy had been a homosexual ever since a certain lieutenant-commander on the first ship he had gone to had paid him an overrider to sleep with him occasionally.

Now he took the plates of sandwiches and biscuits in hand and served Slee, then came back to Merrilton. “Is the tea all right, sir?”

Merrilton slipped him a wink. “It’s just right, Andy.”

Andy stood back hoping Merrilton would make conversation. He liked Merrilton intensely. The man’s powerful physique appealed and his pleasant disposition was a welcome change from the uncouth Gum who made a slave of him. He held the two plates out. “Would you care for a sandwich or biscuit, sir?”

“A sandwich will do fine,” Merrilton took one and bit into it. He winked at Andy again. “You make better sandwiches than my mother did, Andy,” he said, and noticed the blush at the compliment. He liked Andy in return but for different reasons. Talking to the little steward gave him respite from the pompous atmosphere of the wardroom; also, Andy lived aft but slept forward and was able to keep him entertained with amusing accounts of what went on in the forecastle.

“And how are things up forward, Andy?” he now asked, munching on his sandwich.

“Fine, sir. They are still growling about the new commander, but not so much as before.”

“Hum. Tell me, how do you find him?”

“Who, the new commander, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, he’s all right—rather quiet though.” But Andy was thinking more than that. Lately, he had wondered a lot about the officer whose cabin betrayed no signs that he was interested in women; the man who went ashore alone and apparently remained alone. And then yesterday when he had been brushing his suits, he had sensed the commander watching him and had turned to find him gazing at him with the strangest expression on his face. For a moment the commander had looked at him steadily, then he had lowered his gaze and said curtly: “Finish the suits and leave the cabin, steward.” Merrilton drained his cup and passed it to him.

“Another one, sir?”

“No thank you, Andy.”

“Sub-Lieutenant Slee, sir?” he asked, holding up the pot. “No thank you, Andy.”

Andy put the things back on his tray and holding it waiter fashion walked neatly across the bridge. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, and went down the ladder.

Merrilton watched him go and looked at Slee. Slee was smiling. “That little man certainly thinks a lot of you, Joe.” Merrilton squared his shoulders and laughed. “That little man keeps me from going nuts.”

The ship glided north through unruffled water and again entered the tropics. In the mess deck the crew wore only shorts and the old A.B.s patted the kid’s brown thighs and called him, “a lovely bit of skin.” The kid took it as a joke, but was careful not to shower close to Lench or Hilder or Jeckman. He kept himself dressed in the mess deck and on deck avoided the buffer as much as possible. Lately, Wales had developed the habit of stopping on his night rounds to talk with him on watch and had suggested on one occasion that the chiefs and P.O.s were getting tired of Dalby as their messman in harbour and might like him for the job. But the kid was not interested in Wales or Dalby’s job, but only in Rocky McCall who continued to serve out his punishment when not on watch. The almost continuous hours of duty left McCall with no time to spare and the kid used this opportunity to help him. He ran errands for him, dished up his scran at meal times, slung his hammock each night close beside his own in the mess deck flat, and induced McCall to allow him to dhoby his clothes.

They sailed past Mombasa and the old hands looked at that sweltering port and told stories about its shanty brothels where African women sold themselves short-time for twenty piastres which was two shillings. Still north they ran and the exercises continued all the while. Action, fire, collision stations … And The Fuehrer watched from the bridge and was pleased that his chiefs and P.O.s no longer fraternised with the crew who were at last becoming efficient.

There was Aden and then Suez and then Port Said, and the old hands told how here for fifty piastres you could see a woman strapped beneath a donkey in the act of intercourse with the animal. Then they were in the Mediterranean and now at last The Fuehrer broke his silence and named Alexandria as their destination.

They entered the big harbour and dropped anchor directly below King Farouk’s palace on the hill. Nothing seemed to have changed from what it had been six months ago. An old bearded Arab named Oosh Magoosh by the fleet, sailed up in his felluca, made fast at the gangway, and hobbled aboard in the same filthy robe. He bowed to the crew and went on his knees before the Coxswain to ask for the drum of offal standing in the scuppers of the port waist. Then he and his aids aboard the felluca manhandled the drum down the gangway into the boat, where they bored into the slush, shovelling it into their mouths with bare hands and fighting over pieces of fruit. Small boys, so skinny their shoulder blades looked like wings, came aboard and begged for food scraps and for piastres until the Coxswain roused them off the ship. And aged cripples with swollen limbs and running sores covered with flies lay off the ship in boats calling out for anything the crew chose to throw them.

The port watch went ashore that night. They rode in fellucas manned by aged Arabs, across the harbour, passing British battle-wagons, cruisers, destroyers, and a carrier. Then from the landing steps they travelled by gharies to Mohammet Ali Square which was still the hub of the place. No, nothing had changed. In the streets, grubby small boys pestered you, offering to sell you a girl short time. If you declined they offered their mothers, and then their sisters, and as a last resort, their young brothers. Sailors who went with the boys might end up at the dockside in Sister Street, which was the in-bounds street of brothels; or they could find themselves in the “dirty half mile” area, which was out-of-bounds and riddled with venereal disease. Sailors loyal to their women at home ignored the boys and went to swim at Stanley Bay, or to see a film, or to a carbaret where dancing girls begged, “buy me sherry,” and instead of sherry were served with coloured water at twenty piastres a glass.

McCall was confined on board for the first few nights in port. Then, his punishment completed, he raked together what cash he had and went ashore with the kid. They ate at a café, choice ham and eggs and custard pudding which was a treat after the tinned fruit on board. Then they rode in a ghari to Sister Street; the horse’s hooves clip-clopping loudly on the asphalt and the Arab driver shouting at it in Arabic.

The brothels were busy this night. Soldiers down from the desert front mixed freely with sailors walking up and down the street. The girls stood, silhouetted by lamp and candle light, in the doorways at each abode. They smiled at the passing men and pointed to their breasts and lifted their petticoats to show their fannies and said: “Short time, ten piastre, Jack,” and “All night sleep two pounds,” and, “Front way, back way, suckey-suck. What you like, Jack.”

McCall and the kid walked past all of this and McCall was excited and searching for something new. The kid went with him because he liked being with him, even though the smell made him feel slightly sick. The kid did not know what the smell was. It was not the rich one of cooking oil, or the sweet one of incense. It was raw and sour, reminding him of the entrails of livestock he had seen butchered in the small town in South Australia where he had been born and raised by a widowed mother.

They came to a stone humpy whose entrance formed an archway and McCall said: “This is a newey, kid. Let’s try it.”

They went inside a kind of entrance hall and sat in cane chairs opposite two soldiers at a makeshift table. Two doors led off the hall. The place was old, with flaky walls, floor boards that creaked and sagged as you walked on them, and a ceiling of hessian. The smell was bad here and the kid was nervous.

Two girls came into the hall. One was a fat Egyptian and the other a slim Arab. They beckoned and the two soldiers paired off with the girls and went through the doors with them.

McCall grinned at the kid. “The skinny one’s not bad. Got a gold tooth.”

“I noticed,” the kid said.

McCall lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. “You going to give it a go tonight, kid?”

“I’ll wait here for you.”

“Why don’t you try it. Take the skinny one; I don’t mind the fatty.”

The kid shook his head. “I’m not interested.”

McCall shrugged. “I sure don’t know how you live without it. Me, I’d go nuts if I didn’t get my share.”

The kid looked around the hall at the flickering shadows on the wall thrown by an oil lamp, and at the two closed doors. He thought about what his oppo would shortly be doing in one of those rooms and wondered what position he would assume for the act this time. He imagined he would stretch out on top of the girl. But then she was very skinny and they all said that type were best on the side …

After a while the door nearest to him opened and the Arab girl came out with her soldier. Her gold tooth showed as she smiled and approached McCall and the kid.

McCall stood up, “Hold the fort, kid. I won’t be long.”

The kid waited alone in the hall. It was quiet and he found himself listening for sounds from the room. But he heard nothing and after a while he embarrassed himself sitting there thinking about his oppo having sex in there and he went for a walk. It was all sex outside too though, and after going a short way down the street, he felt drawn back to the house with the archway.

McCall met him as he was about to re-enter the place. He seemed happy and contented and the kid felt better walking with him now that he was no longer searching. He said nothing about his experience and after a while the kid’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked: “Well, did you enjoy it?”

“It was lovely,” McCall said. “I’ve never had one as good.” The kid walked in silence for a while. He was sour with the girl. He had hoped McCall would say she wasn’t so good …

“Maybe it was the position,” McCall said.

“What?”

“The position. Maybe that was why she was so good.”

The kid said nothing. He wanted to know about the position but wasn’t going to ask.

“Know what it was?”

“How would I know?”

“From behind, dog fashion. I bent her over the end of the bed. Trembled hell out of my knees but it was tight. Could feel her biting on me all the way up to her navel.”

“All right, I don’t want to know all that gory stuff,” the kid snarled.

“Well, what the hell’d you ask me for.”

“Let’s go back to the ship.”

“Okay, suits me; I’m satisfied.”

When they arrived on board most of the liberty men were still ashore and the duty watch were sitting around the mess tables killing time until “lights out.” They got their hammocks from the bin in the mess deck and slung them in the flat. The kid showered before turning in. He showered morning and night in harbour, making up for those times at sea when he often had to make do with a wash up.

Under the shower, he cleaned his teeth and scrubbed his finger nails before soaping himself. Afterwards, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went to his locker. The kid’s locker was said to be the best kept on the ship. Everything had its allocated place. His clothes were neatly folded and stacked on built-in shelves, and in the sides of the locker he had built more shelves to hold his toiletries and miscellaneous items.

From the bottom left side shelf he selected talc powder which he dusted over his body and between his toes. Then he smeared deodorant under his arms and used scented oil on his hair before combing it in the push-back. He did all this in view of the duty watch, and the old A.B.s admired him and occasionally one of them contrived to walk past him and pat his smooth buttock and say: “Jesus, you’re a lovely drop of skin, kid.”

Out in the flat, he put on his silk pyjamas and lay in his hammock, talking with McCall. They talked about the ship, the war, and then McCall. And the kid imagined the day ahead when the Navy would tire of trying to discipline him and would dismiss him. The prospect of serving out the war without McCall depressed him and he said: “They tear the corner off your discharge certificate when it’s dismissal with disgrace. You might as well carry a brand. You’ll never get a decent job.”

McCall chuckled. “Maybe not a government job, but who said that was decent. Don’t worry, after this massacre ends there’ll be plenty of jobs for chooks.” He turned on his side and faced the kid. “Know what I want to do when I get out?”

“I suppose you’ll run a gym and teach kids to fight.”

“Hell no. No bastard will want to fight after the war. No, I’d like to run a carrying business. Get a big diesel and carry anything anywhere. Good healthy work and my own boss. I’ll never call no bastard sir again.”

The kid imagined him as a carrier, knocking around in trousers and singlet and picking up his sex where it offered. McCall and sex. McCall and the Arab girl. He loathed that girl …

Chapter Eight

The Jacaranda based at Alexandria attached to a Royal Navy destroyer flotilla escorting convoys to and from Haifa and Port Said. Italian high level bombers harassed them most of the time. They bombed from great heights, appearing as silver specks to the crew below. But they were remarkably accurate and ships ran zig-zag courses to lessen the chances of being hit. Occasionally, Jacaranda took a convoy west for rendezvous with a Malta escort, and then encountered German Stukas. The Stukas would power dive through the barrage and scream low to drop their bombs. It was Jacaranda’s first experience of them and it frightened hell out of her crew. The kid crouched within the shield of B gun and kept the headphones pressed to his ears to muffle the screaming of the diving planes. The Stukas terrified him worse than anything he had known, and before the raids, when the enemy approached on the radar screens of bigger ships, he was always stricken with anxiety. What if a bomb hits this gun? he would think. Will I die instantly or will I get maimed and die in agony? What if one hits the forecastle and a piece of red hot shrapnel rips through my belly? Will it hurt terribly or will I black out? How long will it take me to bleed to death if a sliver of metal cuts my throat? Afterwards, when the danger was past, he would feel ashamed. But then he would remember Caneer and would feel better. For Caneer was one who could not control his terror; he would seek cover by crawling under a tarpaulin or hiding his head under an old overcoat, and afterwards would be pale and trembling and ashamed to meet the gazes of his crew-mates.

When not convoying the destroyers lay in harbour and took turns at submarine patrol. Italian submarines had been active laying mines in the paths of convoys and putting tin fish into them at night. Jacaranda’s Asdic picked up many echoes on patrol which may have been subs but may also have been old wrecks or schools of fish. Anyway, they dropped dozens of charges during the first month of their stay, but failed to register a kill.

The weeks passed and the days were warm with blue skies, reminding the men of Australia’s summer and the length of time they had been away. They talked about the war and were concerned about Japan’s intentions. They could not see what the hell they were doing in the Mediterranean helping the R.N. when the Japs had occupied Indo-China and Burma. Of course, Aussy soldiers were over here fighting in the desert. But they could not see how they were helping them by running convoys and chasing false echoes on their Asdic.

But one they chased was real. They picked it up at sundown and let go three patterns of charges. Then they followed it north towards Crete, then east all night. And when at sunrise it was still sounding: Dooying … dooying … dooying … they knew their first kill was at hand.

She surfaced at nine o’clock and even as Jacaranda opened fire, she was going down. She sank in a few minutes, scuttled by her crew who had leaped into the water. They picked them up, wretched nerve-wrecks of men, and took them to Alex as prisoners. And then they went ashore and celebrated.

The glory of their kill lasted for a week, then other ships stole the limelight from them and they were as before, browned off with being efficient. But not McCall.

McCall served punishment concurrently, sometimes answering to as many as three charges at once. His name was a red light for the enforcers. McCall must address all officers as sir. McCall must not forget to salute the quarter deck. McCall must obey orders without question or complaint. Watch McCall. Catch him at something and charge him. Make him subservient. Break him. The orders came from The Fuehrer and they were passed down through Rollinson to Gum, and on down through Stringer and Wales to McCall.

He was with the kid in the tiller flat this day, and they were reading mail, the first they had received since leaving England. McCall and the kid had recently started spending off-duty time in the tiller flat. It was directly below the quarter deck, but the officers never entered the place and it was cosy with bales of cotton waste, coils of rope, fenders, and junk of all sorts in it.

They had settled down on the largest bale of cotton waste to read their letters. The kid had three. One was addressed in his mother’s familiar writing; another was in his sister’s scrawl; the other was from London. McCall had one. He read it twice then screwed it up and the kid looked up from the one he was reading and asked who it was from.

“From Slug,” McCall said.

“Slug who?”

“I forget his other name. We called him Slug because he had the biggest weapon you ever saw.”

“Were you good friends with him?”

“Nothing special. We broke out of reform together once. Guess that’s why he still writes to me. You don’t easy forget the bloke who busts out with you.”

The kid was curious and a little surprised. There was no end to the adventures his oppo had experienced. “Were you out for long?”

“Only two weeks. But that’s a hell of a long time when the cops are after you and it’s in the papers and all. A widow on a farm hid us. An old sort—must have been all of thirty-five.” McCall lapsed into thought for a moment. “Know something. She was nuts about us. Let both of us sleep with her turn about while we were there.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Bloody all right, she was. Must have been saving up for years, waiting for young stuff like us to come along.”

“All right, I don’t want to know about the bedroom,” the kid said.

McCall grinned at him. “Don’t get shitty. I’ll shut up about her.” He took tobacco from his pocket. “Who’s your mail from?”

“That one there is from my sister and this one’s from my mother.” He picked up the third letter. “This one’s from London.”

“Who’s in London?”

“I don’t know until I read it,” the kid said, but felt he already knew. He took the photograph that had been enclosed with his mother’s letter and showed it to McCall. “That’s my family.”

McCall put his tobacco aside and took the photo. “Nice looking crew.” He peered closer and pointed. “Who’s this, the shiela. She your sister?”

“Yes, that’s Stella. I was her favourite.”

McCall glanced at the kid and back at the photo. “She looks like you.”

“She’s pretty,” the kid said. “She got married to a grazier when I was still a kid.”

McCall whistled softly. “One of them shrewd blokes; stays home and grows wool to keep the boys in uniform warm.” He pointed to the young man standing next to the kid. “This one your brother?”

“Yes, that’s Larry.”

“He looks like a pug.”

“He isn’t. He just tries to look tough for the camera.” McCall passed the photograph back to him. “Open the London one and see who it’s from.”

The kid tore the letter open. It was from Janet as he expected:

“Dear Freddy,

I was pleased to get your letter posted at Capetown and sorry you’ve been sent away. There was no need for you to apologise about being nervous when you tried to make love to me. Perhaps it was best anyway. Freddy, you say about getting back here one day, but I think I should tell you that I’ve met another nice boy now. He is Jewish and I like him very much and think it is best we should say good-bye. I do hope you find another nice girl and hope you will think kindly of me as I will of you.

Yours truly,

Janet.”

The kid folded the letter and tucked it inside his jacket.

“Well, who was it from?” McCall asked.

“Janet.”

“What! That Jewish shiela. Christ, fancy her writing to you. She must have thought a lot of you. Imagine Sybil writing to me. Hell, she’s probably been with a dozen blokes since we sailed.”

The kid said nothing. He felt depressed.

“What did she have to say?” McCall asked.

“She scrubbed me off.”

“Yeah! ”

“Yes, she’s met a Jewish boy.”

McCall looked at the kid closely. “What the hell, kid. There’s plenty of shielas.”

“Not for me. Me and shielas don’t get along.”

McCall snorted. “Come off it. With your looks you can take your pick.” He started rolling a cigarette, studying the kid as he licked it and twirled it around in his mouth. “Was Janet your first?”

“I told you before; I didn’t do anything with her.”

“I never said you did. I mean, was she the first you went out with?”

“No, I had a girl after I left school. She was in my class and we sort of grew up together.”

McCall lit the cigarette. “What was she like?”

“She was a little thing; real pretty with long black hair. Her name was Christine.”

“Did you do any good with her?”

The kid glanced at him. Suddenly, he felt he wanted to confide in McCall. He knew that whatever he told him it would go no further and it might make him feel better to get it off his chest. “I nearly did,” he said.

“What stopped you?”

“I was nervous. I wasn’t sure how to go about it. Then, while I was thinking about it, I lost her.”

“How come?”

“Larry pinched her off me.”

“That brother in the photo?”

“Yes.” The kid wondered if he should continue …

“Go on,” said McCall,

“Larry was always jealous of me, even over the old ladies.”

“What old ladies?”

“Them in the town. They used to make a fuss of me when I was a kid; call me ‘pretty boy’ and talk slushy about me in front of my mother and Larry. Larry make a big joke about it. He was a few years older than me and used to reckon I was too much of a pansy to get a girl. ‘You’ll never get your bit, Pretty Boy, because you don’t know how to do it,’ he used to say. And he’d say it in the street among the other lads. It made me feel pretty awful at times.”

“’Course it did,” McCall said. “But how come he pinched this Christine off you?”

“Well, after we left school I used to go around with her. We used to park in the local gardens—the war memorial in the town.” He looked at McCall to see if he was smiling and saw that he wasn’t. “I really wanted her and used to dream I’d get married to her. After the dreams I’d lay there and decide to do it to her the next night. But then, when I got with her, something was always wrong. I’d be nervous when I touched her and I’d want to back out. I think I was scared if she let me I wouldn’t know how or something.”

“That’s natural,” McCall said. “She should of helped you the first time and you’d of been right as rain.”

“Well, one night I was in the gardens lying on the lawn with her when in walked Larry. He came up and lay down on the other side of her and kissed her bold as you like. And she just laughed and cuddled up to him. I don’t mind admitting I was so jealous I wished he was dead.”

“Sure. Then what happened?”

“Then he put his hand on her breast—with me watching he did it. And she giggled again. He asked her to go for a walk then and they went and left me there on my own. She didn’t go out with me again after that.”

McCall rolled over and ground out his cigarette against the ship’s side. “Know something; that brother of yours was a thorough bastard.”

The kid fell silent, thinking about the weeks that followed his break with Christine. He remembered how he used to lay in bed at night waiting for Larry to come in. And when he came he would describe how nice and tight she had been. And afterwards, when Larry had gone to sleep, he used to fantasise sex with her. Sometimes she was the pillow and other times the bedrail; and occasionally she was the picture of her that he sneaked from the dressing-table drawer. But the fantasy never satisfied him and as time passed it meant less and less until one night Larry came in and said he had finished with her. After that she went with all the lads in the town and he put her to the back of his mind and she became to him what she had always been to his mother: a little trollop.

In various parts of the ship other men and officers were reading their mail. Hardridge’s mother wrote from Bandaby sheep station in South Australia’s middle north and said she and pa were longing for him to come home on leave. Pa had arranged several items about him in the country newspapers, and the local branch of the Wool Growers’ Association had done a marvellous job of publicising him in the State journal. Pa was worried over the shortage of manpower. The wool clip for the previous year had been only moderate and they hoped the war would soon end and allow the boom to begin.

Hardridge was in excellent spirits that evening and after dining in the wardroom he took Rollinson to his cabin for drinks. They drank several whiskies and Hardridge passed a photograph of Bandaby homestead across his desk for Rollinson to see. “There it is, Bandaby. What do you think of it?”

Rollinson looked at the huge two-storied house whose long drive had tall gum trees growing each side of it. “I’m surprised, sir. I’ve heard you speak of the place but I never imagined it was so large.”

Hardridge drank half the whisky from his glass and took the photograph from him. He looked at it smugly for a while, then said: “It’s a bonanza, number one, a twenty thousand acre bonanza. And when I finish with the Navy my parents will retire and it will be mine.”

Rollinson sipped his whisky and coughed lightly. “A very nice present for your retirement, sir.”

Hardridge sat stroking his cheek whiskers, looking at the photograph. “Have you ever thought how things will be in Australia after the war, number one?”

“Not seriously, sir.”

“There’ll be a boom in wool such as we’ve never had before. Everyone will want to buy high grade wool. Nations will compete for it. Agricultural science will combine with the stud breeders and spend millions finding the right grasses for the right breed to grow the perfect fleece. And I’ll be a stud breeder on Bandaby.” He tossed the whisky down his throat and reached for the bottle. “Drink a toast with me, number one.”

Rollinson drained his glass and watched his commander fill it.

“To Bandaby,” said Hardridge.

“To Bandaby,” Rollinson said.

Hardridge put the photograph back in its envelope and relaxed, gazing dreamily at Rollinson. “I’m an incredible bore when I get started on Bandaby, number one. So now you must tell me about yourself. You got a letter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, from my wife.”

“Fine. How is she?”

“She’s very well, sir, and so are the children.”

“How many children have you?”

“Two. A boy and a girl, both at school.”

Hardridge seemed lost in thought for a while, then: “Good. Have another drink and tell me about your ambitions.”

Rollinson had a drink. He considered saying that he expected to serve until retirement, then settle down with his wife in Hobart. But somehow it didn’t seem worth saying and Hardridge looked too dreamy to listen anyway.

Warrant Officer Gum also got a letter, but he said nothing about it to anyone. Apparently it did not please him, because that night he locked himself in his cabin and drank a full bottle of whisky; then he went on deck and roused hell out of the Q.M. for skylarking with the boatswain’s mate.

Slee’s outspoken old man wrote from Adelaide and said the med school was turning out doctors by the dozen and all were finding positions. “And if you had any damned sense you’d be home here graduating with them. Why the hell you had to throw in your studies and volunteer for war will always be a mystery to me. The time for us to get involved is when we’re directly threatened—and that’ll be soon enough the way things are looking with Japan.”

After he had read the letter Slee hibernated in his cabin. Letters from the old man always depressed him and caused him to wonder if he’d done the right thing in walking out of med school. Maybe the old man had been right in what he’d said during that final scene he’d had with him: “Any bloody fool can go to war, but it takes a man with brains to be a doctor.” And maybe he’d been right in what he’d said about resuming studies after the war: “So you think you’ll just come back and pick up where you left off. Like hell you will. I’ll tell you what you’ll do, boy. You’ll clash like hell with the Navy because you won’t be able to stand their discipline. But they’ll make you serve out the war just the same and when it ends you’ll be so cheesed off with life you won’t bother about going to med school again.”

He was lying on his bunk when Merrilton breezed into the cabin waving a letter. “Hi there, Jimmy Boy. Guess what: the wife’s struck a prize in the Golden Casket lottery in Brisbane. She’s quit the flat and bought a house. Going to renovate it in time for my home leave. And that won’t be long, Jimmy Boy. Any day now the Japs will be in this war and they’ll send us back to… Hey, are you listening?”

“I’m listening,” Slee said.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you get any mail?”

“Yes, four long pages from my old man.”

“What’s wrong then?”

“I’m home sick,” Slee said.

Nearly everyone on board got mail. There were gay letters and sad letters; love letters and hate letters. Letters with messages scrawled in lipstick and scented with powder. And that night a lot of men slept with white women again.

Chapter Nine

The months passed and Jacaranda continued serving in the war of the Eastern Mediterranean. The war took its toll of ships and men. Jacaranda survived and from her mooring buoy at harbour entrance watched some of the toll passing. A carrier came in with a hole torn in her side; she was listing so badly her crew on deck had to cling to lifelines to stay on their feet. A mine did that. A battle wagon came with one of her stacks gone and her hull torn open. A bomb had passed through her deck and exploded in the engine room and it was three days before all the oil-soaked bodies were recovered. A cruiser came with her bow shorn off as far back as her capstan. They had everything plugged in the hole to keep her afloat—even a lifeboat and a raft.

McCall served punishment continuously and one dark night stood on the forecastle with the kid and talked in whispers.

“You’re crazy to risk it,” the kid said. “Wales is on duty and he’ll catch you for sure.”

“Quit worrying,” McCall hissed. “I’ve secured from punishment and old red beard has got his head down for the night.”

“But why risk it?” the kid argued. “You’ve only got seven more days to serve and then you can go off in the clear.”

“Can’t stick seven more days, kid.”

“Why can’t you—you’ve stuck a month since you went off.”

“Can’t because I got an ache in my cods.”

There came the sound of a boat gliding through the water and McCall stepped into the eyes of the ship. The shape of a felluca showed in the darkness, passing across the bows. McCall put his fingers to his lips and whistled, not loudly. The felluca continued crossing the bows. McCall whistled again, louder this time.

“Oooh,” the boatman hailed them, and started coming about. “Oooh,” he called again as he approached the bows.

“Quiet, you old bastard or you’ll wake the whole ship,” McCall muttered.

The Arab had taken men ashore this way before. He brought the boat silently under the bows and held on to the cable. McCall nudged the kid. “Sling my flea-bag for me. I’ll jump into it just before daylight when I come aboard.”

He climbed over the guard rails and went hand over hand down the cable and into the boat.

The kid stood on the forecastle watching the boat melt into the darkness. Alone, he felt miserable and worried about what McCall might do ashore. He will probably go to the girl in the house of the archway, he thought, and then wondered why he should care if he did. Other oppos don’t let it get them this way, he thought. Why does McCall mean this much to me? He began searching his past to find the mystery of himself. He could remember only once in his life when it had been even remotely like this: Johnny was older than him by three years; but he lived next door and they often played together. Sometimes they played down the creek which ran through the town and other times in a shed at the back of Johnny’s house. There was hay in the shed and Johnny liked wrestling in it with him. Johnny wrestling with him, holding him tightly in a bear-hug, panting and getting excited. Holding him down and mauling him; laughing and whispering to him: “Let’s make out we’re a boy and girl, Freddy. Come on, it’s fun. No, you be the girl. You be the girl because you’ve got skin like one. Lay still. There. See, it’s good fun …”

“Able Seaman McCall! ”

The kid spun around to face the man who loomed in the darkness. He knew by the fast walk that it was Wales …

“Is that you McCall?” He came close and peered at the kid. “Ah, Fennessy. I’ve got a little job for your oppo. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” the kid said, striving to appear composed.

Wales peered closer at him. “You don’t know. That’s a bit unusual isn’t it?” He reached out and lightly grasped the kid’s arm. “Aren’t you lonely up here on your own, kid?”

“No,” the kid said, trying to withdraw his arm.

“Where’s McCall?” Wales asked, his voice hardening.

“I told you, I don’t know. He might be down hanging out his dhobying in the boiler room.”

“All right, I’ll go and see if he is.” Wales started to walk away and the kid said desperately: “What’s the job? I can do it for him.”

Wales turned and although the kid could not see his face he knew it bore a twisted smile. “Of course you could do it. But it’s a messy job; a blocked pan in the heads. I want McCall to do it.” He hurried off and a few minutes later the kid heard the boatswain’s mate piping McCall to lay aft. The pipe sounded again a minute later from the iron deck, and then again from the quarter deck. The kid knew the game was up. Wales was having the pipe made in all parts of ship to make certain McCall was not on board.

After about five minutes Wales reappeared on the forecastle. He walked past the kid into the eyes of the ship and stood looking down at the cable. “So he’s up to his old tricks,” he said.

The kid said nothing and Wales turned, hitching up his shorts. “He’s gone ashore hasn’t he? Gone down the cable into a felluca. I seem to remember him doing this once before when we were moored at Malta.”

The kid started to turn away but Wales seized his arm. He squeezed gently on the bicep and turned the kid to face him. His face was so close the kid could see the twist of his mouth as he smiled. “Breaking ship while under punishment is a serious offence. With his past record he could be sent to prison,” Wales said.

The kid felt the fingers loosen on his bicep and move up his arm. They touched his neck and caressed the skin.

“Don’t let it worry you, kid,” he said, and now his voice was gentler. “I could forget it.” Wales lowered his hand and touched his thigh. “You don’t want to see your oppo in serious trouble do you?”

“Of course I don’t,” the kid said, hoping this might not be what it seemed.

The fingers squeezed his thigh and the voice came low and persuading: “How would you like to be our messman, kid?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I could command you to the job you know. How would your oppo like that—you being down there with me, away from him?”

The kid found his voice in sudden anger. “He’d hate you more than ever,” he said and started to walk away.

“Ordinary Seaman Fennessy! ”

The kid froze at the sharp command.

“I take it you want to see your oppo charged with breaking ship.”

“More than I want to be your messman,” the kid said.

“He’ll probably get a month’s stoppage of leave and pay. How will you like that?”

“How will you like it if I tell him you tried to bribe me?” the kid asked.

Wales came forward hitching up his shorts. “Tell him, you bloody little pansy,” he snarled. “All I’ve done is offer you a job. If you don’t want it go to hell. Just remember I’ll be waiting on the forecastle when McCall comes aboard, that’s all.”

The kid turned away and went below. He slung his and McCall’s hammocks and had a shower. Then he turned in and lay thinking of McCall coming aboard in a few hours and falling into the clutches of Wales. He did not sleep for a long time and when finally he dozed off it was the early hours of the morning and he slept deeply. When daylight came he was still asleep, unaware of the small drama happening on the forecastle.

“Stand where you are, McCall!”

The command rang out the moment McCall’s feet touched the deck. He stood by the guard rails watching Wales hurry forward from A gun where he had been hiding. McCall felt only mildly disappointed; he was more amused by the attitude of Wales.

“Stand to attention, McCall.”

“Go to hell,” McCall said.

Wales’s elbows jerked at his hips. “McCall, I think you’re drunk. Let’s see you double up to A gun and back. Hep!”

McCall stood balanced nicely, looking at Wales’s chin. The red beard would cushion a blow, but a hook to the ear would get home. But even as he thought it he was aware of the consequences of striking a chief petty officer. He’d do time for sure and he wasn’t prepared for that yet.

“Double up to A gun and back. Hep!” Wales said again.

“Get stuffed.”

“Insolence!” Wales shouted. “Abusing a chief petty officer. You’ll face several charges for this, McCall. I’m taking you aft to see the officer of the watch. Move! ”

“Lead the way you bloody big kid,” McCall said, and trudged behind him.

“Come in, Coxswain,” Hardridge said, and when Stringer entered, indicated the seat opposite. “Sit down will you.”

Stringer sat down straight-back, knees together, head up, eyes on his commander.

Hardridge tapped McCall’s service record with a pencil. “It seems that Able Seaman McCall was charged with breaking ship this morning and has been placed on my report.”

“Yes, sir. Chief Petty Officer Wales intercepted him coming aboard at daylight. He is also charged with being insolent and disobeying a direct order.”

Hardridge toyed with his whiskers. “It is obvious that McCall does not respond to any of the punishments I have ordered.”

“That’s so, sir. In fact I believe his conduct is getting worse.”

“Then it’s high time we remedied the situation don’t you think?”

The Coxswain inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

Hardridge fixed his penetrating eyes on him. “Coxswain as a former Garden Island man, I thought you might be able to suggest a more effective deterrent for McCall.”

Stringer thought for a while, then said: “Well sir, I understand there are detention quarters at Colombo.”

“Any other suggestions, Coxswain?”

“Well … no sir. I believe that prison is the only form of punishment likely to improve McCall’s behaviour.”

Hardridge glanced at the service record. “It doesn’t appear to have been much use this far. He has twice been sentenced to Garden Island.”

Stringer nodded. “That’s so, sir, but possibly they were too lenient with him.”

Hardridge’s eyebrows rose. “Lenient; at Garden Island?” Stringer was silent and Hardridge said: “You will deduce that I’m anxious to avoid sending McCall to prison.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s a matter of principle. When I undertake to correct a rating’s behaviour I like to complete the job. In our present circumstances a prison term for McCall might easily mean him being sent to some other ship when he was released. I would then consider I had failed in my job. Therefore, unless it becomes absolutely necessary I shall keep McCall aboard this ship and shall continue to punish him until he mends his ways. Clear?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Now, I have in mind introducing a more severe form of number eleven punishment for him. Is there any reason why we can’t order rifle drill?”

Stringer hesitated for a moment before replying: “Well … no, sir. It’s not usual on a destroyer, but it could be arranged.”

“I’m sure it could. And I wouldn’t worry about it not being usual. After all, McCall is not a usual type of offender is he?”

“No, sir, he certainly isn’t.”

“Very well then, I shall leave it to you to see that the punishment is strictly enforced.”

Stringer got to his feet. “Rest assured I’ll do that, sir.” He backed to the door and went out. Walking quickly, he went forward and climbed the forecastle ladder. He stood forward of A gun and looked at the space between the gun and the capstan. Damn it, of course there was space for it. Why hadn’t he thought of this himself—it would have been a step closer to the old man recommending him for commissioned rank. He turned and walked aft, whistling cheerfully as he descended the ladder to the iron deck. Jankers would be a nasty change for the Irish bastard. And for himself this was going to be like old times in depot and on the big ships. Almost like G.I.

“Hep righ’, hep righ’, hep righ’. Pick up those feet, McCall! Hold your head up! Keep that rifle high! Hep righ’, hep righ’, hep righ’…”

Now McCall was running around and around the forecastle in a small circle with a rifle held horizontally above his head. From the centre of the circle, Wales shouted at him. Stringer looked on from near A gun.

“Defaulter will come to a halt. Defaulter … halt!”

McCall halted and stood puffing, the rifle still held above his head.

“Order … arms!”

McCall brought the rifle down to the order position.

“Stand at… ease! ”

McCall stood at ease.

Wales walked up to him and smiled crookedly. “How do you feel, McCall?”

“I’m okay.”

“Are your arms aching?”

“Sure, aching to throttle some bastards I know.”

Wales stepped back, face reddening. “Defaulter … schone! Slope … arms! Double mark … time!”

McCall began running on the spot. The rifle, held at the slope, jogged up and down on his shoulder and jarred his collar bone. He knew that in time the rubbing would break the skin and bruise the bone. A sore would develop and a scab form on it overnight. The next day the rifle would break the scab. And running on the iron deck would cause blisters on his feet that would heal and break in the same way. In time though, he knew his skin would harden and the aches would pass. So he ran without faltering, glaring constantly at Wales. And the Coxswain turned away from A gun and walked aft, thinking about the Irish bastard, and the others he had known at Garden Island: McPhee, O’Grady, Keane, Cumow … Why were so many bloody Irishmen rebels ? …

And while McCall ran, the crew sat in the mess deck listening to his boots echoing on the deck above. “Jankers on a destroyer. That bloody Fuehrer pulls his prick,” they said. “You couldn’t blame Rocky if he loaded that rifle and put a bullet into Wales’s leg or somewhere.”

And on the quarter deck, Slee heard Wales shouting and walked forward to investigate. He stood for a time watching the drill; then he returned to the quarter deck and went up to Gum who was smoking a cigar and talking to Dobran. “What’s going on up forward?” he asked.

“On the forecastle you mean? McCall’s doing jankers,” Gum said.

“Is that what it’s called?”

Gum spat a stream of cigar juice over the side. “That’s it. They use it a lot in depots and on big ships. Right, Snotty.”

“Right, sir,” said Dobran nervously.

“What’s the idea?” Slee asked.

“The idea. To teach McCall to behave himself of course.”

“Or is it to punish him for misbehaving?”

Gum looked at him blankly. “What’s the difference? Both serve the same purpose.”

“The difference is McCall is not a child and won’t respond to punishment.”

Gum gave a short laugh. “Don’t let the old man hear you giving that line, Sub; he’d throw a fit.”

“That doesn’t alter the fact that I’m speaking the truth,” Slee said.

Gum belched. “And it doesn’t alter the fact that Jankers has been going on in the British Navy since Trafalgar and will keep going on. Right, Snotty.”

“Right, sir,” said Dobran, obviously ill at ease.

Slee frowned. “At Trafalgar they had wooden ships,” he said, and walked away.

Gum stared after him, then looked at Dobran. “Wooden ships at Trafalgar. What the hell’s that got to do with it?”

That incident happened early in December, 1941. A week later was Pearl Harbour; and now the Japanese were not just a threat, but an enemy. And the crew of Jacaranda ceased grouching and shouted at the deckhead: “Take us home! The Japs are coming! Take us home, Fuehrer you old bastard! ”

Two days later they put to sea on their own and headed east. A buzz started and spread quickly through the ship: Home, we’re going home, it said. They left Port Said behind and took in oil at Suez. Then as they headed south into the Red Sea, the buzz grew louder and bolder. At Aden they lay at berth taking in stores and the crew leaned on the guard rails and watched Arabs trading from their boats. They stayed the night there. No leave was granted but who wanted leave in that stink hole now that they were going home? And they jerked their thumbs at the traders who tried to sell them dirty pictures and rubber masturbators. “Up you for the rent, Allah; we’re going home,” they shouted.

In the morning they sailed down the gulf and the course was east again. The last doubt of their destination seemed to have passed now and that night they got out their uniforms and pressed them ready for leave. Every man aboard was happy that night; even Freer; and it would have been impossible to pick a fight. It was that way until noon the following day when the boatswain’s mate piped that they were going to base at an island in the Indian Ocean. And then only the cockroaches seemed happy.

Chapter Ten

The island was about a thousand miles south of Colombo and just east of Chagos. It was a small island and the day Jacaranda arrived they circled it at slow speed and made the journey in less than three hours.

They dropped anchor in a bay on the south coast and from the upper deck the crew looked ashore at a white beach that curved around the bay. Inland were steep slopes covered with trees rising to hills whose tops were crowned with grey and red rocks. It looked a beautiful and peaceful island; the sea in the bay was green and flat and there was enough breeze to relieve the tropic humidity and make things ideal for sunbathing.

But on the north shore it was different. The open sea smashed against the bases of precipitous cliffs there, and when the ship went on patrol, sharks followed in the wake savaging the offal thrown overboard. The patrols were a part of the reason Jacaranda was there. Under direction of the N.O.I.C. at Colombo, she was to make regular excursions in search of submarines and the Japanese South Pacific Fleet reported to be roving the Indian Ocean. If they found a submarine they were to sink it if possible, and if they met the Jap fleet they were to run, leading it to an American cruiser force operating to the east, which would then lead it into the jaws of the American Fifth Fleet.

The crew settled down to the job. The patrols lasted for three days of each week and the rest of the time the ship lay at anchor in the bay. They worked three watches and each afternoon in the bay one watch went ashore on recreational leave for three hours.

It wasn’t a bad way to fight the war. The news bulletins, posted on the ship’s board by the chief telegraphist each day, kept them informed on the progress of the war. They had their usual part of ship duties to perform; but most of the time was spent taking it easy and talking about how quickly the Japs had overrun Malaya and plundered south towards Australia.

After a month, when Christmas and New Year were past, The Fuehrer decided that inactivity was bad for moral. He ordered strict harbour routine with a standard dress of the day during work hours. The crew grudgingly complied with the new orders. Each morning they emerged for muster dressed in white shorts and shirts. They scrubbed decks and worked at cleaning ship until noon, and in the afternoon they mustered again and worked until three-thirty.

During all this time McCall continued bucking his superiors, and while others enjoyed rec’ leave on the island, he ran at jankers. When first they had come to the island, drilling in the humid conditions had left him exhausted at the end of each day. But now he had adapted himself and was more determined than ever to defy their efforts to discipline him.

On this afternoon, he was doing jankers under Whacker Payne’s supervision, and the kid was watching from beneath a wing of the bridge. He’s getting it easy today, the kid thought as Payne halted McCall for about the tenth time. The kid was sitting on an upturned bucket and in another bucket was dhobying McCall’s clothes. There was quite a pile of them: sets of underwear, socks, several pairs of shorts and shirts. He squeezed the soapy water from a pair of shorts and flapped them out to examine them. A faint brown smudge on one pocket caught his eye and he put the shorts back into the water and scrubbed at the smudge. As he did, he caught sight of Wales coming up the forecastle ladder; and instantly, he bent over the bucket and pretended not to notice him.

“Defaulter … schone! Slope … arms! Quick … march!”

The kid recognised the false ring of authority in Payne’s voice as he resumed drilling McCall. He knew he was doing it only to placate Wales. Wales the pimp, the crawler. The kid was beginning to loath the man who was forever laying charges against his oppo. He heard Wales walking towards him and he kept his head down.

Wales stopped by him. “Doing your oppo’s dhobying, eh kid?”

“Yes.” The kid did not look up.

“Handy little oppo aren’t you?”

The kid said nothing and continued dhobying. He wished Wales would beat it. They were in view of McCall and there was no telling what he might do if the buffer should start trying to maul him …

“It’s a nice day, kid—too nice to be doing jankers.”

The kid looked up at him. He was standing with his hands on his hips, watching McCall marching. A smile twisted his face as he looked down and met the kid’s gaze. “What do you see in him for an oppo, kid?”

“I like him,” the kid said coldly.

“Why ? He’s just a bloody no-hoper.”

“But he’s a man.”

Wales scoffed. “There’s plenty of other men aboard—good ones.”

The kid resumed dhobying, but Wales’s hand touched his shoulder and he stiffened …

“Listen, kid, I’m concerned about you. Stick with that rebel and he’ll lead you astray. I don’t want that to happen to a nice kid like you.” The hand moved across his shoulder; the fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. “That mess job is still open for you. Come down there with us why don’t you? I’ll look after you. You could be an A.B. in six months and a kellick in a couple of years; it would be nice being a leading hand wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t want your mess job,” the kid said angrily. “And stop mauling me.”

Wales withdrew his hand. His face had gone red. “You’re a bloody fool,” he said, and walked away.

The kid was washing the last garment when McCall secured from jankers and joined him. He squatted on the deck by him and began rolling a cigarette.

“You got it easy today didn’t you?” the kid said.

“Sure, it’s always easy with Payne. Would of been easier still if Wales hadn’t shown up.”

The kid flapped out the singlet and held it up for him to see. “How about that. Not a bad washer-woman am I?”

“You’ll do me.” McCall lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. “That Wales is a bastard all right.”

The kid began rinsing out the clothes. He wished McCall would forget about Wales.

“What did he want?” McCall asked.

“Who?”

“Wales. What was he talking to you about?”

“Nothing special. I think he only came up to make sure Payne was making you work.”

“Why was he mauling you?”

The kid laughed. “Oh that; well, you know Wales.” McCall’s eyes narrowed. “I know the bastard all right. And he’d better keep his hands to himself.”

The kid turned his head to hide what he felt. Despite his wish not to upset McCall and his loathing for Wales, it gave him a thrill seeing McCall jealous.

Chapter Eleven

The ship patrolled and anchored, patrolled and anchored, but they heard no echoes and saw no Jap ships.

The fresh food gave out and they ate tinned hash with dog biscuits—flat slabs of flour and water that were so hard they had to smash and powder them before eating.

When the fuel supply got low they rendezvous’d with a tanker and refuelled at sea. The tanker sent over some more canned food and some precious bread. The bread went mouldy after three days and they were back on the dog biscuits again. “The bastard who invented these had a cast iron guts,” they said, and thought with mouths watering of Aussy steak and eggs.

The days dragged by. They stood their watches and during off duty hours sat around playing poker and talking about the enemy who had bombed Darwin and boasted he would occupy Australia, castrate its males, and breed the perfect cross from its women for future Japan. They were frustrated. They wanted to be with their women and protect them, but all they could do was think about their white bodies waiting to be ravaged by the Japs, while the need in their own virile bodies grew more compelling. And as the need increased it became easier to identify the soft skin of an O.D. with that of a woman, and those who were attractive grew cautious and took care not to expose themselves more than necessary to the lustful gazes and mauling hands of men like Hilder, Jeckman, and Lench. But for some it was fun to show off their thighs and buttocks and see how it stirred the seekers. And a few delighted in posing seductively and allowing themselves to be touched and fondled.

Once a week, The Fuehrer saw defaulters and there were always half a dozen or so. Men under punishment were kept busy washing paint work, but for McCall it was always jankers. And when not running with his rifle, he was with the kid. He worked with him, ate with him, slept by him. And each day he liked him more and relied on him to fill the empty hours.

One day Slee walked on the forecastle and stood for a time watching him running around and around with his rifle above his head. Slee tried to make sense of what he was seeing and failing to do so, went up to Stringer and said: “Halt him.” Stringer flashed him a salute. “Defaulter will come to a halt. Defaulter … halt! ”

“Stand him at ease,” said Slee.

“Stand at… ease! ”

“Now leave me with him for a while.”

Stringer hesitated. “Sir.”

“I said leave me with him; take a walk.”

“Ay ay, sir.” Stringer walked aft and stood beneath a wing of the bridge.

Slee went up to McCall. “How long is it since you went ashore, McCall?” he asked.

McCall grinned. “Not since Alex, sir.”

“Would you like to go ashore here?”

McCall eyed him suspiciously. “Here—on the island?” “Yes.”

McCall shook his head. “There’s nothing here.” He grinned. “Not even anything in grass skirts.”

“No, but there’s a lot of country you can walk over. And from the tops of the hills you get a mighty view of the island. It would do you good to see it.”

McCall looked ashore at the island; at the long white sweep of sand around the bay and at the hills slumbering behind it.

He felt the tranquillity of the place touch him and smelt the fragrance of trees. He was stirred by a desire to be free of this ship and to walk and walk for miles. “I’m under punishment, sir. You know I can’t go off.”

Slee said: “You finish this term next week don’t you?”

“Yes, on Wednesday. But I’ll still be under stoppage of leave.”

“Well, I’ll be the duty officer on Wednesday and I’ll grant you permission to go ashore,” Slee said.

McCall stared at him. “You trying to needle me?”

“No, I’m offering you shore leave—on one condition.”

“Ah. What’s the condition?”

“That you stay out of trouble between now and Wednesday. Don’t get booked on any more charges.”

McCall frowned. “What is this. You got a bet going or something?”

“No, I’m offering you leave on that condition. All you’ve got to do is keep out of trouble. Don’t refuse to obey any order, don’t answer back, be on time for everything. Do your work and button your lip.”

McCall looked sceptical. “What if the commander finds out?”

“Let me worry about that. Do you want the leave or not?” McCall nodded. “I don’t know what’s behind all this but I’ll take you up on it.”

“Good.” Slee started to leave him and McCall said, “Sir.” Slee turned back.

“Thanks, sir,” McCall said and shifting the rifle to his left hand, held out his right.

Slee jerked his head in Stringer’s direction. “There’s a time and place for shaking hands,” he said, and walked aft.

Chapter Twelve

McCall served the remaining four days of punishment and did not get into trouble. He did the messy jobs given him, took care to fall in on time, dressed correctly, never failed to salute where required, and was everything that a well-disciplined rating should be. Stringer and Wales mocked him, Gum gloated over him, and The Fuehrer paced the quarter deck looking smug and victorious.

The night before he was to go ashore, McCall and the kid carried their hammocks up to the forecastle and spread them out on deck. A warm breeze blew from the land and the night was hot. But it was still better topside than down in the stuffy mess deck flat.

They lay on their backs, dressed in their underwear. The kid began tending his nails; cleaning and filing them and pressing the cuticles back.

“That Slee must be a real good pig to do this for you,” he said.

“So good I won’t call him a pig no more,” McCall said.

“Him and Payne are both men.” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked towards the shore. He could not make out the land, but the smell of it came to him on the breeze and he breathed it deep into his lungs and sighed. “Land. Oh Christ, I’m dying for tomorrow to come.”

“You’ll like it ashore. We’ll climb to the top of the cliffs and you’ll be able to see for miles.”

McCall continued looking shorewards. “Are you sure there’s no one there?”

“Quite sure.”

“Not even a tribe?”

“It’s uninhabited.” The kid put away his file, took a comb from the waistband of his underpants, and ran it through his hair. “But there’s wild fruit there galore. You can smell it all the time.”

McCall lay down and let his shoulder rest against the kid’s. He smelt his perfume and lay breathing it for a while. “Jesus, kid, what’s that you’re wearing? It smells nice’n rich.”

“Deodorant,” the kid said. “And a little powder.”

“Well, it’s bloody beautiful.”

The kid felt the pressure of his shoulder increasing against him and his heart beat a little faster. He wanted to keep the conversation in this channel and steer it close to the point of complete unity that he sought. But he dare not yet, lest he be wrong in his judgement…

The steps of the forecastle ladder rattled and someone came forward, a hammock slung over his shoulder. He headed for the ladder to B gun deck, then, noticing McCall and the kid, came towards them. “Hullo, kid—Rocky,” Traitor Lench said. He knelt down by them and lifted his face to the sky. “Beautiful night.”

“Reminds me of Queensland nights,” McCall said.

“Yeah, that’s the Japs first landing place.”

McCall thought about a shiela he had done over on his first visit to Brisbane in the Alice Springs. He imagined a Jap raping her. “Bastards. You reckon they’ll do what they say with our men?”

“What, castrate them? I reckon they will. It’s quick and effective.”

“Ugh,” the kid said, shuddering at the thought and seeking for a way to change the subject. “I’d like to swim—if only there weren’t sharks here.”

Lench reached down and ruffled his hair. “You’d be safe, kid. Even the sharks wouldn’t hurt you.” He smiled in his friendly way and McCall knew what he was thinking. Lench was okay. He was one of those old A.B.s who had a bit of tact. Sure, he liked the small boys; he made no secret of that. And sure, he liked the kid; but he didn’t try to perve on him when others were watching as some of the others did.

Lench turned and faced McCall. “How’re you standing up to the jankers, Rocky?”

“Permanently,” McCall said.

“When’re you going to give up?”

“When they throw me out.”

Lench smiled, shaking his head. “You’re doing it the hard way you know.”

“Is there an easy way?”

“Yes, desert. Wait until we get back home, then take off.”

“And have pussers on my wheel for the rest of my life. No, when I quit this outfit it’ll be for good.”

Lench said: “Too bad Russia’s in the war or you could choose the commie way out.”

McCall remembered the notices that had been posted on the boards of all ships and depots before the war warning ratings against being interested in communism. “You reckon that way worked?”

“Bloody oath. I’ve seen blokes get their tickets just for receiving commie newspapers. Blokes like this Hardridge get a kick out of keeping a chook in the service and punishing hell out of him. But they change their ideas smartly if it’s a commie they’re dealing with. They’re scared as hell he’s going to stir up a mutiny. And that’s another way out.”

“What?”

“Be the bad bastard in a mutiny. The only catch is they might load you up with a long prison term as well as give you your ticket.”

McCall lay thinking about mutiny and prison. “Captain Bligh,” he murmured. “Thangs haven’t changed much.”

The forecastle ladder rattled again and an O.D. appeared. Lench got to his feet and shouldered his hammock. “But the best idea of all, Rocky, is to settle down and serve your term. It’s not a bad life. Think of the free nooky you get.” He walked across to the O.D. and they climbed the ladder to the privacy of the B gun deck.

McCall watched them until they went out of sight. “He’s like a contented married man with that bedmate.”

The kid turned on his side to face him. “Well, he’s not the only one.”

McCall thought about the others: Hilder and the signalman; Jeckman and the young stoker; the two O.D.s who slept on the pom-pom deck; and the others who were suspect; Gum and Arthurton; Wales and Dalby. He felt the pressure of the kid’s arm against him and said: “Just long as they leave you alone I don’t care a damn how many are at it.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in them,” the kid said.

“But they’re interested in you.”

“Who is?”

“Wales for one—and that pig Gum.”

“Gum! He’s never said a word out of place to me.”

“No, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

The kid tried to think of something to say that would keep the topic going …

“Ah Christ, I’m aching,” McCall said.

The kid looked at him and for a while their gazes were locked together.

“You ever ached for a shiela, kid?” McCall asked.

“I think I did—once.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.” The kid again felt the urge to confide in the one he believed could help him understand the mystery of himself. “There was this girl called Estelle. She came to stay at her uncle’s farm just out from the town where I lived. The first time I saw her was at a football match on a Saturday afternoon. There was a bunch of us kids there and she played around with us—just hop-step and jump and that kind of thing. I think she was most interested in me because she kept giving me the glad eye.”

“How old was she?” McCall asked.

“About the same age as me. I think I was twelve at the time.”

“Old enough to be a cock-teaser. Go on.”

“Well, I couldn’t stop thinking about her in bed that night. I think I was sort of in love with her.”

“You had the ache then?”

“No, not then. The next day I got a letter from her. It was the first letter I ever got and I kept it secret from my mother. She wrote mushy stuff about me being the handsomest boy she had seen and what nice hair and eyes I had, and she wanted me to meet her that night at the stock yards not far from her uncle’s house.”

“Hell, she was a fast worker. Did you go?”

“I wanted to but didn’t.”

“Why the hell didn’t you?”

“Well, I was nervous. I think I wasn’t sure if I’d know what to do when I got there.”

“Hell, she’d of taken care of that.”

“I suppose she would have. I suppose I would have gone too, if I hadn’t asked Lew Beasley’s advice.”

“Who was Lew Beasley for Christ’s sake?”

“He was from another town and was building a house just across the road from us. I used to go and talk to him and I got to know him pretty well. He had a bad name. He was divorced and they said he’d got a girl into trouble and run off from her.”

“So you asked his advice. What did he say?”

“He said I should steer clear of her; she just wanted to have a baby to me and make me marry her.”

“Good Christ. And you were fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t keep your date with this Estelle?”

“No, but he did.”

McCall started up. “He did! What the hell you mean?”

“He told me all about it the next day. He went out to the stock yards and met her; told her I was sick and had asked him to go in my place. Then he told me about what he did; how he’d rolled up his coat and put it under her so she was cocked up for him, and how he’d had to ram hard to get it into her. He made a big joke of it and said I wasn’t to tell anyone in case it got her into trouble.”

McCall lay down suddenly and put his hands over his face. “The bastard,” he said. “The motherless bastard.”

They lay without speaking until a group of men came on the forecastle carrying their hammocks. They were talking and joking as they came and Hilder’s voice rose above the others: “… little yellow bastards will be in Sydney in another couple of months raping our wives. And us stuck over here flogging ourselves and making the most of a drop of skin where we can find it. We ought to demand they send us home that’s what we ought to do.”

The group passed by but Hilder veered towards them. “How’s my favourite O.D. tonight?” He rushed forward and made a playful grab at the kid. But the kid rolled away from his hands and clung to McCall. McCall put his arms around him and looked up at Hilder. “On your way,” he said coolly, and Hilder laughed and went forward.

The kid stayed there close to McCall, feeling his arms tightly around him.

“I’ll crush you to death,” McCall said.

“Bet you can’t.”

McCall crushed his body tighter. The kid held his breath until the pressure on his ribs eased, then he exhaled suddenly, laughing as McCall growled like a bear and shook him savagely. They lay still then; McCall’s arms remained around him and his head rested against the wide chest. He felt safe and contented and after a while he fell asleep.

He awakened later, when McCall suddenly withdrew his arms and rolled away from him saying: “Christ. Christ, what’s wrong with me?”

Chapter Thirteen

The coxswain of the cutter took the boat in close to the beach and the two crewmen bore it off with their boathooks in the sand. The liberty men go out and waded ashore carrying their shoes and socks. There were twenty-four of them and they were dressed as correctly as if they had been going ashore in Sydney or Southampton.

They sat around on the beach putting on their socks and shoes. Someone had brought along a bat and ball and after a while half of them started playing cricket. The others wandered off in small groups and pairs, some going down the beach and others up the slopes towards the hills.

“Where do we go, kid?” McCall asked.

“Wherever you like.”

“It’s up to you. You know the place.”

“All right, we’ll walk north around the bay.”

They started walking along the beach. It was early in the afternoon. The day was muggy; the sky clear except for a few thunder clouds to the north. On their left, the sea sparkled in the sun and washed gently up on to the beach. To the right, the hills looked bold under cover of green trees and undergrowth.

“It’s good to be off,” McCall said. He began prancing, lifting his knees high like a runner warming up. A man needs this to keep fit.” He looked ahead to where the curve of the beach ended at a few tall coconut palms. “See them palms up there, where the curve ends?”

“Yes,” said the kid.

“I’ll race you there.”

“All right.”

They pelted along the beach. The kid led for a while, McCall loping behind him. Then McCall drew level and ran shoulder to shoulder with him until almost to the palms when he sprinted away.

They finished out of breath; McCall holding on to one of the palms and gasping: “Bloody marvellous … makes a man realise … what a hell of a life it is … cramped up on that ship. Christ … I’m out of condition though. Winded after a bit of a sprint like that.”

“You should be used to it,” the kid panted. “You get enough… running practice on board.”

“Sure, but not like that. Not free.”

When they had recovered they continued walking the beach. It was rougher now with hard corrugations in the sand and patches of rocks and shells worn smooth by the wash of the sea. Inland, the slopes of the hills looked wilder with more trees and denser undergrowth. Birds squawked and chattered from clumps of bushes just ahead and there was the sweet smell of overripe fruit in the air making McCall’s mouth water. “Let’s get some fruit,” he said.

“There’s plenty at the bottom of those cliffs ahead,” the kid told him.

“What sort?”

“Paw-paws and bananas and them little durians we had in Singapore, remember them?”

“Bloody oath I remember.” McCall walked on happily, listening to the birds in the bushes. He threw a stone at the nearest clump and a number of black birds whirled up, wings glittering in the sun, and flew off into the trees beyond. “Ah Christ, a man knows he’s alive seeing birds again,” McCall said.

“And lizards,” the kid said.

McCall followed his pointing finger and watched a six inch long lizard dart across the sand and take refuge under a large flat shell. He knelt down and turned the shell over. The lizard lay still, panting, pretending it was not there. McCall touched its back. “Don’t be scared little fella. Never seen a two-legged animal before like me have you? I won’t hurt you.” He stroked the lizard which froze, making out it was dead.

“Lizards,” McCall said. “What a change from that rotten bloody ship. Only insects we get on there is millions of stinking cockroaches.”

They walked on again, now crossing a bed of stones. The kid kicked round ones ahead of him as he walked; McCall looked for flat ones which he flung skimming across the shallows.

“See that cliff base ahead where I said there was fruit,” the kid said.

“Sure.”

“We’ll climb those cliffs to the top. You can see all of the island from there.”

“You been up there before?”

“Twice. Once on my own and once with Traitor Lench.”

McCall looked at him sharply. “When were you there with Lench?”

“Last week when we came ashore.”

“What the hell’d you go up there with him for?”

The kid felt like biting his tongue for mentioning it and making him jealous. “We just walked up there to get the view, that’s all.”

McCall grunted and kicked at a stone.

“You don’t need to worry. Traitor never got out of line or anything,” the kid said.

“Hell, who’s worried—just wondered that’s all.”

They approached the fruit trees and McCall jogged ahead and started gorging durians. The kid joined him and together they ate durians, then bananas, and then paw-paws.

“We’ll take some back to the ship on our way down,” McCall said, munching eagerly. “Stop a man from going rotten on tinned stuff.”

When their appetites had been satisfied they washed their sticky hands in the sea, then started up the cliff. The rock face was steep, but there were firm ledges which gave them footholds. They held hands, trying to give support to each other as they climbed. It was hard work and when finally they stood on a rock ledge at the top they were panting and their legs ached from the strain. The kid sat down and rested while McCall stood, taking in the view. The ocean lay blue and flat with whitecaps far out glistening in the sun. Down the coast, at the landing place, the men playing cricket looked like toys. And inland, the rolling hills and green flats spread clear across the island to a hazy skyline. “It sure is beautiful,” he said, and sat down to roll a cigarette. The kid watched him. It was the first time they had been so completely on their own and for the time being the ship and the Navy ceased to exist for the kid.

When McCall finished making the cigarette, the kid lit it for him and watched him stretch out on his back with his eyes closed, the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“I’d like to stay here, kid,” he murmured. “Not go back to the ship ever. If there was a bit of skirt here I would. She could be fat and barefoot and have a bone through her nose, I wouldn’t care.”

The kid looked out to sea and wondered what it would be like to be a bit of skirt…

“But there’s nothing here, not even a savage. I’ve just got you.”

The kid noticed the husky tone of his voice and at the same time felt the touch of his hand on his shoulder. He did not dare turn his head and look at him. It was the first time McCall had touched him like that and he waited for the hand to wander and explore like Wales’s and the others …

“We’ve been together a long time, kid, and it’s been fun.”

“For me, too,” the kid said.

The hand moved slowly up the back of his head and he felt the fingers go into his hair and touch the scalp. “You got nice hair, kid.”

The kid hoped but did not dare himself to speak.

“You’re as good as a girl for me.”

The hope rose wildly as the fingers caressed his neck. And now as the last doubt passed, fear of the unknown came. The hand gripped his shoulder and pulled and he did not resist but lay back and closed his eyes. Then, as the unknown came to meet him, the fear was lost in mounting excitement, and at last he discovered himself.

Afterwards, they lay apart; and the kid was happy and wanting to talk and McCall was quiet and seemed moody.

“Do you feel all right?” the kid asked.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, why?”

“You seem quiet.”

McCall grunted.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You are mad at me.”

“Christ!” McCall sat up. He took a rock and angrily flung it down the cliff. “I got no reason to be mad. It was my fault, not yours.”

The kid thought for a while, then said: “I don’t think of it as being anyone’s fault. I’m not sorry it happened.”

“Neither am I. I just feel lousy as hell. Now forget it.”

“Why feel lousy. Is it a crime?”

McCall stood up scowling. “Look, kid, it’s no crime. It happens where men are cooped up together: in reform schools; gaol; the Navy. But it’s not the way I like to get my oats and I feel lousy. Forget it.”

“I won’t do that,” the kid said. “I won’t want to.”

“Let’s get back,” McCall started to walk away and the kid got up quickly and joined him. They went down the cliff slipping and sliding and sometimes jumping from ledge to ledge. The kid tried to hold his hand again for support but McCall kept ahead of him. At the bottom, they walked back along the beach and the kid tried to stay close to him. But McCall strode on ahead, seeming oblivious of his wishes.

When they were half-way back to the landing place the kid remembered the fruit. “Hey, we forgot to pick fruit to take back.”

“Forget it. Lost my appetite,” McCall said bluntly.

Chapter Fourteen

Sub-Lieutenant Slee was in the act of dressing for dinner when a knock came on his cabin door. He slipped a tie under the collar of his shirt and called: “Come in.”

Dobran, the duty officer, entered. “The commander wants to see you in his cabin, Jim.”

Slee knotted the tie and pulled it tight. “I thought he might.”

Dobran stood by watching him. “Is it about McCall?” he asked.

“I reckon it is,” Slee said.

“How did he find out?”

“I wouldn’t know but I can figure it. Wales was duty P.O. and he told Gum. Gum told Rollinson and Rollinson had to take it the rest of the way.” He pulled his coat on. “What sort of a mood is he in?”

“Rather bad.”

“I figured that, too.” Slee got his cap, grinned at Dobran. “See you after the ordeal, Phil.”

“I hope he’s not too rough on you,” Dobran said.

Slee winked at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll weather the storm.”

Dobran left the cabin and Slee took a final look at himself in the mirror, then went to the door. He opened it and paused… The magnitude of the risk he had taken in granting McCall shore leave only now seemed to register and for a moment he was stricken with fear of the consequences. Then he gathered himself together and went out and down to the commander’s cabin.

Hardridge was sitting with his elbows spread on his desk, his eyes riveted on Slee when he entered. “I want you at attention,” he snapped.

Slee stiffened and looked into his commander’s black stare.

“I understand you granted shore leave to Able Seaman McCall,” Hardridge said.

“Yes, sir,” said Slee.

“Weren’t you aware that his leave had been stopped for a further two weeks?”

“Yes, sir, I was. But…”

“Then you were also aware that you exceeded your authority?”

“Yes, sir, but…”

Hardridge banged his fist on the desk. “Then why in hell did you grant him leave?”

“If I can explain, sir. It was an experiment I thought would benefit both you and him.”

“Experiment.”

“Yes, sir. As I have pointed out before, McCall is the antagonistic type and …”

“Come to the point damn it! ”

“Sir, you may have noticed that over the past week McCall has not once been in trouble.”

Hardridge stared at him. His face was rigid; he was breathing slowly and deeply, obviously holding himself in control.

“Well, sir, that was because I told him he could go ashore when he finished serving his number eleven punishment— providing he did not get into further trouble. You will notice that this incentive treatment had the desired effect. I believe it helps to prove my point that McCall can be corrected in this way.”

Hardridge glared at him for a while, saying nothing. Then very quietly, he said: “Have you quite finished?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardridge got to his feet. “Then hear this, you impertinent damned reservist. I intend doing two things immediately: I shall order McCall transferred to the quarter deck part of ship where he is away from your maudling sympathy. And I shall log that on this day you violated my orders and behaved with utter contempt towards me. From this moment you are confined aboard ship pending charges of insubordination.”

Slee stared at him. He could not fully believe the commander meant what he had said. “Sir, I did this because I felt sure it would help to improve McCall’s behaviour and …”

“Silence!” Hardridge walked around the desk and stood inches from him. “Furthermore, when the charges against you are investigated I shall advise the officers in charge that in my opinion you are unworthy of your position and should be returned to a disciplinary school where you can be taught how to carry officer rank.”

Slee said: “Sir, I must protest. I think you are being unreasonable.”

“Get out! Get out or I’ll have you placed under close arrest.”

Slee backed to the door. “I believe you would, sir,” he said, and left the cabin.

Back in his cabin he found Merrilton there, lying face down on his bunk, a mirror propped before him, trimming his beard. Slee sat in a chair watching the operation, listening to the snipping of the scissors. It went on for several minutes with Merrilton intent on the job, contorting his face and occasionally glancing at Slee. Then he put the mirror aside, rolled over, and smiled broadly at him. “How was the roasting, Jimmy Boy.”

“News certainly travels fast on this ship,” Slee said, wondering how he knew.

“It’s a short but lively grapevine on the boats. Dobran told me a minute ago. He was in a hell of a stew worrying how you’d get on.”

Slee got up and began pacing the cabin.

Merrilton watched him. “Well, how did you get on?”

Slee turned and looked at him. “He’s crazy. I’m sure he’s crazy.”

“Power drunk is the right term,” Merrilton said. “But let’s hear about it.”

Slee told him what had happened and Merrilton shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I told you. You …”

“Can’t buck the brass,” Slee finished for him. He dropped down on his bunk and lay staring at the deckhand. “Can he do it?”

“Can he do what?”

“Charge me with insubordination and all that?”

“Of course he can. I’ll quote the Act for you. Insubordination and similar offences: Every person subject to this Act who wilfully disobeys any lawful command of his superior officer by whatever means communicated to him, shall be liable to dismissal with disgrace from His Majesty’s service or any less punishment authorised by this Act.”

Slee stared at him. “Dismissal with disgrace; for what I did?”

“Or any less punishment authorised,” Merrilton smiled. “Don’t take it too literally, Jimmy Boy. The Naval Discipline Act was written to frighten hell out of non-conformists. If it hadn’t been, half the British Navy would have been put to death or thrown out with disgrace by now. Still, your offence can be made to sound bad enough to warrant a court martial. It’s no good kidding yourself otherwise.”

“And what’s to that—court martialling?”

“Well, you’ve read your articles haven’t you?”

“I’ve read them and forgot them.”

“You’d better brush up on them. It’s a court, like outside in civil life, only they’ve got a bigger book to throw at you.”

“I’ll tell them a few truths before they do it,” Slee said grimly.

“You’ll tell them what your defence officer says to tell them and no more.” Merrilton walked to the bed and stood looking down at him. “Take heart, Jimmy Boy. You’re not guilty of a damn thing until you’re convicted. And in a case like this, McCall being as he is and things being as they are aboard this crate, a lot can happen before you come up on charge. You could even be on the winning side.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Slee asked, puzzled by the apparent change of face in the navigator.

Merrilton walked to a port hole and stared out. “You’re popular with this crew aren’t you?”

“I hope I am.”

“How do you think they’re going to feel when they know the old man has done this to you?”

Slee stared at his back. “Look, I don’t want trouble stirred up among the crew over this. As far as I’m concerned they won’t even know about it.”

Merrilton turned and smiled at him. “Just the same, it’s a short and lively grapevine on the boats, Jimmy Boy.”

Chapter Fifteen

The following day McCall was transferred to the quarter deck part of ship. Gum was now his divisional officer and Wales his P.O. and working directly above the officer’s domain his every move would be observed from now on.

McCall had slept badly the previous night. After coming aboard from leave he had put the affair with the kid behind him and when they turned in on the forecastle he had quickly and easily gone to sleep. But during the night he had been disturbed by a dream: the war was over and he was a civilian living in a flat, at Sydney’s King Cross with the kid. It was morning and he was lying in bed watching the kid preparing breakfast. The kid wore silk pyjamas and his movements as he went about the room were effeminate. He brought bacon and eggs to him on a tray and said: “There you are, my man.” McCall put the tray aside and looked up at the kid who was smiling down at him. He reached out and grasped his hand. It was soft and warm. He pulled him down into bed with him …

In the morning, with this dream still fresh in his mind, he had been sour again. Then, when Wales had gloatingly told him his part of ship was changed, he had come closer than ever before to clobbering that bearded jaw.

Now, as a first job, Wales and Gum had ordered him to tar the guard rails on D gun deck. The lousy bastards. Of all the jobs you could get in the navy, painting the guard rails was the worst in McCall’s view. The fine, closely woven wires would not absorb the tar and you had to go over them again and again to cover the holidays. He would not have minded so much if he could have worn overalls; but as Wales had said only minutes ago: “You’ll wear tropical rig and like it, McCall. You might as well get used to it, because you’re going to do them rails all on your own, even if it takes you a week. And when you finish the gun deck you’ll do those on the quarter deck. And when you finish them you’ll start all over again on the gun deck. For as long as I’m chief of this part of ship you’re going to be my tar hand, McCall.”

He’s a bastard, McCall thought as he wiped the brush along the topmost of the rails. Holidays showed all along the wire and McCall swore and watched officers walking about the quarter deck below him. Pig bastards, all of them, he thought. And the lower deck pigs, Stringer and Wales, are even worse …

“Well, well, McCall, I’ve been waiting for this day.” McCall looked down at Wales standing beneath him. The bearded face was about three feet below him.

“Keep working, McCall. You can listen to me as you work.”

McCall wiped the brush slowly along the guard rail. It still left holidays behind it.

“How do you like being away from your little oppo?” McCall flashed a glance at him. Taking a bloody risk, standing there, he thought. What if this pot slipped? And him wearing that spanking white uniform …

“Still, I don’t suppose he’ll be lonely for long up there on the forecastle. There’s plenty of men waiting to take your place with him. Hilder, Lench, Jeckman.”

McCall kept on painting, holding himself in control. Ignore the bastard, he’s only trying to rattle you, he told himself. But just the same he recognised the possibility of truth in what Wales had said. They would pester hell out of the kid now that he wasn’t up there with him. They’d try all ways to put themselves in good with him: offer to do his work, keep his watch at sea; offer him money … And now that the kid had started …

Wales’s laugh interrupted his thoughts. “Don’t worry about the kid, McCall, I’ve got good news for you. He isn’t on the forecastle any more. He’s had his part of ship changed, too.”

McCall stopped painting.

“He’s our messman now.”

McCall looked at him from narrowed eyes. “What’d you say?”

“You heard me. I ordered him to the messman’s job this morning.”

“You ordered him,” McCall said, and a cold rage was starting in him like in the days when he punched his way to a meal. He wanted to let Wales have it. This minute. Jump down and cut the bastard to pieces; clobber him senseless. But still the consequences were bigger than any satisfaction he would gain. He would get ninety days at least. And in that hell hole at Colombo he’d heard about…

“He’ll make an excellent mess lackey,” Wales was saying. “And don’t worry, I’ll see that he gets the V.I.P. treatment. He might even finish up being my oppo.”

McCall said quietly: “You better listen what I say. You ordered the kid down there and I can’t do nothing about that. But you touch him; you put your maulers on him just once and I’ll cut you up so bad you’ll need a skin graft for your face.”

Wales riled instantly. “Watch your tongue, McCall. You can do time for threatening a chief.”

McCall watched him strut away, hitching up his shorts. He wiped the brush slowly along the guard rail. There were still holidays.

The kid had settled down reluctantly to his new job in the chiefs and P.O.’s mess. At the start of the day he had brought the breakfast from the galley in mess dishes and served each officer. The atmosphere in the mess had been friendly. The chiefs and P.O.s seemed pleased with him, and Wales had dried the dishes for him when he washed up after the meal. Mess cleaning had kept him occupied until dinner when he piped down for two hours. During the pipe down period he had seen McCall for a short time on deck. His time with McCall would be limited from now on in harbour and for the first time he looked forward to sea duty when the senior messman would take over and he would return to watch-keeping duty with McCall.

Now, the evening meal was over and he was washing the dishes and Wales was drying up for him again. A group of chiefs and P.O.s were sitting around the table behind him, discussing the transfer of McCall: “How’s he taking it down there?” Stringer asked Wales. “Has he given you any trouble yet?”

Wales flourished the tea towel. “No, not yet, but give him time. I’ve got him painting guard rails; that should keep him quiet for a while.”

“It was a wise move on the old man’s part,” Stringer said. “The quarter deck will break him if anything will.”

“The quarter deck will make him worse,” Payne interposed. “And it was a lousy move sending him there.”

“What’s lousy about it?” Stringer demanded.

“The whole thing; right from when the duty chief pimped on Slee for letting him go ashore.”

Wales spun around, brandishing a plate he was drying. “Watch what you’re saying, Payne. You mightn’t realise it, but I did my duty.”

“You call it duty; I’ve got another name for it.”

“Then keep it to yourself unless you want it pushed down your throat.”

Payne started to get up, but Stringer stepped in and pushed him firmly back on the stool. “We won’t argue about it. The fact is McCall couldn’t be controlled by wet nursing on the forecastle so he’s been transferred to the quarter deck where things are tougher.”

Payne said: “All right, we’ll see how much good that’ll do.

It’s my opinion that he’ll end up throwing someone over the side down there—not that I’ll blame him if he does.”

“Enough of that talk,” Stringer said sharply.

Shorty Bredgman swore loudly and got to his feet. “Listen, for Christ’s sake. Can you blame McCall? He’s been ridden into the deck by pigs for five years and …”

“And enough of that too, Shorty,” Stringer rapped. “That kind of talk belongs in the seamen’s mess deck.”

“That kind of talk’s long overdue in this mess,” Bredgman argued. “If you ask me what I thunk about McCall, the Navy should have discharged him bloody years ago when they first saw he had the guts to buck them.”

“Guts, you call it,” Wales sneered.

“Bloody oath I do. A lot of kids would like to fight this outfit’s bullshit. But they had the spunk frightened out of them in their first month of service.”

“You made a mistake, Shorty,” Stringer said coldly. “When you transferred in from that scrap Navy you should have come as an A.B. You’d have fitted in better.”

“And been a bloody sight happier than among pimps and stand-over men.”

“You’ve said enough!” Stringer’s fist thumped the table as he spoke. “Now have the decency to speak with respect to a chief petty officer or hold your tongue.”

Bredgman grunted. “Pull rank on me if you like. It don’t alter nothing.”

The mess deck fell quiet. Wales chuckled and nudged the kid with his elbow. “Don’t let our little arguments upset you, kid. You and me will stay out of them, eh?”

The kid washed the last item, wiped the table down, and swept the deck. His first day as messman was over and he thankfully climbed through the hatch and went forward to join McCall.

It wasn’t yet eight-thirty and McCall was still at punishment, washing paint work in the flat. It was stuffy below decks and the kid headed for the fresh air on the forecastle. He stood at the guard rails well forward, breathing deeply the breeze that blew from the sea. It was pleasant waiting there and knowing that shortly McCall would be free to join him. What had happened on the island was still fresh in his mind and now in the privacy granted by the night he felt the excitement of the experience building up in him again. It would happen again and again, he knew. It must not stop now that it had started. He must never lose this which he had found …

Footsteps sounded aft of him and a figure showed in the pale moonlight.

“So you’re their messman now; I hope you’re having fun at it,” Dalby approached him and the kid guessed he was sore.

“Oh well, I hope you like taking my job from me.”

“I didn’t ask for it—Wales made me take it,” the kid said.

Dalby stood beside him at the guard rails. “Oh, of course. You couldn’t have refused could you?”

The kid felt irritated. He did not like this little A.B. with the simpering voice who flouted his naked body around the mess deck, and he wished he would go away. “If I’d refused he would have charged me with direct disobedience of an order,” he said, defending himself, and not meaning to appease Dalby.

Dalby uttered a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, rubbish. He wouldn’t have charged you.”

“He said he would.”

“He was bluffing and you knew it.”

The kid turned on him angrily. “Look, I don’t want the job. You can have it back. Go and tell Wales I said that and he might transfer us.”

“Ha, a fat chance of that—now that you’ve wormed your way in with them.”

The kid felt like smashing his fist into his face; but instead, he turned away, saying: “I don’t want to argue with you. You make me feel sick.”

“Oh well, I suppose Wales thinks a change will do him good. But it makes me wonder what McCall would say if I told him what Wales is like?”

“He knows. Now go away.”

“But does he know it all—about Wales and you?”

The kid whirled on him. “You lying bastard!” He was prepared to fight as he said it, but Dalby had turned and was walking away. He looked back when he was at a safe distance. “Don’t take me seriously, Fennessy; I’m only joking,” he said. But the joke was barbed and the kid was left with a premonition of worse trouble ahead.

The crew learned what had happened to Slee the next day. No one seemed to know how the information came to reach the lower deck. That wasn’t important anyway; what mattered was that it had happened. Slee, the most popular officer aboard, had been punished for acting like a man instead of a pig.

The crew were sore. They grouched about it at first. Then some of them became angry. A lot of threats were hurled around the mess deck: “Someone ought to slug The Fuehrer with the blunt end of a marlin spike one dark night.”

“We ought to go adrift on the island and refuse to come aboard until Slee is allowed off.”

“We should get up a petition; demand that he drops the charges against Slee.”

McCall sat back listening and blaming himself at first for what had happened to Slee. But then he came to terms with his conscience: it was done and it was no good brooding over it. Slee must have known the risk he ran when he let him go ashore. After all, it was his idea. And then, seeing the angry men around him, and hearing their wild threats, McCall started thinking: “Be the real bad bastard in a mutiny,” Traitor Lench had said. And he wondered if mutiny was possible aboard Jacaranda.

In one mess, Dusty Rhodes felt his control of the deck weakening. “There’s trouble on the way,” he said to Gebbs. “I can smell it coming.”

“Yeah, well you stay clear of it,” Gebbs said. “With your P.O.’s rate so near to being confirmed you can’t afford to get involved.”

Rhodes looked around the deck and heard the boom of voices raised in protest.

“Do you want me to shut them up?” Gebbs asked.

“No, that’s my job.”

“Some job. I doubt if they’d listen to anything you said at the moment.”

Rhodes watched them, gauged their moods. “They’re all right while they’re ranting. It’s when they go quiet that we’ve got to watch them.”

The night came and the crew hung around the mess deck. The mood had softened but the thorn was still there in the flesh and men were restless and short tempered. Most did not turn in until well after “lights out.”

But ship’s routine is a swift and silent healer, and during the next day things simmered down. There was less talk about Slee that night and still less the next day. And then the news bulletin on the board gave them a fresh subject to grouch about: The Japs were in New Guinea locked in battle with the Aussies and Yanks.

“Japs at our back door and we’re over here hiding behind an island.”

“We’re a heap of junk and our Navy has forgotten we exist.”

“We’ll rot here for the duration.”

“Another month and them slit-eyed bastards will be with our wives,” Hilder boomed.

“Sit on our arses and make them send us home, that’s what we should do,” McCall urged, thinking again about mutiny.

But all of this was rash talk without direction or purpose and they spent their anger by the end of the day. And in the night they consoled each other.

Chapter Sixteen

“Is anything wrong?” the kid asked.

“No.”

“You’re not saying much.”

“Stop picking me. I’m reading. You read too.”

The kid opened his Western paperback, flicked the pages over, and tossed it down on the deck of the tiller flat. “It’s a crazy gun-toting thing.”

McCall continued reading. He wasn’t really reading though, because from the corner of his eye he could see the kid’s small white hand resting near him on the bale of cotton waste. The fingernails were longer than he had ever seen them.

A further two days had passed at the anchorage and now in the late afternoon they were piped down in their favourite nook in the tiller flat, waiting for the pipe call of, “Hands to tea.”

“I had to take the messman’s job you know,” the kid said.

“Sure, I know you did.”

“Wales said he’d put me in the rattle if I refused.”

“Sure.” McCall kept his head buried in the book.

“I’d sooner have stayed on deck with you.”

McCall snapped the book shut. “For Christ sake; I know the score. That bastard wanted you down there for two reasons: to rankle me and to have you with him.”

“Well, as far as the last reason goes you needn’t worry. As I told you, I’m only interested in you.”

“Sure, but he’s keen on you isn’t he?”

“I suppose he is.”

“Has he worried you since you went down there?”

“No,” the kid said, and lied, because there were times when Wales had stayed back in the mess after the others had left, and had dried the dishes standing close to him …

“You tell me if he gets out of line and I’ll fix the bastard,” McCall said.

“I’ll tell you, but he hasn’t,” the kid said, and wondered what McCall’s reaction would be if he knew about Wales last night: “Let me know if there’s anything you need, kid—anything at all. No. Well, how would you like to be excused from Sunday divisions—I can get you out of them easy enough.” Wales at his shoulder as he said that, breathing on his neck …

“I know about bloody Wales,” McCall muttered. “He’ll get to you if he can.”

“He’s a slimy crawler and I hate him. Anyway, Whacker Payne takes good care of me down there.”

“Payne! Is he interested?”

“For God sake, not in that way. He’s just friendly to me. He told me when I started the job to say if anyone annoyed me.”

McCall grunted and opened the book again. But it was his own mind he was reading. I’m jealous, he was thinking. I’ve seen this happening in the reform school and I’ve pitied the poor saps. If someone had told me I’d go the same I’d of said he was mad. I’ve got to stop this. Got to get back to shielas somehow or I’ll go queer …

The kid started filing his nails and the sound grated on McCall’s nerves. “Why don’t you cut them bloody things?”

Embarrassed, the kid folded his hands in his lap. “I like to keep them in shape.”

“Christ,” said McCall.

“What’s wrong? You’ve never complained about them before.”

“They’ve never been that long before. And that scenty hair oil you use. You have to lay it on so thick?”

The kid looked down at his hands. “You’re niggedly with me again aren’t you?”

“Getting more like a girl every day,” McCall grumbled.

The kid fell silent for a time, then said: “You feel badly about us don’t you?”

“Well hell, I’ve got my pride, kid.”

“It might seem funny to you, but I don’t see anything to be ashamed of.”

“It sure isn’t natural is it?”

“I don’t know. Jeckman says it is. He says the trouble with most of us is we’re inhibited about sex. He says we should learn from the Arabs who do it all the time.”

“When the hell did Jeckman tell you that?” McCall asked, glaring at him.

“He didn’t just tell me. He was talking to everyone in the mess the other day.”

“Jeckman’s a pervy half-breed. Keep away from him.”

The kid looked sideways at him. “All right, anything to keep you happy.”

McCall read the book for a while, then looked up into the sad eyes of the kid. He grinned. “I’m a bastard sometimes aren’t I?”

“You’re always like that when you don’t need me around. You’ll feel better tomorrow,” the kid told him.

While McCall and the kid were involved in this discussion, Hardridge was resting in his cabin, brooding on the same subject. Since coming to the island he had been aware that homosexuality was steadily increasing among his crew. His hawk eyes had missed nothing, and, experienced in the ways of men kept at sea for long periods, he had read the signs of attachment for what they meant. As well, he had heard snatches of conversation among his officers which told him the thing was not entirely confined to the lower deck. No one had mentioned the matter to him, but he knew his officers were waiting, wondering if he would act. So far he had done nothing; but on this day the matter seemed to beg for his attention. He was browned off with fruitless patrolling and the insignificant role he was playing in the war; and worse, was overburdened with the responsibility of his command. For the first time, thinking over the matter of homosexuality, he found himself wishing he was not the commander of this ship.

He sat at his desk and allowed his thoughts to move among his crew, selecting this one and that one for contemplation. Then finally his thoughts settled on Arthurton, the steward, and stayed with him. After a while, he got up and pressed the button that would summon him to the cabin. He waited five minutes but the steward did not come. He pressed the button again, and a few minutes later, pressed it again. Then he buzzed for the Quartermaster.

Freer came and he said: “Freer, have you seen the steward?”

“Yes, sir, he’s in Warrant Officer Gum’s cabin,” Freer said.

“Tell him to report to me immediately.” Hardridge got to his feet and began pacing the cabin. When Arthurton appeared he wheeled on him angrily. “Steward, I rang three times. Where were you?”

Arthurton bowed apologetically and stood at attention. “I’m sorry, sir. I was in Mr. Gum’s cabin.”

“What were you doing there?”

Arthurton seemed nervous. “I had served him coffee, sir, and was tidying his cabin.”

Hardridge walked up to him and said: “Arthurton, why do you spend so much time with Mr. Gum?”

“I …” Arthurton’s lips began to tremble and his eyes slid away from the commander’s. “Well, sir … he seems to need my service.”

“Well now I need them.”

“Certainly, sir. What can I do?”

For a good half a minute the two looked at each other in utter silence. Then Hardridge turned away saying: “Never mind, just tell Mr. Gum to report to me.”

Andy bowed and went out. Hardridge went to his desk and sat down, hands clasped together in front of him. He wished again that he didn’t have the responsibility of this command. Shortly Gum waddled into the cabin. “You wanted me, sir?”

“Yes.” Hardridge looked at the man’s bloated face and fat body and felt distaste. “Mr. Gum, are you aware of the penalty in our service for disgraceful or indecent conduct?”

Gum’s face flamed red. He opened and closed his mouth but uttered no sound.

“I believe it is to be found in the Naval Discipline Act under miscellaneous offences. I suggest you read it. Now will you inform the First Lieutenant I want to see him.”

Gum hesitated, turned about, and waddled from the cabin. He did not have to read the act; he knew it word for word: “Every person subject to this act who is guilty of any disgraceful conduct of an indecent kind shall be liable to dismissal with disgrace from His Majesty’s service or any less punishment authorised by this act.”

Grunting and puffing, he climbed the companionway to the quarter deck and approached Rollinson.

Rollinson noticed Gum’s apparent distress as he delivered the summons and asked what the commander wanted.

“I don’t know. But watch out; he’s on the warpath,” Gum warned him.

Feeling slightly squeamish, Rollinson descended the companionway and entered the cabin just as Hardridge finished scribbling on a notice pad.

“Sit down, number one.”

Rollinson sat opposite and watched him stroking the whiskers on his left cheek.

“Number one, it has come to my notice that homosexuality is occurring aboard this ship.”

Rollinson seemed unable to speak.

“Have you noticed this?” Hardridge asked.

“Well, sir, it is possibly true.”

“Damn it, have you or haven’t you noticed it?”

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“Then why wasn’t it brought to my notice earlier?”

“Well, sir … we believed you would have noticed and we thought it best not to … er … bother you.”

“Why?”

“Well, sir … we thought it discreet.”

“Did you. Well, I think it damned negligent.” He pushed the notice he had written across the desk. “Now I want that typed and posted on the ship’s board without delay.”

Rollinson took the notice and read it: “It has come to my notice that indecent behaviour among ratings is becoming prevalent aboard this ship. I remind you that the maximum penalty for such offences is dismissal with disgrace from the service and order that all such practices must cease immediately. Until further notice all parts of ship except the mess deck and flats are placed out of bounds for sleeping.”

Rollinson looked distressed. He made to rise, then sat down again. “Sir, with due respects, the crew’s quarters are very cramped and I’m afraid this will cause discomfort.”

Hardridge stared at him and said severely: “Number one, homosexuality is a serious breach of discipline and I do not tolerate it aboard my ship. When it is clear that the crew have abandoned the practice I shall permit sleeping on the upper deck—not before. Now get that notice posted.”

Chapter Seventeen

An A.B. on his way to get breakfast for his mess from the galley was the first to read the notice in the flat the next morning. Minutes later, everyone knew of it and forgetting breakfast, they crowded around the board to read, “the ridiculous bloody thing,” as they called it.

It was funny. A hell of a big joke. “Latest Admiralty ruling: no more prick-teasing in private—do it in public or not at all.”

“What about Gum’s cabin; is that out of bounds for sleeping?”

“You know what comes next don’t you: dress of the day for O.D.s, tin underpants.”

They kept it up all day. Then, when night came and the ports were closed to darken ship and the airless mess decks grew stuffy, the joke died. A lot of men hung around the upper deck getting what breeze there was. They talked about violating the order; getting their hammocks and sleeping in their chosen possies, pretending that the order had never been made. But Wales and Stringer were on the prowl and no one wanted their rec’ leave stopped or a term of punishment.

When it was late they went below and slung their hammocks wherever they found room. When all spaces on the beams was taken they spread their hammocks on the deck, and on the lockers, and the capstan, and four were spread on the tiled deck of the shower room. Only a few men turned in yet though; most hung around the mess deck, bitching about the new order: “Thank Christ we’ve got patrols to do. It’s better to stay at sea all the time than sleep like this.”

“We ought to pull that bloody Fuehrer out of his plush cabin and lock him in the shit house to sleep.”

“Throw the tables overboard and make some room.”

“Go down aft and take over their bloody wardroom— there’s plenty of room in it.”

“Strike,” McCall said. “Sit on our arses and refuse to work.”

“Oh yeah, and get jugged for mutiny,” said Hilder.

“Well, they can’t jug all of us.”

“It would at least get us home,” an A.B. said.

“Yeah, and that’s what you want isn’t it, Snow—to get back to your missus?”

“Bloody oath I do.”

“Not much time left, the way them slit eyes are moving in New Guinea,” McCall reminded him, and now he was hearing several others debating, and was seeing in their sweating faces an explosive weapon for his armoury. A united assault that would wreck his enemy and end his war, giving him victory at last.

Dusty Rhodes was listening to them as he gave his locker its weekly cleanout. A cockroach dropped out of a pair of shorts as he put them down on the locker next to his. It fell on the locker and tried to scurry back into the comfortable darkness. Rhodes whacked it with a slipper, picked it up, and tossed it into the refuse bin. And while he did this, he missed nothing of what the men forward were saying. That wasn’t grouching they were at now, but serious discussion aimed at the flashpoint of mutiny. Rhodes knew what this meant for him, the P.O. of the mess deck. Regardless of any sympathy he had for the men, his duty lay one way all the way on the side of the quarter deck. His orders in the event of mutiny were clear cut: he must report immediately that revolt was being hatched and must do all in his power to help the officers crush the agitators before they could influence the entire crew. Any other course of action would involve him as a party to the crime and the result would be certain court martial…

“I suppose they would have to send us home,” Hilder was saying now. “They couldn’t leave us here sitting on our bronzes waiting for some Jap to come along and sink us.”

“And what happens when we get home?”

“They’ll hold an inquiry,” McCall said.

“Yeah, and it’ll last a month and during that time our pay and leave’ll be stopped.”

“And then they’ll dish out the punishment on top of that. It’s not worth it.”

“What the hell’s a bit of punishment if it gets us home?” McCall argued. “Chances are we’d get a new skipper out of it, too.”

“What about we ask someone who’s been in a mutiny?”

“Well, ask Traitor there. He was in the one on the Alice Springs. What about it, Traitor. Is it worth it?”

“No. You’ve got everything to lose and nothing to gain from it. Whatever you say at the inquiry they’ll throw the whole Naval Discipline Act at you.”

“You’d rather put up with The Fuehrer’s shit then?” Hilder sneered.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re an old squib, Traitor.”

“I squib nothing. If it comes to a mutiny with everyone in it I’ll go along with you. But that won’t alter my opinion that it’s a mug’s move.”

“To hell with you, Traitor. Ask Freer, he’s been in a couple.”

Freer mopped perspiration from under his arms with a sweat cloth. “Go ahead and mutiny if you want to. Beach the ship on the island for all I care. I’ve had a gutsful of everything: Hardridge, the Jacaranda, the war.”

“It’ud be your third mutiny,” Lench reminded him. “They’d hit you hard.”

“Who the hell cares. They can throw me out if they like. But for my rotten luck I wouldn’t have been in this war at all.” In one mess, Gebbs came and stood by Rhodes at his locker. “It’s starting to look nasty up forward.”

“Nothing to what it will look by morning,” Rhodes said. “They’ll be eating each other’s sweat by the time Reveille sounds.”

“Are you going to talk them out of it?”

“No, I couldn’t do that if I wanted to.”

Gebbs eyed him anxiously. “You’d better report what’s happening hadn’t you?”

Rhodes drew the last article of clothing from his locker and flung it down. “Yes, just like a prize pimp. It’s moments like these you wish to hell you’d stayed an A.B.”

“Come off it. Nobody’s going to blame you for doing what you’ve got to do.”

Rhodes looked at him. “Do you know what I’ve got to do in a mutiny, Nigger?”

“Yeah. You report it and then walk out of it.”

“Like hell. That’s the best part of my job. Listen, what do you think happens when Hardridge gets my report?”

“He’ll try to settle the thing before it blows up if he’s got any sense.”

“And how he’ll try. Listen, there’s only one way to stop trouble like this and Hardridge knows it: find the agitators and make an example of them before the crew. And how will he find who the agitators are …’’ he tapped his own chest … “Me. He’ll expect me to name them, and if I can’t he’ll send me into the mess to spy and collaborate until I find them. If I fail he’ll call that inefficiency and get someone else to spy— an A.B. or O.D.; anyone who will fall for a bribe.”

“Get Dusty up here and see what he says,” someone shouted from forward.

“Hey, Dusty, lend us your ear,” Hilder shouted.

Rhodes walked unhurriedly down the deck to them. Only he realised the personal crisis he was approaching; the crossroads where he must decide on whose side he stood.

He ambled up to them. There were about twenty gathered around five mess tables, but he knew this number would snowball and involve everyone in the deck once the mood caught on.

“We’re talking mutiny, Dusty,” Hilder said.

“You’re talking too much and it doesn’t make sense,” Rhodes said.

“Like hell it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t because you’re not ready for mutiny.”

They all started talking at once and Rhodes said: “Shut up and listen.” He sat on the table and looked at the sweating faces around him. The air in the deck was thicker than ever and most of them had stripped to their underpants. He said: “Listen, there’s a handful of you here shooting off your mouths and if any officer heard you he’d have you crushed so fast you wouldn’t know what hit you.”

“And how would he do that for Christ sake?” McCall asked.

“Easy. Hardridge would rendezvous with a battle wagon and have you all put ashore in some hell gaol.” The sweating faces looked at him blankly and he went on, “It’s you against the brass and the brass has got the power. The time to talk about mutiny is when every man of the lower deck wants it. It’s got to be all or none; that is the only way you can hope to win. Now the best thing you can do is pipe down and put up with this crazy order for tonight at least.”

The group appeared to see the sense in this and Hilder said: “Okay, we’ll let it ride—for tonight.”

“And tomorrow we’ll get the whole bloody deck behind us,” McCall said.

Rhodes nodded. “Well, maybe by tomorrow The Fuehrer will come to his sense and rescind the order.”

“Not bloody likely. Only way he’ll let us sleep on deck is two feet apart,” McCall said.

A sally of laughter followed and Rhodes went back to Gebbs.

“Jesus, that sounded like a lecture in how to mutiny,” Gebbs said.

“It stalled them didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t scare them.”

Rhodes shook his head. “They’re past being scared, Nigger.” He got his cap and set it straight on his head.

“Where to now?” Gebb asked.

“I’m going to report it as the rule book says I must.”

“Do you want me along with you?”

“No, I’ll do this better alone.”

Rhodes went directly to the chiefs and P.O.s mess. A few of them were in their hammocks, but most were sitting around the table discussing the new sleeping order. Rhodes sat on a stool next to Payne. “Whacker, can I have a word with you on deck?” he said quietly.

Payne grinned at him. “You know the orders—we can’t do it on deck,” he joked.

“I’m serious. And fetch Shorty along, too.”

Payne’s manner changed abruptly. “You are serious.” He nudged Shorty Bredgman sitting on the other side of him and the three of them climbed the hatch to the deserted iron deck.

“It’s about this ban on sleeping on the upper deck,” Rhodes told them.

“What about it?” Payne asked.

“How long is The Fuehrer going to keep it up?”

Payne shrugged his shoulders. “We only know what the Coxswain tells us and he says it’s for an indefinite time.” Rhodes said: “Well, the crew won’t stand for it. It’s a Turkish bath up forward.”

“They’re raising hell I suppose,” Payne said.

“Worse than that, they’re talking mutiny.”

Payne and Bredgman came alive together, closing on him, peering at his face in the darkness. “Are you kidding us?” Payne asked.

“I’ve never been more serious.”

Bredgman coughed and cleared his throat. “What the hell else can you expect with a bloodsucker like this for a skipper. It’s a wonder to me they’ve put up with him this long.” Payne groaned. “Jesus, did you have to bring this to me, Dusty? The Coxswain’s your man.”

“Anyone but the Coxswain at a time like this,” Rhodes said. “He’d try to stand over them and that would only hasten the thing on.” Rhodes calculated his next statement for a few seconds before voicing it: “Anyway, I thought you and Shorty might like to know early how things stand. It gives you time to decide which way you’ll jump if the bubble bursts.”

Payne stared at him. “Jesus, what makes you think … Look, Dusty, you’ve picked the wrong man. I want to stay a P.O.”

“Even under Hardridge?”

“I can put up with him until someone else comes along.”

“Or until the crew get rid of him for you,” Rhodes said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just this: if Hardridge doesn’t rescind this last order there’s a good chance his crew will mutiny. And if that happens the more P.O.s backing them the better chance they’ll have of victory.”

“And what’s victory supposed to do for mutineers?”

“I could name a lot of things this crew will want altered. But getting Hardridge kicked off the ship will fix all of them.”

“And you think the Navy board will do that?”

“If the mutiny is unanimous with P.O.s and chiefs, yes.”

“So you want me to be the first sucker?” Payne asked with a trace of sarcasm.”

“No, I’m the first.”

Bredgman suddenly swore and slapped Rhodes on the back. “And I’ll be the second. I won’t bloody well stand on The Fuehrer’s side against a crew like this.”

Payne walked to the guard rails and sauntered back. “You know what’s going to happen, Dusty. They’ll grill hell out of everyone and get you named as a supporter. Then they’ll lay all the blame on you. They’ll strip you back to an A.B. and send you to G.I. as an example to the lower deck of what a P.O. should never do.”

“I’ll have to risk that,” Rhodes said.

Bredgman snorted. “Look, for Christ’s sake, if the others in our mess are as good as they sound they’ll all be in this—all except Stringer and Wales. And if it’s that unanimous Navy board can’t make an example of anyone but Hardridge.”

“Like hell they can’t,” Payne argued. “There’s never been a mutiny where the lower deck didn’t get hit for it. Regardless of causes and findings, they dig out the ringleaders from the forecastle. And if they can’t find any, they make some. They’ve got to make an example of someone. You know that, Dusty.”

“Yes, I know it, and so will every man in this crew before I let him decide to mutiny.”

“You’re crazy,” Payne said. “You haven’t learned a bloody thing in all these years.”

Rhodes laughed dryly. “Well, blokes like Hardridge aren’t much good as teachers.”

Bredgman went and spat over the side. “Count me in, Dusty.”

Payne ambled around for a while and faced Rhodes again. “All right, you’ve reported it to me and that’s your job. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll feel out the others in our mess for you.”

“Feel carefully,” Rhodes warned him. “We don’t want Stringer or Wales to know. We don’t want them at any price. If they joined in, it would be a double-cross to find out who the agitators are?”

“Who are they?” Payne asked.

Rhodes shook his head. “No names, no court martials, Whacker. I don’t distrust you, but there are ethics—even to mutiny.”

Payne nodded. “All right, I’ll put the ball at Slee’s feet and let him kick it. I don’t know how the old man will take it. He or Rollinson will probably want to see you.”

“Well, you know where to find me,” Rhodes said, and left them.

The mess deck had quietened down when he returned. The group who had been in five mess had disbanded and turned in. Men were lying about on tables, stools, lockers; and as Rhodes moved forward he had to step carefully among the forms sprawled on the deck. It was difficult to imagine that anyone was sleeping in the moist heat that pervaded the deck. But they had wearied of bitching and only a few were talking in a low murmur of sound somewhere near the paint shop.

Rhodes undressed and pulled himself up into his hammock above one mess, next to Gebbs. Gebbs turned over and faced him as he lay down. “What happened?”

“Duty’s done. I’ve reported it.”

“Who to?”

“Payne and Bredgman ”

“The Coxswain won’t like you going past him.”

“The Coxswain wouldn’t have understood,” Rhodes said.

They lay quiet and for Rhodes the crossroads were passed and there was no turning back. I’ve put a rope around my neck and the ends are in the hands of others, he thought. You fool. You’ve worked and studied ten years to get this rate; ten years of biting your tongue when you wanted to answer back; ten years of being an obedient servant to the brass. And now, just as you are about to reap the reward, you kick the brass in their teeth. You’re a prize lower deck fool, Rhodes.

The murmuring voices forward had dropped almost to a whisper now, and behind them Rhodes heard the sound of men’s strained breathing. It was a cruel sound and Rhodes felt it embrace him and make him a part of it. I should have stayed an A.B., he thought. I wish I had.

But later, after he had slept briefly and awakened to the same sound, he was acutely aware of the grim payoff if his move should fail. And then he felt singularly alone as the mess deck P.O.

Chapter Eighteen

“Wakey-wakey,” brought them from their hammocks and they stumbled around rubbing sleep from their eyes and mopping their bodies with sweat cloths. They crowded into the showers and the waists and cleaned their teeth, shaved, and washed the staleness from their bodies. Black nimbus clouds were piled up in the north sky; the day was calm and humid. The duty tel’ said the barometer was falling and a storm was forecast. They stood on deck and breathed the sticky air, trying to rid their lungs of what they had breathed all night. They were bug-eyed and kind of dopey as they ate canned beans for breakfast and then turned to at parts of ship. Also, they were quiet.

Rhodes walked about the upper deck, noticing the quietness more than anything else. It was also eerie. Rhodes probed it, felt it, and waited for signs of the movement to show; listened for the whispers of men planning; watched for the light of excitement to glow on gloomy faces. But none of these things happened and Rhodes felt easier. Maybe they had thought better of it. It might blow over. Perhaps they would resign themselves to sleep in the mess deck; or Hardridge might relent and allow them to sleep where they chose. Anyway, they were sailing on patrol today and would be two days at sea. That should give things time to cool.

At 1100 hours the boatswain’s mate brought a message for him to report in the wardroom. Rhodes adjusted his clothes: creases straight and parallel in the legs of his shorts, socks pulled up and folded down at the tops, cap perfectly straight. A wave of anxiety assailed him as he descended the companion-way. He had never been inside the wardroom of the Jacaranda, and that he should be called into it now before Hardridge emphasised the gravity of the situation.

Hardridge and Rollinson were standing at the end of the long table and Rhodes went up and clicked his heels together in front of them.

“Stand easy, Rhodes,” Hardridge said.

Rhodes found himself the target for those inscrutable black eyes and resisted the temptation to look away from them.

“You reported there was discontent and mention of mutiny among the men,” Hardridge said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who mentioned mutiny?”

“Well, no one especially, sir. They talked about it in general.”

“Who?”

“Most of the men, sir.”

Hardridge’s eyes bored into him. “Well, perhaps you can tell me what they are discontented about, Rhodes?”

“They seem most concerned about the ban on sleeping on the upper deck, sir.”

“Do you think this is a serious threat, Rhodes?” Hardridge asked casually.

“Well, sir, it is if the sleeping ban continues.”

“Do you think I should rescind the order?”

“I think it would be wise, sir.”

Hardridge nodded. “I thought you might.” He took a deep breath and it seemed to Rhodes that he gloated for a moment. “Well, Rhodes, I don’t intend to—not at present anyway.” He walked to the end of the wardroom and Rhodes noticed for the first time, the file containing his own service record, lying on the table near Rollinson. He felt uneasy. Rollinson waited, stiff and formal. From the port side wall, a large coloured photograph of His Majesty, the King, looked down at the table. On the after wall were two large black and white photos; one of the Warspite and Repulse ploughing through the North Sea, the other of the Australian flagship anchored in Sydney harbour. Rhodes hoped he could get out of there soon.

Hardridge came back, picked up his service file, and opened it. He read it for a while, then looked at Rhodes. “Your prompt report of this matter is commendable, Rhodes, and I think it merits some kind of reciprocal gesture. Now you are due to have your petty officer’s rate confirmed in six months, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardridge looked at Rollinson. “Number one, I think we can shorten that wait down to say … two months.”

“I’m sure we can, sir,” Rollinson said.

“Thank you, sir,” said Rhodes.

“That’s all right, Rhodes. There’s just one thing you can do for me in return.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardridge looked straight into his gaze. “I want to know who the agitators of the discontent are.”

Rhodes said: “Well, sir, I don’t know.”

“Well then I expect you to find out.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Very well, do that. It shouldn’t be difficult, living in the mess deck as you do. Simply a matter of being observant I’d say. Carry on, Rhodes.”

“McCall! Able Seaman McCall!”

McCall paused from work with the tar brush in the pot, and looked down across the quarter deck to Wales and Stringer.

Wales beckoned him impatiently. “Get down here. We want a word with you.”

McCall descended the ladder of D gun deck, muttering curses. Whatever it was these two wanted him for it wouldn’t be pleasant. He crossed the quarter deck and stood before them.

Wales said: “The Coxswain and I have decided to change your sea watch station. From here on you’ll be in D gun’s crew.”

McCall watched the crooked smile forming on his face. “What’s the idea?”

“Just that you and the kid talk too much up forward.”

McCall looked from him to Stringer. “Who’s taking my place on the wing of the bridge?”

The two chiefs seemed to enjoy a joke for a minute, then Wales said: “We thought we might put Lench up there with the kid.”

McCall glared at him. “You’re a lousy bastard,” he said.

“You heard that, Coxswain!” Wales exclaimed.

Stringer stuck out his jaw. “I certainly did. You can see the officer of the watch right away, McCall.”

McCall sized them up. “All right, but you two need eyes in your arses from here on, because I’m gunna get you. I’ll fix both of you for good.”

“Hear that, Coxswain?” Wales trumpeted.

“I heard it. That’ll be another charge against you, McCall.”

Ten minutes later McCall removed his cap before Gum and was ordered a commander’s report. He went forward to dinner and ate, observing the sullen faces at the tables. Hilder’s idea was to let things stew until the ship returned from patrol, then bring matters to a head. That was all right with McCall, but the way everyone looked it seemed an unnecessary waste of time. They sure wouldn’t need much urging right now.

During the dinner break, the kid came up from the P.O.s mess and joined him. He’d been doing this each day at noon; it allowed them about fifteen minutes together and they usually spent the time on the forecastle.

This day, McCall led the way right forward so they could be on their own. He was feeling bad about his watch station being changed and disliked having to tell the kid who today seemed more edgy than usual.

They stood in the eyes of the ship and the kid said: “What’s going to happen, Rocky?”

“When?”

“About the mutiny. Are they going on with it?”

McCall told him what the plan was and the kid said: “And if they mutiny, what happens then?”

“The way I hear it they’ll read the riot act and take us home under escort for an inquiry.”

“And you’ll be blamed for it.”

McCall said nothing and tried to think how to tell him the news so it wouldn’t hurt too much. But hell, how could you cushion anything as lousy as that? “Kid, Wales is changing my watch station.”

The kid stared at him. “When?”

“Now. As from when we put to sea this afternoon. He told me before dinner. Stringer’s backing him up.”

“Oh,” the kid said. “Did he say why?”

“No, he didn’t have to. He wants to break us up.”

“But… he can’t, not really.”

“He can come bloody close. Next thing it’ll be a change of mess, then a change of shore watch. They’re breaking us up so we hardly see each other.”

The kid seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I didn’t think he meant it,” he murmured.

“What?”

The kid felt such disappointment and bitterness against Wales that he forgot caution and burst out with the truth: “He said this morning he’d make your life hell unless I was nice to him.”

“The slimy bastard. And were you nice to him?”

“No. I hate him. I wish the bastard was dead.”

“He might be one night,” McCall said quietly. “He’s always on the prowl when we’re at sea. Nights as dark as hell. Anything could happen to him.”

“For God’s sake don’t do anything crazy,” the kid said anxiously. “He doesn’t really worry me, honestly. If it comes to that I think he’s a misfit.”

“Sure, kid, sure. Lots of misfits in this outfit.”

They remained on the forecastle watching the black clouds filling the sky from the north and feeling the breath of hot wind rising until the pipe of, “forepart forward, after part aft,” sent them to stations for leaving the anchorage.

At exactly 1400 hours they put to sea under a black and stormy sky. Starboard watch closed up for the afternoon and McCall went to his new station on D gun, while Traitor Lench took his place on the wing of the bridge. McCall was no stranger to the crew of D gun. The captain of the gun was a senior A.B. named Dobson who was in five mess with him, and most of the crew were from adjacent four mess. The breath of the proposed revolt had reached all of them and this formed the main topic of conversation during the afternoon. McCall kept it alive and watched it ferment.

The storm heaped up during the first and last dog watches and at nightfall it broke. Thunder and lightning split the sky and the rain hammered down driven by a screaming wind from astern. The starboard watch sat in the mess deck, clinging to tables for support as the stem slewed with each rolling greenback and the anchor banged ceaselessly in its hawse pipe. Topside, wind, spray and rain, lashed the decks and screamed through the rigging and stays. The blackout awning at the entrance to the mess deck flat on the port side was ripped to shreds and wind tore down the flat stripping notices off the board. They blew aft with the back draught and were whipped out into the scuppers and over the side. Among them was the new order.

Midnight came and the starboard watch closed up for the middle. McCall wrapped a tarpaulin around himself and settled down in the darkness on the after end of the gun deck. The rest of the crew held similar positions, most of them getting what shelter they could behind the gun and its mounting. They talked whenever the storm allowed them to be heard and the topic was still the mutiny. The mood had now snowballed to a point where voices of dissent were silenced under harsh criticism of the majority.

McCall’s thoughts went to the kid. It was the first time since they had become oppos that they had been apart on watch. He wondered first if Lench would bother him; then if the kid might become interested in Lench—if not tonight, then on one of the many nights to come. His thoughts went to the mutiny and to the end of all nights for him and the kid. And just for a moment, he felt regret.

Wales came on to the gun deck doing rounds. He groped across the deck, bumping into men and parts of the gun. Dobson reported the crew all present and he went around checking each man in turn, making sure he was alert. “McCall! Where’s McCall?” he shouted above the storm.

McCall did not answer but got to his feet and waited for him. He came close and peered at him. “You awake, McCall?”

McCall yawned in his face. “Would I be asleep on my feet?”

“Watch your tongue, McCall. And keep alert.” They had to almost yell at each other to be heard above the booming wind and pouring rain, and Wales now waited to get his breath before shouting: “How do you like … the new station, McCall?”

McCall said nothing.

“Not so nice … as being with the kid up forward … is it?”

McCall remained silent, hating his guts.

“Well … don’t worry about him. I’ll keep my eye on him … see Lench doesn’t bother him.” He shuffled off into the darkness and McCall squatted down again and pulled the tarpaulin up over his head. Of all the bastards I’ve known, he is the worst, he thought, and wanted more than ever to make good his threat to get him. He needed that more than anything else now, to avenge himself for all the hours of running and all the jibes and insults. For breaking up his friendship with the kid and for being the bastard that he was, he had to fix him. It wouldn’t be hard to do on a night like this. He’d need to pick a safe time and place to intercept him on rounds of course. Somewhere out of sight and sound of everyone. One blow, one heave. And in all this sound and fury no one would miss him until the next day … He checked his thoughts there. Christ, do I hate him enough to do that? …

But McCall was only one of many hating Wales that night. On the wing of the bridge the kid kept a miserable and lonely watch. For, born on the wind and spray, was the truth he could not ignore: “They’re breaking us up,” McCall had said, and the more he thought about it the more he realised its truth. One way or another Wales would cripple their friendship— unless he was nice to him. But the kid could not be nice to a man he wished was dead—washed over the side by a wave, blown to bits by a bomb, crushed to death by a falling yard arm, poisoned by the meat from a ruptured can … In many ways he wished he would die.

And Dalby, keeping watch on the pom-pom deck. Dalby feeling cast-out and unwanted, even by the old A.B.s. Hating Wales for doing this to him.

And those who had lost their leave and pay for long periods and served punishment because of him. And those who had kept many watches in fear of the man who sneaked up on them. Many men hating Wales that night as he went on rounds for the last time aboard Jacaranda.

A few minutes before 0400, as Freer was piping the morning watch to muster, he stumbled over a form lying at the bottom of the port side forecastle ladder. Freer dragged the form into the mess deck flat and in the pale light, saw that it was Wales. There was a lump the size of an egg on the back of his head and one ear was badly lacerated. Blood matted the hair on the side of his head. He was unconscious.

Freer notified the officer of the watch and Slee immediately had Wales carried to the sick bay. While the sick berth attendant took care of him, Slee had Freer call Hardridge.

Hardridge left his bunk and went immediately to the sick bay. Rollinson and Slee were there with the Coxswain and Dalton. A group of men had gathered in the flat outside and were excitedly trying to discover what had happened to the buffer.

Hardridge listened to Slee’s account of events, then held a hurried discussion with the others. It appeared that Wales had either fallen or been pushed from the top of the forecastle ladder and had struck his head on the iron deck about ten feet below.

“Number one, have all officers return to their stations and disperse those gawking ratings from the flat,” Hardridge ordered. He remained for the time in the sick bay, watching the efforts of the S.B.A. to revive Wales with cold compresses. “How bad is it, S.B.A.?” he asked.

“Well, sir, it’s a nasty head injury and that might be dangerous. Concussion or internal haemhorage could develop. There could also be other injuries not noticeable at this stage.”

“Do you need medical assistance?”

“I think it’s advisable sir—as soon as possible.”

“Very well, I’ll signal N.O.I.C. to send us an M.O.” He put on the oilskin he had brought from his cabin. “I’m going on the bridge now. As soon as he regains consciousness I want to be informed so I can see him. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hardridge clattered up the forecastle ladder to the wireless room adjacent the wheel house and dictated the signal to the chief telegraphist. Then he climbed the bridge ladder and assumed duty with Merrilton and Dobran. He stood in his old position, leaning against the bridge railing and staring ahead into the black night. The sea and wind had fallen off now and the rain had stopped, but lightning still flashed across the north sky. Hardridge was shaken and worried by the course of events: first, a report of discontent among the crew and now this accident, which somehow did not seem like an accident. After all, Wales had never taken a bad fall before to his knowledge and moreover was most unpopular with this crew who only yesterday had talked of mutiny …

For half an hour he stood at the railing and paced the bridge in turn, expecting a report from the S.B.A. In this time Merrilton had handed him the decoded reply from N.O.I.C. that the Australian destroyer Augusta was on its way with an M.O. Hardridge felt no easier for that. Wales had now been unconscious for almost an hour. What if he failed to recover? … What if he should die? … There would have to be an inquiry and more than anything else, he wanted to avoid that.

A further half an hour passed before the S.B.A. sent for him. He went down there as fast as he could make it and found the S.B.A. leaning over Wales on the bed, while the Coxswain stood at the foot of the bed looking anxious. Wales seemed barely conscious, rolling his head from side to side and muttering incoherently.

“I’m afraid I had to give him a sedative injection, sir,” the S.B.A. said. “He was conscious for a few minutes and in considerable pain. I believe he may have internal injuries of some sort.”

Hardridge stood by the bed close to Wales and tried to make something of what he was saying, but it was meaningless babbling.

“He was trying to speak just now, sir,” Stringer said. “He said something about being attacked.”

“Attacked!” Hardridge looked from Stringer to the S.B.A. The S.B.A. nodded. “It sounded like that, sir, but he was delirious.”

Hardridge walked to the foot of the bed and stood by the Coxswain, watching as Wales fell silent and appeared to sleep. The sick bay was quiet, except for the creaking of fittings as the ship rolled. Hardridge steadied himself against the bulkhead. “Coxswain, there seems to be doubt about what happened to him. Would you agree?”

“I certainly would, sir,” Stringer said.

“Has he ever fallen before?”

“No, sir. He was the most active officer aboard.”

Hardridge stared at Wales’s still, pale face. “What do you think, Coxswain?”

“Sir, I believe he was pushed backwards off the top of the ladder or was struck from behind as he climbed it.”

“Is there any evidence out on deck?”

“No, sir. The deck has been awash all the time.” Hardridge plucked at the whiskers on his cheek. “Have you any idea who might have attacked him?”

“As a matter of fact I have, sir.”

Hardridge started. “You have?”

“Yes, sir. I was going to mention it when the accident first happened only I didn’t want to be presumptive. Yesterday, I heard Able Seaman McCall threaten him.”

“What did he say?”

Stringer related the details of McCall’s threat and Hardridge thought about the situation for a while. The M.O. would probably order Wales taken off the ship and when he recovered and told of being attacked they would certainly order an inquiry to find the culprit—unless he was able to find him. He turned to Stringer. “Coxswain, take a guard and arrest McCall on suspicion of felonious assault.”

Stringer clicked his heels together. “Ay ay, sir.”

“And Coxswain, we can’t hold him for long without evidence of his guilt—or without his confession of course.” Stringer nodded. “I understand, sir.” He turned to go, stopped. “Sir, where should I take him?”

Hardridge frowned. There were no cells as on the bigger ships; no facilities at all for prisoners. “Take him to Mr. Gum’s cabin. If necessary, I’ll have Mr. Gum share a cabin with someone else.”

The Coxswain went on deck to select two guardsmen from the duty watch. The storm had passed completely now, only the stern sea continued to run high. Daylight was breaking to port as Stringer flounced aft, bumming a tune. Arrest under arms on suspicion of felonious assault, he thought. At last I’ve got the Irish bastard where I want him.

The kid had risen early and gone to shower and McCall was dreaming of being court martialled for mutiny when Stringer thumped the bottom of his hammock and shouted: “Get up, McCall! Come on, hit the deck! ”

McCall started awake and gaped at the two seamen standing armed with bayonets either side of his hammock. “What the hell is this?”

Stringer thumped his hammock again. “Get out of that sack! You’re under arrest.”

“What the hell for?” McCall asked.

“You know bloody well what for—attacking a chief petty officer.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Don’t talk back to me.” Stringer grasped the hammock with both hands and turned it upside down. McCall landed on his feet and shaped up. “Touch my hammock again and I’ll…”

Stringer’s hand dropped to the .45 revolver on his hip. “Try it, McCall. Go on, swing at me so I can cut your face to pieces with this.” He drew the gun and brandished it.

“Crusher bastard! I’ll take you on, gun and all,” McCall snarled.

The commotion had wakened some of the crew and a small group had gathered in the flat and were muttering angrily as Stringer motioned the guardsmen to positions each side of McCall. He prodded McCall in the back. “March! ”

“Let him alone you big bastard,” one of the watching men shouted.

Stringer whirled and began walking backwards with the prisoner and escort, watching the group as they shuffled menacingly towards him. He kept them covered with his gun until he reached the upper deck, then holstered the gun and fell into step behind the prisoner. “Hep, righ’, hep righ’, hep righ’. March, McCall. Come on, brighten it up.”

In the after companionway, Stringer threw open the door of Gum’s cabin and motioned to McCall. “Get in there,” he said, and shoved him inside.

The door slid shut behind McCall and he was alone. He aimed a kick at the closed door and crossed the cabin to stare out one of the portholes at the wallowing sea. He felt sick, not from what had happened, but from being so powerless to prevent it happening. A few minutes passed and then Stringer came in with Gum. Stringer still wore his .45. Gum was unarmed, sweating, red faced, eyes bulging. They walked up to McCall and Stringer said: “Stand to attention.”

McCall lounged against the ship’s side and glared at him.

“All right, we can do this the smooth or tough way,” Stringer said. “Just tell us what you did and we’ll leave you alone.”

“What the hell’re you talking about?” McCall said.

“Wales. Yesterday you threatened him and last night you knocked him off the ladder, right?”

“Like hell,” McCall said.

“Don’t lie to me,” Stringer said angrily. “And cut out the swearing. You said you’d get Wales and me yesterday didn’t you?”

“Sure I said it.”

“And you got Wales last night.”

“You must think I’m dumb. If I went for Wales I wouldn’t half do it. He’d be over the bloody side and you’d never know what happened to him—same if I went for you.”

Gum stepped in close to him. “Listen McCall, you know how serious this is. You’ll do time for it anyway, but we can recommend leniency if you make our job easy. Now admit you did it.”

The trace of a smile showed on McCall’s face. “Listen, whoever got Wales deserves a medal. But it wasn’t me. So you can both lick my stick as far as I’m concerned.”

Stringer stepped in quickly and pushed him in the chest. “Don’t talk filth.”

McCall said: “Watch your bloody hands, crusher.”

Stringer pushed him again, hard. McCall pivoted, grabbed his arm, and jerked him forward. Stringer staggered head first into the ship’s side. He recovered his balance and jammed the barrel of the .45 hard into McCall’s belly. McCall doubled up as pain tore through his body.

“You Irish bastard! Touch me again and I’ll bust you apart.” Stringer went to use the gun again, but Gum said: “Leave him, Coxswain.”

“I haven’t started on him yet. I’ll…”

“Leave him!” Gum ordered sharply, and Stringer obeyed.

At this moment on the bridge, others were interceding for McCall: “Sir, Sub-Lieutenant Slee wishes to speak with you regarding McCall,” Merrilton said.

Hardridge turned from the bridge railing and looked at the group of men gathered near the director tower. Slee, Payne, Rhodes, and Able Seaman Dobson stood there. The hint of trouble ebbed from them and Hardridge steeled himself to meet it. “Well, Sub-lieutenant.”

Slee came forward. “Sir, concerning the arrest of McCall, there is evidence that he could not have been responsible for what happened to the chief boatswain’s mate.”

Hardridge tensed, unsure of what to expect. Slee’s air of confidence and the grim looking subordinates waiting to back him up savoured of collusion against him …

“Able Seaman Dobson is the captain of D gun, sir, and he and all of his crew swear that McCall never left the gun deck during the first watch last night.”

Hardridge felt that jolt him. He suspected conspiracy, but nevertheless he had to hear what this man had to say. “Bring Dobson forward.”

Dobson came up and stood stiffly at attention. Payne and Rhodes were standing back watching—like enemy reinforcements, Hardridge thought and stared at Dobson. He recognised him as one of the older able seamen aboard whose conduct was exemplary, but in the present circumstances that might not mean a thing. “Dobson, are you quite sure what you say is correct?”

“Yes, sir,” said Dobson. “McCall definitely did not leave the gun deck.”

Hardridge did not like the way this rating fearlessly returned his gaze. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I make every man obtain permission before he leaves the gun, sir.”

“I see. But isn’t it possible a rating might leave without your knowledge?”

“No, sir.”

Hardridge said sternly: “Dobson, there was a heavy storm running during all of the first watch.”

” Yes, sir, there was.”

“And it was pitch dark.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you have all of your crew in view all the time?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how can you be sure McCall did not leave the deck without informing you?”

“Because, sir, I spent the entire watch at the top of the ladder to the deck and anyone leaving would have had to walk right past me.”

Hardridge stared at him in silence. Slee stood near, a smug look on his face. The other two might have been sharpening their weapons. Hardridge said: “Very well, Dobson, carry on.”

He waited until they had left the bridge, then called Merrilton to his side. “Have number one and the Coxswain brought here immediately,” he said

He waited, staring out to sea. The sun was rising above a hazy skyline. The sky overhead was clear and the wind cool and gentle. A calm, fine day was promised, but for him the storm was only just beginning.

“The First Lieutenant and the Coxswain to see you, sir,” Merrilton said behind him.

He turned and addressed both of them: “Gentlemen, a deputation has just given me information which is supposed to prove that McCall is innocent of having assaulted Chief Boatswain’s Mate, Wales. Are you both aware of what this group had to say?”

Rollinson and Stringer said they were and Hardridge went on: “What do you make of it, number one?”

“Well, sir, it could be a conspiracy against you, but on the other hand Dobson has always appeared scrupulously honest and I rather doubt he could be induced to lie.”

Hardridge turned to Stringer. “Coxswain?”

Stringer said adamantly: “Sir, regardless of what the gun’s crew say, I believe McCall assaulted the chief boatswain’s mate.”

“Has he confessed to it?” Hardridge asked.

“Not yet, sir, but given time …”

“I agree with you, Coxswain, but in the face of this new evidence—even though I believe it to be false, I can’t hold him under arrest.”

Stringer said: “Sir, there is a matter of assault against me, witnessed by Warrant Officer Gum. We could hold him on that.”

Hardridge considered the wisdom of this for a moment. Whatever the facts of this assault, the Coxswain bore no signs of it, and as matters stood it would look suspiciously like counter-conspiracy if an investigation should follow. “Release him, Coxswain,” he said. Then, as Stringer saluted and left, “Number one, I want a further word with you.” He faced forward, shielding his eyes against the glittering water that stretched to meet the risen sun. “Number one, there is every reason to believe that Wales was brutally assaulted aboard this ship last night. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Well, I intend to find out who did it.”

“I hope we can do that, sir,” Rollinson said.

“I believe the culprit is being sheltered by certain members of the crew who are conspiring against me. Now I intend to break that conspiracy.”

“Of course. How do you intend doing that, sir?”

Hardridge toyed with his whiskers and stared ahead. “We will rendezvous with the Augusta at noon and then proceed to the island. I shall address the entire crew as soon as we have dropped anchor.”

In the emergency dash to meet the Augusta they held course north by east against a mild swell all that morning and never made less than thirty-five knots—which wasn’t bad for a scrap-iron relic. Her old screws thundered beneath a boiling wake and from stem to bow she hummed and pulsed with energy that seemed to match the bold mood of her crew.

They had struck a blow, this crew, and the taste of aggression had boosted their flagging spirits. Someone among them had coshed Wales and a doctor was being rushed to his aid. “Three cheers for whoever did it. Hurrayeee, hurrayeee, hurrayeee.” Their enemy had arrested McCall and had been forced to release him. McCall was back in the mess deck showing the bruise on his belly. Stringer did that with the barrel of his gun. He tried to bash a confession out of me. Gum, too.”

“The bastards. You can bet The Fuehrer ordered them to do that.”

“Of course; The Fuehrer’s a bloody sadist.”

“Someone should get that Stringer; put him where Wales is.”

“And Gum.”

“The Fuehrer too,” they said, and the ship trembled and put the miles of sea astern, and at noon, they met the Augusta.

The crew came out on deck and watched their sister ship heave-to a couple of miles to starboard. They waved to her and yelled greetings, even though they knew no one on board could hear them from that distance. They were excited and glad this operation was happening; glad that a motor boat was chugging across the water, fetching a medic to old red beard.

The motor boat made fast to the after gangway and the medic came inboard carrying a small black bag. He was a lieutenant-commander and he hurried forward behind Hardridge and Rollinson and did not even glance at the crew who crowded the iron deck and the waists.

They went into the sick bay and the crew hung around on deck waiting for the next development. They hoped Wales would be taken off—it would be a better ship without him.

After a while the officers emerged, followed by two seamen carrying Wales on a stretcher. The crew watched silently as they lowered the stretcher down into the motor boat. When the boat pulled away they milled around passing opinions: “Lucky bastard; he’ll probably wind up in a Sydney hospital with nurses washing his cock.”

“Not likely. He’ll rest aboard the flagship for a week, then come back here and make our lives a misery again.”

“That’s one less bastard on board,” McCall said, and joined the kid at the guard rails.

They stood together and watched the Augusta depart and the kid asked quietly: “Did you do it?”

“Did I do what?”

“Wales.”

“Don’t be bloody wet.”

“I don’t blame you if you did. I’d just like to know, that’s all. Tell me if you did and I’ll never tell anyone.”

McCall sniffed. “For Christ’s sake. They released me didn’t they? You know about Dobson’s evidence.”

“Yes, but that mightn’t mean anything. Some of the crew are laughing their heads off and saying Dusty Rhodes arranged the whole thing with Dobson.”

“Stuff what they say. Dobson was on the level and so were the others. Not that I didn’t want to get Wales. I even got to planning how I’d do it.” He looked slyly at the kid. “But someone beat me to it. Was it you?”

The kid laughed weakly. “You’re kidding. You know I couldn’t do that.”

“Anyone could do anything—if he’s pushed far enough.” The kid shook his head. “I thought about it, that was all.” They fell silent and the kid thought about Wales, the victim of violence in the hands of a medic. Later, he might recover and be able to name the culprit. Or perhaps he wouldn’t recover and they’d hold an inquiry to discover who had killed him. The kid shuddered. First, the threat of mutiny, and now violence and the crew seething with unrest. It had to break somewhere and when it did McCall would be at the centre of it. The kid sensed the end of their friendship approaching and sought vainly for a way to prevent it.

“Could of been anyone,” McCall murmured.

“What?”

“Anyone could of done it. They all hated him enough.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Clear lower deck. All hands muster on the quarter deck.”

This was a day later. The ship had anchored and the crew were standing by waiting to go to dinner when Freer made the pipe. They sauntered aft, speculating on what this was all about. They figured it would be to do with Wales; a warning against the use of violence perhaps.

They mustered by parts of ship on the quarter deck. They were quiet, sullen. Hardridge was already present, standing amidships with the officers behind him. They all looked grim.

Rollinson went through the routine of calling the ship’s company to attention and reporting them present. Then Hardridge stood on a little box that had been provided for him and prepared to address them. His telescope was in its place under his arm and he looked as immaculate as ever in his white tropical uniform. His face seemed tired and drawn though, and those of the crew standing nearest to him noticed dark bands under his eyes.

He cleared his throat and began: “You are all aware that Chief Petty Officer Wales was found seriously hurt on the upper deck two nights ago. He regained consciousness long enough to inform me that he had been attacked.” He looked coldly along the ranks of men, first on the port side, then on the starboard. “I intend to find out who was responsible for this cowardly act and before taking steps that will inconvenience every member of the ship’s company I am asking the guilty man to step forward.”

No one moved. The long ranks of silent men stared at him.

“Very well. All recreational leave for the ship’s company is cancelled until such times as the assailant is discovered.” He turned to Rollinson. “Dismiss them,” he said, and stepping down off his box, walked forward and down the companion-way.

Rollinson dismissed the ship’s company and they went quietly forward into the mess decks. There, the quietness ended abruptly. They threw down their caps and the mess decks echoed to angry voices: “Who does he think we are— a bunch of school kids.”

“Why should every poor bastard be punished for what one of us did?”

“I suppose the pigs’ll go ashore just the same.”

“You bet your balls they will.”

“Well, why not? The guilty one isn’t among them. Whoever heard of a pig coshing a pig?”

“We ought to cut the falls of the motor boat—that ’ud stop them.”

“Why. They’d go in the cutter.”

“Well, cut its falls, too. Cut all the boats falls.”

“Listen, you bitching bastards!” Hilder shouted. “What about doing something instead of talking. I say we sit down and refuse to man the ship until we’re homeward bound. We let Dusty talk us out of it the other night and what did it get us?”

“We mutinied for less on the Alice” Freer said.

“So mutiny,” McCall said, getting to his feet. “We got to show the bastard we’re game. Tell him to stuff his orders. Sleep on the upper deck. Take a boat and go ashore. What can they do to us?”

“They can try to scare hell out of us with guns, that’s what they did on the Alice” Freer said. “Read the riot act and threaten to shoot us. It’s a big bluff. If everyone sticks together they can’t do nothing. Only afterwards they play merry hell and make examples of a few.”

“Stuff them and their examples. If we’re all in it the biggest one of all will be The Fuehrer.”

“Well, get the stokers up here and see if they’ll be in it.”

“The miscellaneous bods as well.”

They carried on ceaselessly. They were mad, but real mad and spoiling for action. A few of them started taking out their moods on things at random. A boot hit the mirror fixed to the gun housing and smashed it. A mess stool crashed against the forward bulkhead, one of its legs busted off. Two O.D.s argued, shoved each other around, and started scrapping. Rhodes pushed through the circle of men barracking them. He tore the O.D.s apart and shoved one of them against the hammock bin.

“That’s right, you start standing over us too,” the O.D. blazed. “Bloody P.O.s are all the same. Suck hole to the pigs.” Rhodes backhanded him across the mouth and watched him cringe. “That’s for your own good. Better I do that than run you in isn’t it—you’d get a fortnight’s number eleven.”

“Stuff the bloody ship,” an A.B. shouted and pitched a plate out a porthole. “Throw everything overboard.” He tossed a tin of jam out. “Scran, eating armoury and everything.” He threw a handful of knives and forks out. “We’ll starve and they’ll send us home in coffins.” A packet of tea went out, a jar of butter…

Rhodes grabbed him by the arm and jerked him around. “You stupid bastard! What’s that getting you?” He shoved him sprawling across the lockers and looked around at the sweating faces. “Take it easy all of you. You want to talk mutiny, go ahead and I won’t stop you. But I’ll flatten anyone who tries that sort of caper.”

“Damage to property. Maximum penalty ninety days,” Freer said.

“Mutinous swines,” said Regan, strutting like Laughton in Captain Bligh.

Rhodes went back to one mess and Gebbs. “Who’s the duty officer?”

“Slee,” said Gebbs.

“That’s a windfall. He’s about the only officer who might have the guts to try and talk some reason into The Fuehrer.” He got his cap and went aft. Slee and Merrilton were pacing the quarter deck and he walked up and touched his cap to Slee. “Can I see you a minute, sir.”

Slee followed him across to the guard rail. “What’s on your mind, Dusty?”

“The crew. What’s the old man trying to do, drive them to mutiny? This cancellation of their leave is too much.”

“How are they taking it?” Slee asked.

“They’re fed up to the ears. Can you wonder at it?”

Slee looked at him questioningly. Excitement stirred in him but he kept it hidden and said, “It’s no wonder at all, Dusty—I expected it.”

“They’re spoiling for trouble,” Rhodes said. “If he doesn’t lift that cancellation fast they’ll cut loose.” He stared at Slee who seemed unperturbed. “I’m not kidding. They’re on the way to mutiny.”

Slee said: “I believe you, Dusty. Thanks for telling me. I’ll see Rollinson right away.”

“I’d see the old man if I were you,” Rhodes said. “There isn’t much time for formalities.”

Slee shook his head. “I can’t do that. I tried before when Payne came to see me over the sleeping ban.”

“And what happened?”

Slee gave a short laugh. “Confidentially, I’m an insubordinate and have lost the right to talk with the commander. I got as far as number one with the report and he took it to the old man.”

“And what did he have to say to it?”

Slee shrugged his shoulders. “He called for tougher discipline.”

Rhodes made a wry face. “What does he want, flogging and keel-hauling?” He touched his cap and turned away. “I’d better get back and keep an eye on things.”

Slee watched him walk forward, then crossed the quarter deck and fell into step beside Merrilton.

“Big secret?” Merrilton said.

“Big and bad. It’s looking like mutiny up forward.” Merrilton’s eyebrows shot up. He paced on, staring at the deck. “Are you afraid, Jimmy Boy?”

“Of mutiny? Not really.”

“Neither am I.”

They paced forward and back. Slee stopped. “Well, here I go.”

“What are you going to do?” Merrilton asked.

“See Rollinson. What else should the O.O.D. do?”

“Nothing else—except keep your fingers crossed.” He smiled through his beard. “Cheer up, Jimmy Boy, we’ll soon be going home.”

Chapter Twenty

Hardridge and his commissioned officers were sitting at the wardroom table waiting for the chiefs and petty officers to join them. Hardridge was at the head of the table, almost directly below the photograph of His Majesty. Rollinson was on his immediate right, Gum on his left; the others were sitting along both sides of the table. Small, electric fans, one at each end of the table, helped relieve the stuffy atmosphere in the room.

Outside, and on deck, the ship festered in the humid afternoon. It was 1500 hours. The crew had grudgingly turned to an hour earlier, but now that the chiefs and P.O.s had left them to answer the call to muster in the wardroom they were standing idle.

Hardridge’s decision to call the emergency meeting was an indication of how worried he was. The immediate threat of mutiny had shocked him worse than anything he had experienced in the Navy. Even now it seemed incredible that it could happen aboard his ship. In sixteen years of service he had never encountered this nightmare. Of course, he had heard of it and had often discussed with officers its causes and effects. He believed the cause of mutiny was weakness of command and for this reason he had remained above it, believing it could never happen to him. Yet, here it was on his first ship of command. And in wartime.

For an hour after Rollinson had come to him with the news that the crew were dangerously close to mutiny he had stalked his cabin, uncertain what action he should take. To fight it and crush it before it got beyond his control. Or to give way; grant them leave and permit sleeping on the upper deck. But even the thought of yielding to them was abhorrent, and there was never any real doubt in his mind that he would depart from what he had been taught as a boy in Naval college. The three steps to combat mutiny were all that he knew. Crush the agitator before he can influence the group, crush the group, before it can influence the crew. Isolate and crush the crew before they can influence other crews.

But here he was suddenly at the second or possibly the last step. How has it got this far without my knowledge? he thought. Why is it that the first I knew of the discontent was two days ago? There must have been agitation before that. Why wasn’t I informed of it? He seized on the first answer that entered his mind: his officers; his P.O.s; his chiefs; the Coxswain; Rhodes. Especially Rhodes, who still had not come up with the names of the trouble-makers, damn him. But they all must have had some inkling this was brewing. They had remained silent and betrayed him …

The chiefs and P.O.s began arriving. Stringer entered with the chief yeoman, Dalton followed. The chief stoker and chief tel’ came behind them. They stood at the other end of the table. The P.O.s came in and stood behind them. They all looked stiff and formal. Hardridge nodded to them and said: “Be seated gentlemen.”

He watched them sitting down, wondering as he did which one of them might be able to help him. For that, though he would admit it to no one, was the reason for this meeting.

“All present, sir,” Rollinson murmured beside him.

Hardridge clasped his hands together on the table and looked at the anxious faces before him. “Gentlemen, it appears there is danger of mutiny among the crew. From what I can learn a large number of men are involved and I might say I am disappointed this report should come to me so late.” He swept everyone with his gaze. “Agitation must have been going on for some time and had this been observed and reported to me earlier I would have been able to isolate those responsible and deal with them.” He allowed this much to play on their consciences. Stringer’s face was red; Rollinson looked ill. “I shall of course deal with the threat immediately and the first thing I want to know is who the agitators are.” He stared at the chiefs and P.O.s as he said this. None of them said a word.

“I don’t have to remind every man here that it is his duty to give me the utmost support in putting down this threat. As you all know, failure to do so is a crime punishable by court martial.”

The chiefs and P.O.s looked at him silently—dumbly, he thought, and fastened his gaze on Stringer.

Stringer drew back his shoulders and said: “Sir, the discontent seems to have developed from when the men were forbidden to sleep on deck and that hasn’t given much time to discover the agitators.”

“I am not interested in causes of the discontent, Coxswain,” Hardridge said icily. “As for the excuse of time, that is something we must make up for.”

“Can I say something, sir?” Bredgman said.

Hardridge looked at the old P.O. “What is it, Petty Officer Bredgman?”

“We’ve been forbidden to enter the mess deck except on duty so I don’t see how we could of known what was going on in there.”

Hardridge’s jaw formed a hard line. For a moment or two he seemed unable to reply, then, “Petty Officer Bredgman, since you were on such friendly terms with the men you may now consider my orders about fraternising with them rescinded. You will enter the mess deck as often as you can and attempt to discover who is causing all the trouble.”

Bredgman opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

“That order in fact applies to all of you,” Hardridge said. “Coxswain, I’m putting you in charge of that operation. I’m going to crack down on the agitators the moment I know who they are. I want their names. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Stringer.

Hardridge looked back at his clenched hands. The fans squeaked as they stirred up the air. From the wall, His Majesty gazed sternly down on the gathering. Stringer looked around the chiefs and P.O.s and they looked back at him challengingly. An atmosphere charged with distrust pervaded but Hardridge, ridden by increasing anxiety, was unaware of this.

Now he took a deep breath and steeled himself to say what stung his pride most: “Before I proceed any further I want to consider any suggestions you might have for settling the dispute.”

The fans squeaked in the silence. Hardridge waited, eyes moving down one side of the table and back the other, then shifting to the chiefs and P.O.s.

Rollinson cleared his throat. “Sir, I am not in sympathy with the crew but I feel the crisis might be averted if we allowed them recreational leave as usual.”

Hardridge evinced no reaction at all to this. “Are there any other suggestions?” he asked.

“Sir,” said Slee.

Hardridge flashed a hostile glance at him. “Yes, Sub-Lieutenant?”

“I think the first lieutenant is right and suggest you should also rescind the ban on sleeping on the upper deck. It seems to me that neither of these restrictions can have the effect you desire. In the case of homosexuality I’m sure the men will find a way to carry it on regardless of any orders you make. After all, it is a natural problem in our present circumstances and…”

“Sub-Lieutenant, must I repeatedly have to remind you that I do not require to be lectured on matters of crew moral.”

Slee blushed and fell silent. Hardridge glared at him until he dropped his gaze.

“Sir,” said Bredgman.

“Well, Bredgman.”

“The way it looks to me Sub-Lieutenant Slee’s right. And I don’t think cancelling leave is justified either. The crew might know who attacked Wales and might not. But even if they do they won’t rat on the culprit so they can go ashore on lousy rec’ leave. They all hated Wales’s guts anyway.”

Hardridge appeared to flinch. He looked down at his clasped hands. His face had paled slightly. He looked up again and around the table. “Well gentlemen, I thank you for your suggestions, but I will not under any circumstances compromise with men who threaten mutiny. To do so would be to weaken my position and encourage their action.” He waited for someone to challenge this, then said: “So let it be clear to everyone, there will be no compromise. Now are there any other suggestions?”

There were none and Hardridge said: “Very well, I shall address the ship’s company immediately. Number one, have the lower deck cleared on the quarter deck. I want all commissioned officers present and wearing sidearms. That is all.” Everyone stood. The officers began filing out of the room; the chiefs and P.O.s followed them.

Hardridge waited until the last man had left, then he sat down in his chair again, propped his head in his hands, and allowed himself to slump under the first wave of despair. His control of the crew was slipping. He could feel it happening; could feel the resistance against him growing into a movement that he knew might overwhelm him. But his despair lay not so much in this, but in the knowledge that he might be guilty of a grave error of judgement; that a few minutes ago he might, just might have been able to arrest the movement and regain control. His chance to do that was gone now and his only course lay in proving himself right. His despair waned as he gained acceptance of this. So he would go ahead and do it his way. He would command and they would obey. It had always been like that, it must continue to be.

The sound of the pipe shrilling on deck brought him to his feet and he went to his cabin. From the drawer under his bed he took his black leather holster and the .32 service revolver. He strapped it on slowly and deliberately. It came to him as he set the holster squarely on his hip that this was the first time in his career he had worn the revolver for anything other than ceremonial purposes. The thought caused him to feel slightly sick. Next, he took from the drawer his copy of The Naval Defence Act, and holding this in his left hand and keeping the telescope firmly under his arm, he climbed the companionway to the deck.

The crew were already assembled each side of the deck; the chiefs and P.O.s standing at ease in front of them. The officers, with leather holsters shining in the sun, were gathered amidships.

Rollinson made the usual report and he stepped up on the little box. The ranks of silent, grim faced men, stared at him, and again he felt slightly sick as he realised that for the first time he was to address a crew who dared to challenge him. His confidence was shaken, but instantly was bolstered again by the presence of his armed officers, and when he spoke it was with the full ring of command: “It appears that some of you have been agitating against recent disciplinary measures I have ordered and this has led to mutiny being discussed. You all know that agitation of this kind is strictly forbidden under severe penalty and I order that it cease immediately. Any attempt at mutiny aboard this ship can only lead to punishment that will affect every man involved. I do not want to see any man take action that he will certainly regret for as long as he serves and therefore I am going to read the penalties for these offences as laid down in The Naval Discipline Act.” He passed his telescope to Rollinson and opened The Naval Defence Act at the discipline section. He read the lengthy definition of mutiny and then proceeded to read the penalty: “Every person subject to this Act who takes part in a mutiny which involves the use of violence or the threat of the use of violence; or has as its object or one of its objects the refusal or avoidance of any duty or service against, or in connection with operations against, the enemy, or the impeding of the performance of any such duty or service, or who incites any other person subject to service law to take part in such a mutiny, whether actual or intended, shall be liable to death or any less punishment authorised by this Act …’’ He continued reading other sections involving agitation and failure to try and suppress or report mutiny ending each section with the same grim penalty.

Finally, he closed the copy, retrieved his telescope from Rollinson, and looked out over his crew. No one stirred or uttered a sound. A hundred and seventy faces stared at him and in his searching perusal of them he saw not one registering the fear he had hoped to arouse. He realised that another chance had slipped his grasp and it crossed his mind that it was still not too late to try to persuade them, to appeal, try and console them in some way. But instead of doing that he said: “I make it clear that unless agitation ceases I will apprehend those responsible and deal with them in accordance with what I have just read.” Then he stepped down off the box and walked away. And at every step was conscious of having failed.

Chapter Twenty-One

At 1500 the crew secured and went to afternoon tea. They were quiet and surly. No one was bitching and to the observing officers this was a bad sign. In the seamen’s mess deck they sat around the tables discussing the situation in undertones. Just about everyone was grinding an axe.

Stringer came in the deck and scouted around. He came to one mess and talked to Rhodes and Gebbs. He was friendly and critical of the old man for once. He said he had carried discipline to extremes and the crew could not be blamed for being sore. While he was talking he seemed interested in what was going on forward where men had fallen silent at his appearance. He did not stay long and as soon as he left the men put their heads together again.

Bredgman came in and sauntered around the deck chatting here and there. He sat by Rhodes and spread his legs for comfort. “A bloody circus isn’t it. The only reason I’m allowed in here is so I can rat on the agitators.”

“I figured that was the case,” Rhodes told him.

“Yeah, well don’t worry, I wouldn’t know an agitator if I saw one.”

“What’s happening in your mess?” Rhodes asked quietly. “They’re talking like they’d be in it if it happens.”

“Do you think they will?”

“Dalton will, but I don’t know about the rest.”

“What about Whacker?”

Shorty sea-sawed his hands. “He’s like that. But listen, you’re talking as if you know it’s going to come.”

Rhodes looked down the deck where two large groups had now formed at five and four messes. “It’ll come,” he said.

Hands were piped to supper and mess cooks drew the scran from the galley. It was the quietest meal Rhodes had seen aboard ship. Nearly a hundred men eating slowly and talking only occasionally. Everyone tensed, waiting for something. The meal ended and the mess cooks washed the dishes. A large group formed down near the paint shop. There were stokers and miscellaneous men among them. The group rapidly became larger. They filled the forepart of the mess deck and their voices made a continuous humming sound. Hilder, McCall and Freer took turns at keeping order.

Gebbs came around the mess and sat by Rhodes. “They’re up to something down there.”

“And it’s mutiny,” Rhodes said.

“Yeah, well aren’t you going to break it up?”

“No. If there’s any breaking up to be done now The Fuehrer’s got to do it.”

Gebbs stared at the men forward. “It’s still not too late for you to walk out you know.”

“I know. And instead I’m going to walk into it.”

“You’re a fool.”

Rhodes smiled slowly. “I know, but I’d have made a rotten P.O. anyway.”

Gebbs grinned at him. “You would have, too.”

The group fell silent as Stringer entered the mess deck again. He walked forward past them and came back to Rhodes. “What’s going on, Dusty?”

“Where?”

“Up there. There’s something in the wind.”

Rhodes did his best to look dumb. “They don’t tell me anything any more.”

Stringer looked at Gebbs and Gebbs shrugged his shoulders. “Ditto.”

Stringer stuck out his jaw. “Now listen you’re supposed to be helping put this trouble down, Rhodes. What about doing that?”

“What am I supposed to do, Coxswain?” Rhodes asked calmly.

“For a start you can get those names the commander asked you to get.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You won’t do it sitting here watching things brew. Go up there and join them.”

Rhodes smiled. “You go, Coxswain; they don’t trust me.”

Stringer got to his feet. “I warn you, Rhodes, if anything breaks I’ll report that in my opinion you did nothing to stop it. The same goes for you, Gebbs.”

Rhodes watched him flounce out of the deck. “Nigger,” he said. “I’m walking into it now. Are you with me or against me?”

Gebbs put a hand on his shoulder. “With you all the Way, mate.”

When Stringer left the mess deck he went aft and reported how matters stood. Here on the quarter deck all officers were on duty wearing their revolvers. Hardridge had ordered first degree emergency until the situation forward eased and had instructed Rollinson to organise regular patrols by chiefs and petty officers to all parts of ship. Stringer had reported personally to Hardridge every half hour and so far all he had learned was that secret meetings were taking place in the forecastle and that Acting Petty Officer Rhodes was proving unco-operative. Hardridge did not like this and was suspicious and becoming nervous as darkness fell.

Another hour went by and the officers remained on the quarter deck. A nearly full moon came up from behind a cloudbank and the waters of the bay sparkled and the beach showed white. At eight o’clock there were signs of activity forward. A group of men gathered in the port waist and began singing songs to Regan’s guitar. The songs were parodies about Naval officers. They sang them raucously and horsed around a lot. Stringer walked forward on reconnaissance and spent ten minutes trying to engage them in conversation, then he ambled across to the starboard side and returned aft.

The group increased in numbers and the volume of noise rose. There were about thirty men there now and the officers stood on the quarter deck watching and waiting for something to develop.

Suddenly, an argument flared up and a fight started. Curses filled the air. “He’s got a knife!” someone yelled. “The dirty bastard! Throw him overboard! ”

Men began struggling and brawling. Gum, Stringer, and Dalton hurried forward to break it up. The other officers watched, nerves tingling as the brawl got worse.

And while all this was happening another group of men moved furtively from the starboard flat and went to the cutter amidships. There were twenty in this group. They worked swiftly and silently. Sixteen of them got in the cutter and the other four turned the boat out on its davits and loosed the falls for lowering.

On the port side, Gum, Stringer, and Dalton were having trouble ending the brawl. Stringer had an A.B. in a hammer-lock and was threatening to dislocate his shoulder. Dalton managed to separate two O.D.s only to see them start fighting again a moment later. Gum was standing back shouting orders which everyone ignored as they milled around the officers shoving and shouting.

By now the cutter had been lowered and hung on its falls about two feet above the water. Hilder took a sledge hammer and stood amidships. Freer, as coxswain, sat in the stem sheets. He watched the rise and fall of the waves and at the right moment ordered: “Slip!” Hilder struck with the hammer and the boat dropped from its falls and smacked the crest of a wave.

Only one of the officers on the other side of the quarter deck heard the sound. Rollinson walked across the deck, looked forward, and shouted: “Commander, sir, the cutter is away!”

There was a rush of officers to the starboard side. At the same time the brawlers desisted and crowded across into the opposite waist to watch events. Other men came spilling out of the flats. They all milled around in the waist, yelling at the men in the cutter to get under way.

Hardridge had drawn his revolver and was standing at the guard rails. “Freer!” he shouted. “Able Seaman Freer, delay starting that engine.”

The engine of the cutter fired as he spoke and the boat moved away from the ship’s side. Hardridge levelled his revolver. “Come about! Come about and alongside or I’ll fire! ” Gum, Rollinson, and the engine room officer had also drawn their guns. The cutter was swiftly drawing away. Hardridge fired three shots rapidly. But the cutter was well out from the side and the bullets probably fell short.

Hardridge spun around. “Gunnery officer, have the pompoms manned! ”

Slee made no move to obey.

“Mr. Slee, man the pom-poms!” Hardridge shouted and levelled his revolver at him. “Move! ”

Slee said; “No, sir. I can’t do that.”

Hardridge turned to the officer nearest him. “Mr. Merrilton, man the pom-poms.” But now Gum and Stringer were clambering up the ladder to the guns and Hardridge turned away from Merrilton.

The iron deck forward was now crowded with men who were hurling abuse at Hardridge and the officers on the pompoms. Inshore, the cutter was about half-way to the beach. Hardridge had got a megaphone from somewhere. He held it to his lips and shouted to the pom-pom deck: “Mr. Gum, you will fire one burst across the cutter’s bows and if she does not come about you will fire on target.”

The pom-poms swung around, blunt noses dropping to the waterline.

“Fire when you’re ready, Mr. Gum!” Hardridge shouted, and then the Lewis on the starboard wing of the bridge started yacking and officers dived for cover as bullets whined across the pom-pom’s line of fire and peppered the water close to the ship.

The Lewis ceased firing and a sudden, intense silence fell. All eyes stared up at the figure crouched behind the Lewis. The pom-pom’s muzzles pointed shorewards, but Gum and Stringer sat motionless at the controls. McCall’s shout broke the silence then: “They’re going ashore, Fuehrer and you won’t stop them. Open up on them with the pom-poms and I’ll cut Gum and Stringer down with this.”

Excited murmuring broke from the men on the iron deck Hardridge lifted the megaphone to his mouth. “Hold your fire pom-poms!” Then facing the bridge: “McCall, you’re under arrest. Come down here with your hands in the air.”

“Go to hell!” McCall shouted and the Lewis swung on Hardridge.

Hardridge seemed paralysed for a moment, then he turned about. “Number one, have Mr. Gum and the Coxswain join us. We will seize McCall and place him under close arrest.”

Gum and Stringer were summoned from the pom-pom deck. The other officers stood back watching, stunned by the turn of events. The crew on the iron deck shuffled aft a short distance and milled around the iron deck locker. Their muttering voices made an angry sound.

Hardridge lifted the megaphone to his lips again. “McCall, we’re coming up to get you. Do not resist or we’ll be forced to fire on you.”

The four began to advance forward. Hardridge and Stringer led, Gum and Rollinson followed immediately behind them. All had their revolvers drawn. They came up the iron deck and as they passed the torpedo tubes the crew forward came to life. One of them opened the iron deck locker and they surged forward grabbing up marlin spikes, wrenches, mallets, pieces of cable, buckets, anything they could lay their hands on. Then in mass they advanced to meet the officers, and the only sound now was the scuffling of their shoes on the deck until they stopped and formed a wall of resistance across the deck.

The officers came on until they were a few feet from the men, then Hardridge held up his hand and stopped. He looked along the line of men blocking his path, then looked over their heads to the many grim faces behind. “Acting Petty Officer Rhodes,” he said. “Where is Acting Petty Officer Rhodes?”

“I’m here,” Rhodes said from the centre of the men.

“Rhodes, come forward and order the men to disperse.” Rhodes did not move.

“I’m giving you a direct order, Rhodes.”

Rhodes still made no move.

Hardridge raised his revolver and swept it along the men in front. “Get back to the mess deck all of you! Get back or I’ll have you all court martialled.” He held the gun on them for a while, then lowered it to his side. “Coxswain, pipe all officers, chiefs, and P.O.s to lay aft,” he said, and strode away from the mutineers.

The officers assembled on the quarter deck and Hardridge stood before them. “Is everyone here, Coxswain?”

“No, sir,” Stringer said. “Petty Officers Payne and Bredgman have refused to obey the pipe.”

“Arrest them,” Hardridge said.

“Sir. They have joined the men in the mess deck.” Hardridge appeared shocked, but quickly recovered his poise. He looked around the officers and found Slee. “Sub-Lieutenant Slee, you will hand your revolver to the Coxswain and go to your cabin. Coxswain, escort him there.”

Slee obeyed and Stringer escorted him below.

Hardridge waited for Stringer to return. He stared at the deck; it was easier to look there than at the eyes of his officers surrounding him. The impact of what had happened only now was upon him. Mutiny. It had happened. More suddenly and violently than he had ever imagined was possible, it had happened. His next duty was clearly set down in regulations. He had failed to put down mutiny and must immediately signal notice of this to N.O.I.C. at Colombo. He knew that swift action would follow. They would send an escort; a cruiser, or possibly a battleship. There would be an inquiry to discover why there had been mutiny aboard his ship. The axe would fall where it deserved to fall: on Slee, the only commissioned officer who had mutinied—the worthless reservist who had defied his order in the moment of greatest need. Then on Payne and Bredgman, and Rhodes—traitorous swines all of them. And then on McCall. Damn McCall. He deserved the death penalty for what he had done …

Murmuring voices caused him to look up. He saw that the Coxswain had returned and they were awaiting his next command. He drew himself up, prepared to do what he must: “Gentlemen, we are in a state of mutiny. You will remain armed at all times and will meet any violence with violence. Number one, I want all gun sites manned around the clock. Have watches drawn up so that maximum security is maintained. Coxswain, go forward and pipe that no member of the crew is permitted aft of the forecastle area.” He paused, searching for any other orders he should issue immediately. The final, irrevocable one, begged for his attention, but he delayed it for a minute longer, fighting against having to say it. Then resignedly, he said, “Chief tel’, are we clear for signalling N.O.I.C.?”

“Yes, sir, emergency only.”

“Very well. I’ll have it drawn up for coding.”

“I can’t do that, sir. Just like that. Direct refusal to man a gun during mutiny.” Merrilton hurled a pair of socks into his half packed suitcase and glared at Slee who was sitting quietly on his bunk. Rollinson had ordered Merrilton to transfer to Gum’s cabin and now he was packing and at the same time, giving Slee the rough edge of his tongue. “Of all the crazy bloody things to do. You could have gone up there and pretended the gun was fouled. Decided to fire a mile ahead of the cutter. Slipped on the ladder and busted your ankle. Anything but direct refusal to obey that order.”

Slee managed a weak smile. “Roast me as much as you like, Joe. The fact remains I was ordered to man a pom-pom against a boatload of unarmed men. I’m not sorry I refused; I’d do it again if I had to. In my opinion I was justified.”

“Justice! You talk about justice. There’s none of that for mutineers; don’t you know that?”

“In my book there is—in a mutiny like this one anyway.” Merrilton nodded, clicking his tongue in sympathy “You poor dumb sentimentalist. There are no grades of mutiny.” Slee shook his head stubbornly. “The old man is to blame for this one and you know it.”

“Of course I know it. Is that any reason to join the mutineers?”

“Yes, unless a man lacks the courage of his convictions— and I don’t.”

Merrilton took a shirt from the drawer under his bunk and threw it into the case. “You pigheaded fool,” he muttered. “Is that what you’ll tell the inquiry board?”

“Probably. I haven’t thought much about that.”

“But you will, Jimmy Boy, you will. When they line you up before the brass you’ll think plenty. Know what they’ll do to you? They’ll hit you with a conspiracy charge and then a failure to suppress charge, and then a mutiny. Before you know what’s happening they’ll load the whole bloody thing on to you. What a glorious example you’ll be. Let this be a lesson to any officer who’s dumb enough to side with crew in mutiny, they’ll say. Then they’ll strip you of rank and parade you like you’re a freak and throw you out—lash you up with a prison term as well most likely.”

Slee lay down on his bunk and thought about all that happening. It frightened him and angered him in one. A knock came on the door and he got to his feet as Hardridge and Rollinson entered. Rollinson glanced at Merrilton. “We’ll see Mr. Slee alone, Lieutenant.”

Merrilton closed the lid of his suitcase and left the cabin. Hardridge and Rollinson crossed the cabin to Slee. Hardridge looked him up and down contemptuously. “You’re under arrest for mutiny and will be confined to this cabin until further notice. Hand over your key to the first lieutenant.”

Slee took the key from his pocket and gave it to Rollinson. Hardridge said: “You will leave the cabin twice daily for latrine purposes. Your meals will be brought here to you.” He ran his eyes over him as if he were vermin. “As far as I’m concerned you are lower than any mutineer of the forecastle. You have shown yourself totally unworthy of the uniform you wear and I shall do my best to see you convicted and given the maximum sentence.” He turned on his heel and left the cabin with Rollinson. Rollinson locked the door as they went out.

Slee sat on his bunk and stared at the deck. For the first time now, he thought seriously of the consequences of his act. Hardridge’s grim condemnation and threat had brought it home to him. He could see it happening much as Merrilton had said: dismissal with disgrace. Six months, possibly a year in prison, then cast out into civil life as an enemy of his government. A rebel, suspected by every club and league, and deprived of all privileges due to other ex-servicemen. Probably he would be barred from re-entering the university to resume his career and where would that leave him? …

A key grated in the lock of the door and Merrilton came in. He looked disturbed as he paced the cabin. “Jimmy Boy, you’re not alone any more.”

“No, who’s with me?”

“Dobran.”

Slee jerked to his feet. “You don’t mean … ”

“Yes, he’s mutinied in sympathy with you and been confined to his cabin.”

“Oh Christ,” Slee groaned. “The stupid bloody kid. It will cost him his career. He’s got everything to lose.”

“And that’s not all,” Merrilton said, walking back and forth. “Dalton has quit and gone forward. The chief stoker is talking of going and so is the chief tel’.”

Slee let out his breath. “Oh brother, it’s really breaking.”

“You should see them out there. Everyone’s as sour as hell. Officers walking around with guns on their hips and hating every minute of it. It’s going to be a route before it’s over, Jimmy Boy. Imagine it. A unanimous mutiny. What a laugh.” Slee’s legs felt weak and he sat down suddenly on his bunk. He started to laugh and talk at the same time. “I’m not alone. Oh Christ, Joe, it’s good not being alone.” He flopped on the bunk and laughed quietly and contentedly. He was still doing that when Rollinson looked in and told Merrilton to hurry up and get his gear out of the cabin. “As soon as you’ve shifted, see me on deck. You’re down to keep the middle watch.” Merrilton stood by his bunk, looking at him.

Rollinson said: “Hurry it up then will you. I’ve got to lock this cabin and get back on deck.”

Merrilton started unbuckling his holster. He took it off and passed it, gun and holster, to Rollinson. “Here you are. I won’t be needing it any longer.”

Rollinson stared at him. “For God’s sake, do you realise what you’re doing?”

“Perfectly,” Merrilton said. “Here, take the gun.” Rollinson took it, backed to the door, and went out locking it behind him.

Slee sat on his bunk, staring up at Merrilton. “Why? After all your talk why, Joe?”

“Shut up, Jimmy Boy, I like you,” Merrilton said.

Chapter Twenty-Two

And now the old destroyer lay immobilised by mutiny. There was a war on, but for her the front line was her own decks. There were two sides; two classes. And while one had arms the other had numbers, and in a battlefield so small, numbers were more important. The mutineers knew this and were bold and unafraid. The officers knew it, too. From what had happened in past mutinies they knew that men united could storm the guns and make hostages of the officers or trade them for grant of their demands. They could overrun the quarter deck and wardroom, break open the liquor store and get wildly, dangerously drunk. They could even seize command and escape with the ship and take refuge among the atolls of the Indian Ocean. And fearing these things might happen, the officers kept sharp watches at the guns and prowled the upper deck, wishing urgently for the arrival of the cruiser, Carpentaria which was speeding towards them in answer to the emergency signal.

Hardridge and Rollinson were standing on the quarter deck. In the bright moonlight, and wearing white uniforms, they were clearly visible to members of the crew who were singing songs to Regan’s guitar in the post waist forward:

“It was on the good ship Venus,

By Christ you should of seen us.

The figurehead, was a girl in bed,

Clasping a raging penis …”

Hardridge pretended not to hear the song and said: “Three officers and three P.O.s. Number one, they will regret this until the day they die. I swear it.”

“ The captain’s name was Horgan,

He was a sexual gorgan.

Three times a day, he used to play,

On his reproductive organ . . ”

Hardridge adjusted the revolver on his hip. “Let them sing now and cry later. Filthy, mutinous dogs.”

Rollinson looked at his wristwatch. “It’s twenty-three hundred, sir. They must soon turn in.”

Twenty-three hundred, Hardridge thought. One hour of the old day remaining and then would come the new day which he knew he would always remember. What would it bring him? Loss of command? … He tensed at the thought and again fleetingly regretted he had not tried in the other way to avert the calamity which was now closing in on him. He recalled with bitterness, the moment only two hours ago when the ship’s cutter had returned; the men in it laughing and talking as they came inboard, just as though they were returning from normal shore leave. Even then, at that late stage, he had hesitated over sending the signal, had battled against the temptation to go forward and compromise with them…

“ The cabin boy was Whipper,

He was a cunning nipper,

He lined his arse with broken glass,

And circumcised the skipper …”

But now any compromise was impossible. The situation had trebled in gravity since the cutter’s return. His pipe to clear lower deck had been ignored and the Coxswain had reported that the crew had taken their hammocks on deck and had refused any further duty. All that, and six officers in mutiny with them. And God alone knew how many more might follow before the Carpentaria arrived tomorrow. Who could he trust among his officers? …

A figure moved forward near the gangway and hurried towards them. Hardridge’s and Rollinson’s hands dropped to their guns, but then Gum’s cough rattled as he approached and joined them. “The choir has broken up, sir, and everything is quietening down. It does appear they’re going to sleep on deck, though.”

“We won’t stop them doing that now,” Hardridge said. “It will be their last peaceful sleep for a long time I imagine.” He glanced at his watch. “Change of watch is near, number one. I want to brief them before they take over. Mr. Gum, are all the guns manned?”

“Yes, sir. There are two on each of the four point sevens and one at each of the smaller armament.”

“The bridge and wheel house?”

“They’re covered, sir. The chief tel’ and yeoman are there.”

“Very good. There’s no telling what these swine might try to wreck if the mood takes them.”

Gum stayed with them until a few minutes before midnight, then went below to send the relief watch on deck. Hardridge crossed the quarter deck, stared forward, and came back to stand by Rollinson. His actions were slow and tired. The strain of events was starting to tell. He was weary from lack of sleep and the constant tension had weakened him. Only the fear of worse things to come kept him alert. “Number one, how are the officers taking it? Are there any more defections in the wind?”

“No, sir. I feel sure those we have are solidly behind you, even to Arthurton.”

“Arthurton,” Hardridge thought of the neat little steward with sudden, tender compassion. “The only man of the entire lower deck who has remained loyal,” he murmured. “He shall be rewarded.”

After the relief watch had gone on deck and all was quiet below, Gum went to his cabin and flopped down on his bed. He took a cigar from a pack and slimed it in his mouth, thinking deeply as he did this, of the mutiny and those fools who were a part of it: Slee, Merrilton, Dobran, the P.O.s. Idiots. What did they hope to achieve? Surely they were not so stupid as to think the inquiry would exonerate them and lay the blame on the old man. Didn’t they realise that would be condoning mutiny and inviting every hothead in the Navy to emulate the men of Jacaranda? Such a finding had never been and never would be.

He lit the cigar, puffing hard and loudly on it until it glowed and smoked freely. Now for himself this mutiny could be regarded as profitable. His loyalty in the face of other officers defecting might earn him promotion to the rank of sub-lieutenant. He could be a lieutenant before this war ended—might end up being number one on one of the new corvettes they were turning out back home. The prospects called for celebration and he got up and pulled out the drawer under his bunk. His hand touched the half bottle of whisky there, when his thoughts flashed to Andry Arthurton. He closed the drawer and pressed the button marked pantry above his bunk and waited. He hoped Andy had not turned in. Damn it, he’d seen so little of him since the old man issued his warning …

Andy knocked and slid the cabin door open. He was wearing just his singlet and shorts and his skin shone brown in the yellow light of the cabin.

Gum sat down and patted the bunk by him. “Come in and sit down, Andy. I was going to ask for coffee but on second thoughts you and I will try a nip of whisky.”

Andy did not move and Gum noticed for the first time that he looked worried. “Sir,” he said. “I’ve been waiting up to see you. I’ve been thinking things over.”

“What’s on your mind, Andy?” Gum asked.

“They’ve put my hammock out on deck up forward. They won’t allow me in the mess deck.”

Gum said: “Well, damn it, that’s no tragedy. Sleep aft. Sleep here—lay your hammock out on my deck.”

Andy still did not move. “I’m the only one not in the mutiny, sir.”

Gum had his first impression of what was to come. He stood up. “Be proud that you are. You’ll earn yourself a petty officer’s rate for your loyalty, have you thought of that?” Andy licked his lips. “I don’t want that, sir.”

“Don’t be a bloody fool, man.” Gum opened the drawer and took out whisky. He put the bottle on the desk in the corner of his cabin and set two small glasses by it. “Come on in here now.”

Andy said: “Sir, I’ve decided to join them.”

“What!” Gum exclaimed. “You’d join those scum. In mutiny. You’re mad.” He started to move towards him, intending to grasp him and pull him inside the cabin. But Andy stepped back, watching him warily. “I’m sorry, sir, but I feel I must join them.”

Gum regarded him angrily for a moment, then softened and said: “Andy, we’ve been good friends for a long time. Don’t let a bunch of mutineers spoil things.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Andy said, and backed away.

“Andy,” Gum said, then louder, “Andy, I forbid you to leave.” Gum was to the door in three strides, but Andy was already walking down the flat. “Steward!” Gum shouted. Andy stopped and turned around slowly.

“I command you to return to this cabin,” Gum said. Andy smiled sadly. “Good-bye, sir,” he said, and walked away.

The forecastle area was quiet. The excitement that had followed the start of the mutiny had passed and now the crew were calmly resolved to see it through to the end. Earlier, when the mood was in them, they had been intoxicated by their taste of overlording the quarter deck and violence had almost broken out. Budding artists had sketched Hardridge and Rollinson on a board and captioned it: “Hitler and Mussolini.” They had drawn a bullseye over Hitler’s heart and had wanted to raid the gunner’s store and have a rifle shoot with the target mounted on the forecastle. Rhodes and the three P.O.s had talked them out of it and thrown the board in the sea. Then McCall had suggested overpowering the officers on the guns and manning them themselves. A dozen volunteers had been set to go on this when Payne and Rhodes intervened and made them see reason: the aim was to win over as many officers as possible and make the mutiny unanimous. Any sympathy the other officers had for them would end if they resorted to unnecessary violence and the chance of gaining their support would be lost.

But now the thirst for aggression had left them and they were satisfied with violating the ban on sleeping on the upper deck. Their hammocks were spread all over the forecastle and beneath the wings of the bridge. The coolest place of all, in the eyes of the ship, had been given over to the four who were everyone’s heroes.

These four lay side by side and talked into the morning hours about the decision they had made and the results they hoped to achieve: “I thought others would have come with you,” Payne said to Dalton. “The way they talked they were close to coming with Shorty and me.”

Dalton scoffed. “They talk all right. So do the officers. You should have heard them aft when Rollinson was organising the watches. There wasn’t a worse C.O. in the Navy than Hardridge and he deserved to have every man turn against him. And if all the chiefs and P.O.s were in it, why they’d have to exonerate the crew and put the blame where it belonged. Oh yes, they talked big—until the moment I decided to quit. Then they went as quiet as ruddy goldfish.”

“There’s time yet,” Rhodes said. “We’ve got the biggest part of a day before the Carpentaria gets here.”

Shorty Bredgman dragged the last smoke from a cigarette, coughed, and threw the butt over the side. “Let’s face it, they won’t have the guts to join us so we’re on our own. Not that I care a cuss about that. I’d of backed this crew if I’d known I had to do it on my own. I’ve had a gutsful of Hardridge. I’ll tell that to the inquiry bods, too. They can court martial me if they like. I’m too old to get anywhere above a P.O. anyway, and I’ll be on civvy street the day after the war ends.”

Payne rolled on his back and stared at the sky. “All right, Shorty, you’ve got nothing to lose. But we have. That’s why we want this unanimous.” He lay thinking of the chief’s rate that he would have attained soon; and after that the commissioned officer’s rank. The way things looked now these would no longer be possible for him. But he had himself to blame and knew it. After all, no one had held a gun at his head over this. He’d had plenty of time to make his decision; all that time from when Rhodes first offered him the bait on the iron deck several nights ago. He had carried it around on his mind since then, and had never at any stage felt confident the others would come over. Yet today, when the P.O.s were piped aft and he had seen Bredgman walking forward, he had joined him without the slightest hesitation. “I guess a man’s what his conscience makes him,” he said to the sky.

“Yes, and whatever happens we’ve got that to fall back on,” Rhodes said. “Anyway, it’s the cause that matters most.” He heaved a sigh. “Jesus, if everyone joined in this the lower deck would really make a mark.”

“Now you’re talking like a commie,” Dalton mused. Bredgman grunted. “Well, there’s nothing like a slice of Navy bullshit to make a man turn commie.”

Rhodes lay on his side, staring across the silvery water of the bay. A commie. That would probably be the tag they would try to hang on him after the inquiry. They’d have to name someone as the organiser and who better than the mess deck P.O. He began to whistle softly through his teeth. Why not you, Rhodes? he thought. Maybe you didn’t organise it, but you steered it to what you believed was a victory. Too bad it didn’t go quite as you hoped. He stopped whistling as he remembered the drama on the iron deck. Too bad Rollinson had to hear the boat hit the water. Too bad McCall had to go amok on the Lewis. McCall … He wondered where the rebel was at this moment.

McCall was with the kid on the narrow platform that spanned the ship behind the bridge. They had carried their hammocks around the forecastle for some time among the sleeping forms, searching for a resting place before they found this spot which was quiet and secluded. Tonight, more than any other night, they wanted to be on their own, because they believed this might be their last time. Tomorrow the eight inch guns of the Carpentaria would be trained on their ship and one way or another the mutiny would end. There was a buzz that McCall would be arrested and taken off the ship, and Rhodes had told McCall to expect this.

The kid lay on his side, looking shorewards. “If they arrest you are you sure they’ll take you off the ship?”

“I’d bet on it. There’s cells aboard the Carpentaria.”

The kid ached against the thought of it happening and said: “Maybe I’ll see you at the inquiry whenever that is …”

“Don’t bank on it, kid. I’m a real bad bastard in their book now. They’ll probably keep me locked up until it’s all over. Then I’ll be court martialled.”

“You expect it don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“You knew it would happen when you manned the Lewis?”

“Sure I did.”

“Why did you do it, Rocky?”

“The Lewis.” McCall sniffed and stared up at the sky. “I used to be careful what I did in case they jugged me. But I had a gutsful. Wanted an end to the fight. It’s why I didn’t go ashore with them in the cutter. Figured there might be gunplay and I wanted to be handy to the Lewis.” He laughed. “If that don’t get me my ticket nothing ever will.”

“Was that the only reason?” the kid asked.

“Why else?”

“Because of me. You’re pretty disgusted with yourself at times.”

“Not any more I’m not.” McCall touched the kid’s bare shoulders squeezed the smooth skin. “No, kid, you don’t worry me now.”

The kid felt better. He clutched McCall’s strong rough fingers in his and across his chest he looked at the curved beach and sparkling shallows in the moonlight. And behind these he saw the rocks on the tops of the hills showing golden. “It’s beaut’ to look at,” he said.

“What … the island.” McCall turned his head and looked at it. “It’s nice.”

“Look at it,” the kid said.

“I did.”

“Look longer.”

McCall propped himself up on one elbow and looked, not at the island, but at the face of the kid beneath him. He realised then that he was going to miss the kid and he lay down again quickly and looked at the sky which symbolised the freedom he hoped would soon be his.

“I’ll always remember it,” the kid said of the island, and was seeing now, beyond the beach and the rocks on the hills, to a spot on top of a cliff. “I mightn’t see you again,” he said.

“Depends on what they do with us.”

The kid lay silent, thinking of his world nearing its end and trying hard to save it. If McCall were dismissed he could himself do something crazy and get thrown out: strike an officer, sabotage the ship … But no, the mere thought of being sent to G.I. terrified him. Then he could desert—run away and join McCall. And knowing he would not have the courage to do this either, he seized on the only slender chance there was: “If they discharge you, you can write to me.”

“Sure, why not?”

“I’ll write back. We can keep in touch and when the war ends we can be oppos again.”

“Sure we can.”

But only for a moment was the kid on the crest of this wave, then he was in the trough of despair again. It was no use kidding himself. McCall did not feel as he did about their friendship, and when he left the ship he would quickly forget him. And so, faced again with the ending coming swiftly nearer, the kid reached out and claimed him for the last time.

Later, and without effort, McCall slept. But the kid remained awake, thinking of his future in the Navy without McCall. It seemed barren and empty and he thought of himself as a wife who is to lose her man. Do women feel this way when they part from their men? he wondered. And if they do, why wasn’t I born a woman, a whole woman? Why didn’t my maker finish his job? The kid went to sleep angry with his maker.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Carpentaria arrived in the middle of the afternoon. She stood off about three miles, trained her main guns on Jacaranda, and began signalling from her bridge. Then she started running back and forth across the mouth of the bay, keeping her guns on target all the time. The crew of Jacaranda lined the forecastle guard rails and watched her showing off. They all knew her by sight and the older hands had served aboard her. She was an eight-inch cruiser, old and high, with three towering funnels. The ugliest thing in the R.A.N., but still second to the flagship in power and importance.

The crew of Jacaranda had a laugh. It was a big joke, this monster of the outfit shaping up to the midget—both of them were ready for the scrap heap anyway.

“Come within range you big bastard and I’ll take you apart,” Regan yelled, dancing around and lunging at her with imaginary cutlass in his hand.

On the bridge, Hardridge listened to the chief yeoman reading off her latest signal: “Investigation … officer … will… come … aboard you. Is that… in order?”

“Make: please come aboard,” Hardridge ordered, and then had Rollinson detail P.O.s to lower the after gangway.

The Carpentaria hove to in the mouth of the bay and lowered a boat from her main deck. And for the second time in two days Jacaranda!‘s crew watched a boarding party approaching them, only instead of a doctor this one consisted of two officers and a dozen guardsmen with rifles.

Hardridge now got the ship’s log from his cabin and taking Rollinson, Gum, and Stringer with him, went to receive the boarding officer. As the cutter approached, he studied the senior of the two officers sitting aft and tried to make out who it was. He could see the four gold rings of a captain and the other officer was a lieutenant. The captain’s burly form seemed familiar, but it wasn’t until the cutter had almost reached the gangway that he recognised Captain Ainsworth. He had known him first when a cadet in college and had ran across him on several occasions since they had gone to sea. Hardridge waited anxiously. He had managed to snatch only one hour’s sleep in the past twenty-four and had awakened at daylight, tensed for the big day with his nerves raw and his body weary.

The coxswain of the cutter brought the boat in from the port quarter and with engines full astern, settled in to the gangway. Hardridge and his attending officers formed a small half-circle at the head of the gangway, standing at attention.

The guardsmen came inboard first. Trailing their rifles, they clattered quickly up the steps, formed rank on the quarter deck, and snapped to attention at the command of the chief crusher in charge of them. Ainsworth followed behind his lieutenant who carried a black satchel. Stringer piped them aboard and every officer stiffened and saluted. Forward, the crew watched all this happening and discussed the four-ringer. Those who had served under Ainsworth said he wasn’t a bad pig; pusser to the core but he played fair and wasn’t afraid to concede a point in favour of the crew.

Now, as he stepped inboard, he returned the salute smartly and went directly to Hardridge. “Ainsworth. Remember me?”

“Yes, sir,” Hardridge said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Indeed it has. Tough luck about your crew, Commander.”

“Real tough, sir.” Hardridge noticed Ainsworth’s small keen eyes darting around the upper deck and knew he was already sizing up the situation.

Ainsworth turned and beckoned his lieutenant. He intro duced him as Lieutenant Stalton, then briskly nibbed his hands together and said: “Well now, commander, shall we go below?”

“Certainly. This way.”

“I think we might have your number one along as well, commander.”

Rollinson stepped forward; Hardridge introduced him, and the four went down the companionway and into the wardroom.

Ainsworth and his lieutenant sat together one side of the table; Hardridge and Rollinson directly opposite them. Hardridge watched the captain take the satchell from Stalton and zip it open. He was doing things quickly and confidently.

“Well, commander …” Ainsworth was fossicking in the satchel as he spoke … “I’ve been sent aboard to investigate the mutiny and to take command if I consider it’s necessary. Carpentaria’s orders are to escort your ship to Australia. The port of arrival is not known yet but it will probably be Jervis Bay.”

Hardridge nodded and watched him take from the satchell a single pink slip. He had no illusions about this captain. He was an old friend, but he was here to do a job and would do it without sentiment and with ruthless adherence to duty. And for this more than anything, Hardridge had to admire him.

“Let’s get down to business shall we. Your signal indicates a state of emergency due to mutiny. I take it this is still the case?”

“Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is,” Hardridge said.

Ainsworth’s small eyes worked over him and Hardridge knew he was reading the signs of strain: his bloodshot eyes with dark bands under them, his slack jaw, the flatness of his voice that he could not disguise. This captain would miss nothing…

“Is the entire crew involved?”

“Yes, sir, all the forecastle complement that is.”

“How do the officers stand?”

“Three petty officers are with them, sir.”

“Um. That’s bad.”

“And three … commissioned officers, sir.”

Ainsworth appeared to flinch. “Good God.”

“The commissioned officers are under close arrest, sir,” Hardridge said quickly. But Ainsworth did not appear interested in this and Hardridge knew what he must be thinking and could feel his command slipping.

Ainsworth looked at Rollinson for his next question: “Has there been destruction of property or violence of any kind?” Rollinson glanced at Hardridge. “Well, sir, a group of them took the cutter and went ashore against orders.”

Ainsworth watched him closely. “And what happened?”

“We manned the pom-poms, sir.”

“And?”

“We were going to fire across the cutter’s bows, but one of the ratings manned a Lewis gun against us.”

Ainsworth waited. Rollinson was silent. Ainsworth said: “Come on, First Lieutenant, I want the details.”

Rollinson gave a full account and Ainsworth said: “This McCall. Is he dangerous?”

“I believe he is,” Rollinson said.

Ainsworth turned to Hardridge. “Commander?”

“Yes, sir. And I believe he is largely responsible for the mutiny.”

Ainsworth held out his hand. “I’ll see the log now.” Hardridge passed it over and watched him turn the pages back, then begin reading forward. For some time he read, apparently deeply absorbed. What confidence Hardridge had began to leave him. Everything was there in the log; every incident, every sign of crew discontent and the steps he had taken to remedy it. Only now, in the face of mutiny, did he realise how it must look to an impartial observer.

At last, Ainsworth closed the log. He sat with his broad shoulders hunched, staring at the table, obviously thinking deeply. Then he looked at Hardridge and said: “Well, commander, I have decided to assume temporary command of your ship. In the circumstances I’m sure you will understand my decision.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hardridge, and despite the appalling blow to his pride, he did.

Ainsworth was opening the satchel again now and taking out the papers that would transfer command. He put the official form on the table and began filling in the details which would state that on this day he had taken command of His Majesty’s Australian ship Jacaranda due to the inability of her commander to effectively control the crew.

He finished writing and passed the form to Hardridge to sign. Hardridge’s hand trembled slightly as he wrote but he showed no other signs of emotion. Ainsworth signed it after him; Rollinson and Stalton witnessed. Then Ainsworth folded the document, put it in the satchel, and said: “I shall address the ship’s company immediately. I will arrest and take off the ship anyone you think might jeopardise its passage to Australia.” He looked at Hardridge for suggestions and Hardridge said: “McCall. I would suggest Able Seaman McCall.”

Ainsworth looked at Rollinson, who nodded. “Yes, sir, I feel he might attempt to stir up further violence even though the ship is returning to Australia.”

“I thought as much.” Ainsworth rose from his chair. “Number one, have piped that I will address the ship’s company on the forecastle.”

The Coxswain made the pipe first in the mess deck and then on the forecastle. Some of the crew mocked him and cheered him as he passed, but everyone assembled willingly to hear what Ainsworth would have to say. Whatever it was, they were organised and prepared. Rhodes and the P.O.s had clued them up from the moment Ainsworth had come aboard. They would resume duty only if Hardridge were relieved of command and if the ship was to return to Australia, and they would refuse to answer any questions of interrogation at this stage.

They ranked four-deep both sides of the forecastle, the P.O.s in their usual places before them. McCall and the kid stood together in the port side front rank. McCall’s face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking and feeling: It’s the last round. All I’ve got to do is stay on my feet and fight it through. He felt the kid fidgeting beside him and noticed his wan face, and again he felt the only regret he would ever have of leaving this ship and this fife. Then he saw them coming: the twelve men in single file with rifles held at the trail position, marching behind their chief, up the forecastle ladder, under the bridge wing, and forward to the forecastle. The chief halted them amidships, double ranked them back to back, and stood them at ease. They stared outboard at the ranks of men. They had bayonets fixed to their rifles.

Ainsworth came forward with the officers. His lieutenant walked beside him; Rollinson, Gum, and the others followed; the chiefs and P.O.s made up the rear. Hardridge was not among them.

Rollinson called the ship’s company to attention and told them Ainsworth was now in command of the ship and would address them. Ainsworth stepped forward. “The ship will proceed to Australia where an inquiry will be held into the mutiny and your grievances will be investigated. We will be escorted by the Carpentaria. The armed guards you see here have their rifles loaded and if there is violence they will not hesitate to open fire when ordered. You will man the ship en route and if you refuse an emergency crew will come aboard and you will all be placed under arrest and confined in the mess deck for the journey. The arrest was previously ordered of Able Seaman McCall and I am now going to carry that out. Able Seaman McCall, step forward.”

There was a brief silence in which the big chief crusher faced his guardsmen and steeled them with the word: “Guard.” Then McCall said: “So long, kid,” and stepped forward.

The crusher marched two of his guard forward, halted them each side of McCall, and turned them about. “Prisoner and escort. Quick … march! ”

They marched him aft. “Hep righ’, hep righ’, hep righ’,’’ said the chief. And McCall marched with his head up and shoulders back, down the ladder, along the iron deck, and down the gangway into the cutter.

Ainsworth turned to Rollinson. “All right, number one, have all hands prepare for sea.” He walked aft as the Coxswain began piping. He did not look back, not even when he heard their voices raised in cheering.

He went on to the quarter deck. Hardridge was standing there watching the Carpentaria’s cutter heading back to the cruiser with Stalton and McCall and his escort seated in it. He went up to him and said: “Well commander, that takes care of matters for the time being.”

Hardridge seemed not to hear him, and following his gaze, Ainsworth saw that McCall was waving to the men forward. Hardridge turned suddenly. “Did you say something, sir?”

“I said matters are in hand now.”

“That’s good, sir.” Hardridge adjusted the telescope under his arm and his shoulders were broad and drawn back. “Sir, if there’s anything you need, any help or advice, don’t hesitate to ask me.”

“Thank you, commander. At the moment there’s just one thing. You mentioned you had three officers under close arrest. Are they confined to cabins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think that is necessary now?”

Hardridge said: “Sir, they mutineed.”

“Um. But I think we should at least allow them freedom of the quarter deck during the trip home.”

Hardridge stared at him.

“The crew. I don’t want to provoke them. As I understand it these officers are popular with the men and I want to make this journey with the least possible trouble.”

Hardridge nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

“Don’t misunderstand me, commander. I’ve no time for mutineers, but in the present circumstances I feel it’s wise to lean their way a little.”

Hands were now on the quarter deck making things shipshape. The iron deck party was busy securing the boats for sea. From forward came the sound of the cable crew preparing to weigh anchor. Rollinson appeared and saluted Ainsworth. “All hands are at parts of ship, sir. We’ll need to clear lower deck to hoist the cutter.”

Ainsworth glanced at his watch. “In say, half an hour, number one.” He looked across the bay at the Carpentaria which was steaming slowly back and forth, its guns still on target. “Have the chief yeoman send to Carpentaria. We expect to put to sea at eighteen hundred hours.”

“Ay ay, sir.”

Rollinson went forward and Ainsworth waited, talking about the war situation with Hardridge. Outwardly, Hardridge seemed undisturbed by what was happening on this red letter date of his career.

Rollinson returned to his new commander’s side and Ainsworth said: “Number one, there are some matters of routine I want to discuss. Let’s go on the bridge shall we?” He turned to Hardridge. “Excuse me, commander. After we get under way I’ll spend some time with you.” He smiled amiably. “A talk over old times will do us good.”

Hardridge watched him go forward with Rollinson, until, after climbing the bridge ladder, they went out of sight. A few minutes later, he caught sight of them walking across the after bridge; Ainsworth in front, Rollinson following closely behind him. They stopped and Ainsworth faced aft, looking down on his ship. My ship, Hardridge thought, and went below.

Out of sight of everyone, he removed the telescope from under his arm and allowed himself to slump as he walked slowly to his cabin. He was very tired and beat and desperately wanted to sleep. There was nothing else to do.

Chapter Twenty-Four

All this the wayward warriors have remembered as reunion time draws near. Twenty-six years have passed since the Navy broke their mutiny and scattered them far apart so they could not form groups and perhaps try to organise further mutinies. Many they drafted overseas to ships in the Mediterranean, Indian Ocean, and Coral Sea; others they sent to remote depots and bases on the Australian and New Guinea mainlands.

The mutineers served on, some of them to die in the war. When peace came the reservists among them were discharged while the permanent service men stayed on and completed their terms. The years rolled by and the mutineers were fewer in number and living in all the states of Australia. For all of them, the war had become a dim memory; but the Jacaranda story was easily revived, and when the club was formed and the notices of reunion reached them, most were eager to come.

Slee was coming, driving in his late model Holden along Highway Eight from Melbourne. Doctor Slee reflecting on the values of men. A psychologist likes to reflect on human values; he learns from the practice, and Slee would always want to learn.

“Shut up, Jimmy Boy, I like you.” That’s what you said, Joe. And of course you did like me, but that wasn’t why you did it. Later on, when you realised it was going to be just you and Dobran and me, you wished you hadn’t done it then. The others were in the mood of course, as you observed at the time; but mood isn’t worth a damn thing without motive. And the only motive they had was themselves. That was why they played safe and stayed on the winning side; for the same reason you joined me, Joe—only you were wrong in your judgement of which side would win.

For a time, driving in to the late morning sun and listening to the song of tyres on asphalt beneath him, Slee was back at the inquiry in Jervis Bay. They had held the crew prisoners there, away from the sea traffic and the prying eyes of newsmen. For two weeks they had remained anchored close to the Carpentaria on whose quarter deck the inquiry had taken place. The home which they had not seen for three years lay just across the water from them, and each day they watched the winter showers scudding over it and hungered for the feel of its soil beneath their feet.

We have to hand it to that young lieutenant who took our defence, Joe; he tried hard. What was his name again? … Disher. Yes, Disher tried, even though all the odds were against him. The inquiry board’s unanimous recommendation of our court martials made it tough for him from the start. And then at the court martials, all the officers witnessing against us … Of course, the officers could have made it much worse for us than they did. Admittedly they did not support us, but neither did they support Hardridge—except for Gum, Rollinson, and Stringer anyway.

Slee’s speed was a flat sixty and he was passing through the low-lying fringes of open dairy country. He would cross the border into South Australia by nightfall and if he felt like it, would drive straight on to Adelaide. But that was the future and in his thoughts he was still in the past, at the court marial in the wardrooms of the Carpentaria.

After the inquiry they had sent Dobran back to England under escort to face trial in the R.N., leaving himself and Merrilton to stand trial separately. They took Merrilton’s case first and it was all over for him in the second day: “Remanded for sentence with no recommendation for leniency.”

I wasn’t surprised, Joe. After all, we were guilty; we had mutinied. The Holden ate up the bitumen to Ballarat and there was lunch at a motel. Undulating country with green valleys where fat, white-nosed cattle grazed peacefully to Armstrong, and there was afternoon tea in a café where a fat girl smelling of B.O. served him. Then green mallee, lush and clean smelling. The car sped on and he remembered his practice; his consulting rooms in Latrobe Street. He’d been ten years there; ten years since he had left Box Hill where he’d been a G.P. The hard grind of running a clinic while studying to specialise in psychology was over now and he was on easy street. But it wasn’t that which made him so happy and contented, but the challenge of the work. The patients who were confused, lost, and unable to meet the challenges of life formed an endless stream, and helping them to adjust gave his own life more purpose than he had ever imagined it could.

Doctor Slee, gaunt and balding family man, driving into the sinking sun. Back home, a wife and two sons both recently married. One son a pharmacist and the other in public relations work—shades of the old man in him. Kaniva, and there was dinner at a hotel. He drove on into the night. Flat country with sparse timber. Rabbit’s eyes weaved in his headlights. Try not to hit them—they’ve got minds, too. Bordertown, and now the state line was behind him. Slee, the mutineer, driving in South Australia and from his past listening to the prosecuting officer’s questions: “Isn’t it true, Sub-Lieutenant, that you continually opposed your commander when he tried to discipline Able Seaman McCall?”

“I did not oppose him. I tried to help him.”

“How?”

“I remonstrated with him. I pointed out that his methods of dealing with McCall were ineffective and suggested other methods.”

“Are you an expert in dealing with undisciplined ratings?”

“No, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“And how long have you been in the Navy?”

“Three years.”

“Commander Hardridge is thirty-four and has served in the Navy for twenty years. Do you consider you are better able to deal with offending men than him?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

The grey-haired judge advocate presiding over the seven-man court, raising his shaggy eyebrows and almost smiling …

“And because you do, you consider this gave you reason to be insubordinate to him?”

Silence. The court officers staring at him. The prosecutor waiting, poised for attack. “Well, Sub-Lieutenant, do you?”

“Sir, if trying to create better understanding between my commander and his crew is being insubordinate, then I admit I was.”

The high whine of the car engine. The road in a shaft of light. A grey shape flashing across the road. Watch it, Slee, and not just for the sake of the animal. Hit a kangaroo at this speed and the impact will smash in your radiator.

“And now, Sub-Lieutenant, let us come to the day of the mutiny. You are of course familiar with the Naval Discipline Act relating to the offence of mutiny?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you therefore knew that in refusing to man the pompoms and oppose the crew in mutiny, you were in fact, joining them?”

“I did not join them, sir.”

“But you helped them when you did not oppose them as instructed.”

“That may be so, but in the circumstances …”

“You directly disobeyed your commander’s order to man a gun against mutineers, knowing that the reason for the order was to try and put down mutiny?”

“Yes, sir.”

Speed sixty-five miles an hour. A cold night. Turn on the radio, Slee. No, it’s dangerous—music puts you to sleep.

Of course I was guilty, Joe—by standards of Naval discipline that is. But not by standards of human values. And that was the point Disher made when he cross-examined me in defence: “Sub-Lieutenant, you claim you were better able to deal with Able Seaman McCall than your commander was. Can you substantiate this?”

“Yes, sir, I can.”

“Then do so.”

Disher got what he was after, Joe. As I told about the experiment at the island I could see them starting to doubt Hardridge’s ability to administer discipline wisely. It showed on all their faces. But of course that small victory in no way lessened my guilt of mutiny. Disher had a much harder job trying to win the vital issues, especially on that most damning one of all: “Now Sub-Lieutenant, the prosecuting officer has repeatedly emphasised that you deliberately refused to man the pom-poms to help suppress mutiny. Will you tell us why you refused?”

“I refused because the mood of the crew was such that I was convinced any show of violence by the officers would be answered with violence that could result in tragedy.”

“And when later the pom-poms were manned by other officers, what happened?”

“One rating opened fire with a Lewis gun and the entire crew took up weapons in his defence.”

Mallee country again, closer settled, with towns bigger and more frequent. Approaching the Murray River now, with less than a hundred miles to go.

My defence must have swayed them, Joe. How else could I have got off so lightly? I say lightly because an S.N.L.R. discharge can hardly be called punishment—not when you want to leave the service anyway. After all, a “services no longer required ” discharge is the treatment they give to the maladjusted and others who can’t help being encumbrances. And then afterwards when the university referred back to the Navy for details of my service record, they could have blackened me and crippled my chances of making a career. But they must have okayed me because there wasn’t even a query raised over my application.

As far as the measure of punishment goes, Joe, I think they were most severe on you. That may have been because you were senior to me and of the permanent service; but I rather think what influenced them was the inescapable reason why you mutinied which Disher was unable to hide from them.

Anyway, I thought disrating you to a sub for ten years and then drafting you to serve under the Admiral’s heel on the flagship was more than you deserved. But then fate had to deal you the worst blow of all and have the Japs sink your ship. Poor Joe. I’ve wished many times you had survived. More than anyone, I’d like you to have been at this reunion. Jimmy Boy Slee, driving through the night, feeling morbid and depressed for a time. Then the mood and memories left him and he was the doctor again.

And Shorty Bredgman was coming. A short, fat old man, completely bald, riding second class in the express train from Sydney. Sitting by the window, oblivious of the two women and three men who shared the carriage. Rocking slightly with the train’s motion and gazing out the window, thinking about Jervis Bay somewhere out there on the coast. Jervis Bay, the Navy’s playground and training college for cadet officers. Snob school, teaching officers how to supervise washing paint work and polishing brass. They tell me things are more technical nowadays though—nuclear devices on the ships and bloody nearly everyone’s an artificer of some sort. But I’ll bet the bullshit still goes on. I’ll bet old Horatio Nelson still runs the show, like he ran that inquiry. Christ, they had enough crushers and armament there to put down the Chinese revolution. To hell with them and their court martial. I expected it and got it: “Petty Officer Bredgman, your defence that you acted in support of Rhodes to help him maintain control of the crew, in no way convinces this court that you and Petty Officers Payne and Dalton did not purposefully conspire to join the mutineers in the hope that the other petty officers and chiefs would follow you.”

So what if they did strip us? If it comes to that I was happier as a kellick on that minesweeper they sent me to than I ever was as a P.O. It was all over for me in a couple of years anyway. I was free of the outfit and sitting on my bronze in a night watchman’s job.

He lit his pipe which was his closest friend these days, and listened to it crackling as he watched the mile posts flying by the windows. It was different for poor old Whacker though. He had the most to lose and you hit him where it hurt most, stripping him to a kellick and sending him to that lousy old sloop in Milne Bay. Too bad for you brass hats that he never lived to regret what he did all his term; too bad that sloop got blown to hell. You did no better with Dalton, disrating him and sending him back to U.K. He’d have been happier in the R.N.; less bullshit in that Navy than ours.

Bredgman closed his eyes and began to nod. He was very tired. He had come out of retirement to make this journey. But why not? A man had few enough pleasures on the aged pension so why not have this fling? It would probably be his last, and what better way to spend it than get drunk with a bunch of mutineers? …

Dusty Rhodes did not have to come, for he had organised the club and the reunion and on this Anzac Eve morning was already at the Kingsway Hotel where the reunion would be held. He was sitting at a table in the saloon with Rocky McCall who had arrived from Perth a day early—just to make sure he got his share of West End beer.

“A union exec’,” McCall said. “Good enough way to earn a crust I suppose.”

Rhodes swayed back in his chair. I like it. It’s a job you can take pride in, as long as you stay on the side of the workers.”

McCall grunted and juggled his false teeth around in his mouth. “Kind of like being a mess deck P.O.”

“Yes, only these bosses don’t court martial you for striking.” McCall lit a cigarette and grinned at him. “Christ, it seems only last week it happened.” He squinted at Rhodes through cigarette smoke. “What about it now that you look back. Do you reckon it was worth it?”

“What, the mutiny? Of course it was.”

“It was for me.”

“And for the whole lower deck of the Navy.”

“I dunno about that. What was it worth to them?” Rhodes reached uncertainly for his pint of beer—he had to sight it a couple of times through his recently acquired bifocals. “Another mark of respect from the brass, that’s what it was worth to them. It’s the old story; workers make their own destinies. If it wasn’t for strikes in civil life we’d still be on a sixty-hour week. And if it wasn’t for mutinies in the Navy, they’d still be keel-hauling.”

McCall laughed. “You gone all Marxy or something?”

“No, and I’m tired of people branding anyone a commie who sticks up for the workers. Menzies sowed that bullshit twenty years ago and we’re still reaping the crop.”

“All right, don’t get a shitty on.” McCall had a swig of beer. “They can have their strikes and mutinies, unions too, that’s what I say. I’ll be a loner. Just me and my truck making a crust for the missus and kids. That’s how I like it.”

“How many kids have you got?” Rhodes asked.

“Three. Two working and one still at trade school. Eldest one’s a boy. Got called up for National Service last year.”

“Did he go?”

“Like hell. He blew through rather than risk going to that phoney war in Vietnam.”

“Good on him. I’m glad to see you’re keeping the rebel strain going.” Rhodes reached for his pint and almost knocked it over. He adjusted his bi-focals and tried again carefully.

“Getting a bit old and doddering aren’t you?” McCall said. “Well, I’m not getting any younger that’s for sure.”

“Me neither. Christ, it catches up on you don’t it. I try doing P.T. some nights to stop the rot setting on. It’s no good though; the temptation to hop into bed with the missus is too big.”

“Is the wife nice?” Rhodes asked.

“Super. I couldn’t ask for anyone better.”

“Same here. Mine was a bit flighty for the first couple of years of our marriage, but after the second kid she quietened down.”

They drained their pints of beer and McCall went to the bar and had them refilled. He was thin and wiry and looked weather-beaten, and he limped from a back injury he had suffered loading scrap on his truck a few years ago. Back at the table, he drank the froth off his beer and said what had been nagging at the back of his mind: “The kid. You think he might come?”

“Well, as I told you yesterday, I sent him an invitation and I saw him last week. He said he’d try to get here. He’s not interested in the club or the reunion, but he wants to see you and if he can’t make it I’m to take you to him.”

McCall sipped his beer and tried to imagine what the kid would look like after all these years. “How is he these days?”

“He’s doing all right.”

“Funny that he’s not keen on the club.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Some blokes don’t go for ex-service clubs of any sort—they want to forget the old days or they regard the clubs as war-mongering concerns.”

McCall’s thoughts shifted to other members of the crew and came to rest on Hardridge. “You’d get a hell of a shock if The Fuehrer showed up tonight wouldn’t you?”

“Well hell, wouldn’t you ? You know what graziers are like when it comes to mixing with the workers. And don’t forget he’s one of the biggest sheep men in the state.”

“Where is this Bandaby of his?”

“Out of Hallett. That’s about a hundred and twenty miles north of here. It’s stud country. He gets his picture in the papers every year at show time for his prize winning wool. A few years ago when his old man died there was a big spread about the place. From what I can gather The Fuehrer went out of the Navy and into a fortune.”

McCall sniffed. “Lucky old bastard. I bet he gives his stockmen hell.” He swirled the beer in his pint. “And what about his sidekick, Rollinson. You invite him?”

“Yes, and got a reply. He can’t come but sends his regards to everyone and hopes the reunion is the first of many.”

“Where is he?”

“Still in the Navy; skippering one of the new destroyers.”

“Christ, imagine that. How about Gum?”

“Gum’s dead. He passed on about a year ago, so the Melbourne Ex-Navymen’s Association wrote me.”

“Gum, Merrilton, Payne … I wonder how many, others are dead. Makes a man wonder when his turn is don’t it?” McCall thought about others of the crew and sniffed hard. “Stringer. Where’s he?”

“Stringer’s in Melbourne. And for Christ sake, haven’t you cured that sniff yet?”

“Not when I think of bastards like Stringer. What’s he doing in Melbourne?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

McCall frowned. “Probably a parking inspector or something.”

“Something’s right. He’s a warder at Pentridge gaol.”

McCall stared at him. “No.”

“Yes. He answered my invitation from there and said he didn’t think he could get leave to join us.”

“Ha, as if he’d want to. Being a warder should suit him anyway. Pity the poor bloody prisoners.”

Rhodes sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his fat belly. “Aren’t you going to ask about Wales?”

“Hell, yes. Last I heard he was discharged and living on a war pension in Sydney.”

“That’s right. He’s a sick man.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Well, you remember how they reckon he never got over his head injury—returning bouts of concussion and loss of memory?”

“Yes.”

“Well, a mate of his answered the invitation I sent. He said Wales couldn’t go anywhere on his own because he’d get lost.”

McCall said: “The poor old bastard. I’ll bet whoever coshed him didn’t want that to happen.” He looked at Rhodes through narrowed eyes. “I wonder who it was.”

“The Navy wonders, too. Remember how they tried at the inquiry to root out who it was?”

“Sure. They grilled hell out of Dalby and the kid and me— especially me. They were so bloody sure I did it.”

“Did you?” Rhodes asked.

“Are you kidding? You backed Dobson’s story didn’t you?”

“Yes, and I knew Dobson.”

“Well, I didn’t do it, so to hell with you.”

Rhodes laughed. “I believe you, even if the inquiry board didn’t.” He sipped his beer. “Looking back on that inquiry I reckon they made you the prize example.”

“I dunno. You didn’t come out so good yourself.”

Rhodes shrugged. “It would have been worse for me if that two-and-a-half ringer hadn’t built such a good defence. All that stuff about me remaining with the crew to keep them from breaking the ship apart. He put it over well.”

“They hit you bloody hard just the same,” McCall said.

“The disrating wasn’t so bad—I was happy enough as a kellick. It was the base outside Moresby that hurt.”

“What was it like there?”

“A tropic hell. A gun battery on the coast with five men under me and a pusser lieut’ over me, hating my guts. Stringer said at the time he hoped I’d die there and I bloody nearly did before the war ended.” Rhodes stood up, rubbing his belly. “Well, you interstate visitors can sit around all day and enjoy the beer; but I’ve got a lunch appointment with one of the union heads.”

McCall glanced at his watch. “What time did you say the gang are due to arrive?”

“Five o’clock. We’re booked in for dinner at six-thirty and after that the lounge is ours until midnight.”

“What time’s the march tomorrow?”

“We assemble at nine—those of us who are fit enough to march.” He eyed McCall slyly. “You’d better ease up on the grog this afternoon or you’ll be on your ear before we start celebrations.”

Rhodes left the saloon and McCall went to the bar and ordered a further pint from the barman. The barman was greyhaired and a rake of a man. He drew the beer slowly and pumped it to make a nice head. “Some reunion you boys are having tonight,” he said. “Dusty tells me it’s the first for twenty-six years.”

“That’s right. You know Dusty?”

“I should do; he’s been drinking here regular for fifteen years.”

“Bloody good bloke.”

“Yes, they don’t come any straighter than him.” He put the pint on the bar and helped himself from the pile of small change McCall had before him. “Reunions like this make me wish I’d been in the war.” He tapped his hollow chest. “I tried for the Navy but they said I had a weak ticker.”

“You didn’t miss much. It was a circus for a lot of the time and we were the animals.”

“Dusty tells me you boys had a mutiny.”

“That’s right.”

“I heard you talking just now. They hit you pretty hard for it apparently.”

“They thought they did.”

“What did they do to you?”

“Gave me my ticket.”

“Your ticket?”

“Dismissed with disgrace.”

The barman whistled softly. “That was tough.”

“Tough hell. They had me on half a dozen charges and the rule book says I could of been shot or sent to prison for a hell of a long time.”

“You had a good defence counsel I suppose?”

“They offered me one. I told them to stick him up their jumpers.”

The barman looked at the tough, lined face of the man before him. “Maybe they thought you’d start a mutiny in gaol if they sent you there.”

McCall sniffed. “That ’ud be the bloody day.”

And Hardridge was not coming, but was at this moment, about to eat lunch at Bandaby homestead. John Rupert Hardridge, retired commodore, sitting alone at a small table in the dinette, waiting for the cook to serve him. A big, silent man, grey hair at his temples, grim-faced, restless black eyes behind shaggy eyebrows.

The cook brought the soup and placed it in front of him. Mrs. Jeanes was small and plump and about forty. As she served him her eyes darted over the table seeing that everything was as he liked it. “Will you have steak or lamb to follow, sir?”

“Steak thank you,” he said.

“With salad, sir?”

“Thank you.” He stirred his soup slowly, thinking about the land auction he would attend this afternoon in Jamestown. The property was named Gidgeby, and he planned to buy it if the bidding did not go high. There was only a thousand acres in it, but this would give him a start in the area where he hoped to expand as opportunities arose.

He was aware of Mrs. Jeanes standing back from the table, waiting. He knew what she wanted of him and was determined to make her ask for it. He began eating the soup, his head lowered above the plate. Mrs. Jeanes cleared her throat and said: “Sir, I wanted to ask about tomorrow. It’s Anzac Day and my husband would like to march with his unit as usual.”

“You may take the day off,” he said.

“There’s a reunion tonight, sir. Could we leave this afternoon?”

“What time would you be going?”

“Around three o’clock if we could, sir. I’ll prepare your dinner before we go and you’ll just need to heat it up.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mrs. Jeanes went out and Hardridge continued eating his soup, listening to her singing happily in the kitchen. The trace of a smile hovered at his mouth. She and her husband had come to work on Bandaby from the city more than two years ago. They were hard workers and he did not mind granting them a holiday each Anzac Day if it kept them contented. He knew well that no locals would work for him at such low wages as he paid the Jeanes.

He finished his soup and Mrs. Jeanes served the steak. “What time is Peter coming back from mustering?” he asked.

“He should be home very soon, sir, in time for lunch he said.”

“I might have left for Jamestown when he comes. Tell him to put the crutched sheep in the bottom lucern paddock.”

“All right, sir.”

When he finished eating, he wiped his mouth on the napkin, rose, and walked to the stairs. He climbed them quickly and easily. Almost sixty years old, he was still active and upright. At the top of the flight, he crossed the landing and entered the room where he spent most of his spare time. It was his rest room, study, office, and library. He closed the door behind him and crossed the spacious interior to the large polished desk. Following rigid habit, he brushed his fingers over the desk and phone to make sure the housemaid had dusted thoroughly. A recent book on stud-breeding lay on the desk and he picked it up and set it on the bookshelf. A timid knock sounded on the door and he turned. “Come in.”

Mrs. Terrel, the housemaid, entered and stood just inside the door. She was a small woman, neat and alert like a bird. He knew what she wanted but waited for her to ask.

She swung a feather duster in her hand. “Sir, could my husband and I have tomorrow off? He wants to march.”

“What time will you want to leave?”

“Tonight if possible, so he can attend the reunion of his unit.”

“Very well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He watched the door close behind her and stood for a while fingering a naked cheek and thinking of the Jeanes and Terrels being away from the place for the next couple of days. There would be just him and Roger there. It was as well that his secretary wasn’t an ex-serviceman also. Not that being alone worried him; but Bandaby wasn’t quite the same when Roger was away from it.

He crossed the room to the west wall. A tug on the sash and the curtains rolled back from large windows covering most of the wall. He took a long-stemmed pipe from his hip pocket and began tamping tobacco into it. He had acquired the habit of smoking only since settling down on Bandaby, but he did not regret it—those times spent meditating on his success in the company of his pipe were the happiest of all.

Now he fit the pipe and stood puffing it, gazing westwards out the window across undulating acres of lucern, clover, and grassland. Through the lazy blue smoke of his pipe, he picked out the occasional windmill flashing in the sun, and the white blobs far out were dams. Here and there were clusters of gum trees where, in summer, merino sheep could rest out of the heat and grow fat with thick, sound fleeces.

For twelve miles in that direction was Bandaby; and for seven miles east to the railroad at Hallett; and south and north for as far. He felt pride glowing inside of him as he remembered how quickly the property had grown in the immediate post war years when wool prices had soared in a record boom. His father had bought out the smaller stations and farms in the area one by one. There had been opposition bidding in the first few years; but as his wealth increased opposition declined, and eventually auctions became a waste of time for sellers who more often than not made private sales with his father.

Now, the entire area was Bandaby. There wasn’t another grazier within fifteen miles of him and the nearest house was a fettler’s shack on the railroad …

“Johnny. Come here, Johnny.”

The sound of Mrs. Jeanes calling her child below the window broke Hardridge’s line of thought and he looked down and saw her walking out to meet the boy who was running to meet her from the nearby shearer’s quarters. They joined hands and walked back towards the house. The boy began skipping; the mother imitated him. They laughed together and the mother swept the boy up into her arms.

Hardridge stood at the window, watching them and fighting against the nostalgic feeling of having missed something in life. Then the land sale at Jamestown broke the spell and he got his coat from behind the door and put it on. The invitation to the reunion was in one pocket of the coat. He took it out and read it again, wondering as he did why he had bothered to keep this which was of no interest to him. He frowned as he again read the signature at the bottom of the card: Dusty Rhodes. The audacity of the man, expecting me to attend his damned reunion, he thought. No doubt it would become a lower deck fiasco with everyone drunk and singing filthy songs. They would probably finish brawling in the gutter and get picked up by the police. He flung the card in the waste paper basket, took his hat from its peg behind the door, and went out and down the steps.

Walking erect, he left the house by the rear door. His gleaming, late model Jaguar stood waiting for him, washed and dusted by the rouseabout that morning. He got into the car and sank back in the plush upholstery behind the wheel. The engine kicked and ran in a smooth rich sound as he turned the key.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Now it was evening; reunion time, and the men of Jacaranda were in the private lounge of the Kingsway Hotel. There were twenty-four of them so far and others were still arriving. Earlier they had met in the bar and got to know each other again. Then they had eaten full course dinners at tables reserved for them in the dining-room. During the meal, they had listened to an opening address by Dusty Rhodes and had heard Doc Slee propose toasts first to The Queen and later to the fallen men of the Jacaranda. All together, they had bowed their heads and murmured: “ They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.”

But these solemn preliminaries were over now and the mood in the lounge was one of gaiety with undertones of contentment as old friends swopped yarns as they drank. Three waiters hurried around the tables with jugs of beer. A radio behind the bar played wartime marches, but amid the drone of voices and bursts of laughter no one was listening to it. And all the while others kept arriving.

“Who’s that come in?”

“Dobson.”

“Jesus, so it is. Has he got that fat or is he pregnant?”

“Hey, look at that bloody McCall swigging it down over there. If he’s able to march tomorrow you can stuff me.”

“Remember when he opened up with the Lewis?”

“Yeah, and when he copped the third degree from Stringer and Gum?”

“Hey, they tell me Gum’s dead.”

“Is he? I’ll bet he left something in his will for Andy Arthurton.”

“Where’s Andy these days?”

“At the cross in Sydney. He shares a flat with a bunch of pervy hangers on.”

“Hey, waiter, what about another jug. Waiter! Someone throw him a tip or we’ll never get bloody served.”

“Let’s all drink a toast. Here’s to old Rollinson.”

“Up Rollinson. Here’s to The Fuehrer.”

“Bugger The Fuehrer; he should of come.”

“Here’s to him just the same. I hope all his lambs get foot-rot.”

“Ah, to hell with the pig. This is a lower deck reunion.”

“Except for Slee over there.”

“Well, Slee’s not a pig.”

“No, he’s a doctor—a head-shrinker ”

“Good old Slee. Look at him guzzling. He’s still one of us.”

“Here’s to Slee then.”

Glug, glug, glug. Swearing, laughing, rejoicing. Booze, brawds, and brawls in the air. It was nine o’clock and at one table they had weighed anchor and put to sea. They took their first convoy to Haifa again; ran the gauntlet of Stukas towards Malta; killed their first submarine … At another table the broads came alive. Sister Street girls lifted their petticoats and pointed to their fannies and said: “Short time ten piastres, all night one pound. Front way, back way, suckey suck. What you like, Jack?”

And at another table they mutinied: “Say what you like but it was a dumb stunt that got us nothing.”

“The hell it didn’t—it got us home.”

“Yeah, and they stopped our leave and tore us to pieces.”

“So what. I’m glad we did it. It taught the pigs a lesson.”

“But not half the lesson they taught us. Look at the punishment they dished out to us. Eleven of us sent to G.I. and … ”

“And what did they do to Hardridge who caused it? Nothing.”

“He lost command,” Slee said.

“What if he did, Doc? They still cleared him of blame didn’t they?”

“That’s something we weren’t told,” Slee said.

“Doc,” said McCall, sitting down beside him. “I want to ask you something.”

“Go ahead, Rocky. And call me Jim will you?”

“Sure, Jim. It’s about me; the way I was; a chook. Remember how you used to stand up for me—all that stuff about incentive treatment instead of punishment?”

“I remember.”

“You reckon I was worth it?”

Slee sipped his whisky. “What are you doing with yourself these days?”

“I’m a lousy carrier in Perth.”

“Are you happy?”

“Sure. Got a missus and kids. My own boss. It’s what I always wanted.”

“Then yes, you were worth it.”

It was ten o’clock and Anzac Day was two hours away. McCall drifted to another table and found Dobson.

“Sit down, you chook,” said Dobson.

“Thanks. And why don’t you do some exercise about that?” McCall poked him in the belly.

“Why don’t you mind your own bloody business. Here, let’s fill your glass.”

McCall put his glass on the table. “Listen, something I want to ask you. Never bothered about it before we got split up. Remember when they pulled me in for  coshing Wales that time?”

“Will I ever forget it?”

“Why’d you lie for me—all that frogshit about knowing I didn’t leave the gun deck?”

“Well, we didn’t reckon it could have been you; him being slugged on the back of the head like that. It wasn’t your style.”

“Like hell. I’d of done him any style.”

“Well, did you?”

“No, but I could of for all you knew.”

Dobson shrugged his shoulders. “Well, the way things were we didn’t want to see anyone get the blame for it.” Dobson was eyeing him shrewdly.

“You doubt me don’t you? You figure I might of done it?” McCall said.

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t. Down the hatch.”

They drank, and McCall, looking above the rim of his glass, saw the big blond man swank in the door. “Now who the hell’s that late-comer?”

Dobson watched the big man walk to a table. “A gatecrasher if you ask me. We never had anyone that handsome on board.”

The newcomer was shaking hands around the table, smiling and inclining his head, and McCall suddenly thumped the table. “Stringer! ”

“It can’t be.”

“Bloody oath it is. Heavier in the jowls than he used to be, but look at that walk.”

Stringer flounced to another table and started shaking hands again. McCall watched him. “Been telling myself for twenty odd years I’d clobber him if I ever crossed his path,” he muttered.

Dobson put a hand on his arm. “Ease up, mate; this is a reunion.”

Stringer had left that table and was now approaching them. “Sorry I’m late, boys. My leave wasn’t granted until this afternoon and I took the last plane. Who’s this? And this?” He was shaking hands as he met them. And McCall, watching from narrowed eyes, thought: The nerve of the bastard, treating everyone like old friends. Once a crusher, now a screw. And proud of it, I’ll bet.

“Rocky McCall!” Stringer exclaimed, smiling and holding out his hand. “I’d know you anywhere.”

McCall looked at the hand. For an instant he was tempted to stand up, grip the hand, and pull him into a straight left. Then the flash of malice left him and he meekly shook the hand and Stringer continued on around the table greeting the others, then passed on to the next table.

McCall looked at Dobson and grinned. “He probably would of carved me up anyway. I haven’t thrown a punch for years and he’s practising on prisoners every day.”

Stringer settled down at the next table now and was sitting with a glass of beer in front of him, telling the group about different ones he had met in Melbourne over the years. His voice carried easily to McCall: “Wales. Yes, I see him once a year regular when I take my holiday in Sydney.”

“They say he’s a sick man these days.”

“That’s right, he gets these giddy turns; he’s likely to wander on the road, into a ladies’ toilet, under a train, or anywhere.”

“Hell, what a life that would be. Whoever coshed him that time must have hit a vital spot.”

“Coshed him be damned; he fell.”

McCall jerked around. The drone of voices in the lounge fell away and there was silence as everyone stared at Stringer. “Who told you he fell?” Slee asked.

“He did. It wasn’t until just after the war. We had a heavy session on his birthday in Sydney. He got drunk and started going over the old days and finally came to the night of the accident. He fell from the top of the ladder when a big greenback slewed the stern.”

“That so?” McCall said.

“That’s right, Rocky.”

“Then how come he told them he’d been coshed?”

Stringer inclined his head. “That was Wales for you. He knew they’d suspect you because you’d threatened him the day before. He wanted you to get the blame. He really hated your guts, Rocky.”

McCall sniffed. “The bastard,” he said, and turned back to his table as the drone of voices rose again.

It was eleven o’clock. The beer flowed and the war continued and the whores remained in the doorways. McCall ambled into a quiet corner and looked around at all the faces and felt depressed. He caught Rhodes’s eye and jerked his head. Rhodes came across to him and said: “I think you’re drunk, McCall. Double up to A gun and back. Hep!”

“He didn’t come,” McCall said.

“Who?”

“The kid. He didn’t come.”

“Neither he did.”

“You said you’d take me to him.”

“So I will.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll be sick as a dog tomorrow. Take me tonight. Now.”

“Hell, break it down. It’s late.”

“How far is it?”

“Not far. About ten minutes in a cab.”

“Take me there,” McCall said.

“Well… all right, grab your coat.”

Rhodes excused himself from his table and they went into the street where barricades and bunting had been rigged in readiness for tomorrow’s march. Traffic was heavy and ex-servicemen were everywhere whooping it up. They waited until a vacant cab showed and Rhodes hailed it. The driver was in a hell of a hurry to make money; he covered the half-mile to the east end in minutes and almost put them through the windscreen when he stopped at Solly’s Restaurant.

They got out of the death trap and Rhodes led the way down the stairs under a lighted sign: “Solly’s Club.” The place had dim yellow lights around the walls and above a long bar with padded red stools before it. There were a dozen or so small tables in a confined floor space: a waiter tended the men sitting at them. The walls were softly done in pink. Paintings hung here and there; some were landscapes, but most were nude males.

A crooner started moaning about love and flowers from a gram’ in the corner as Rhodes led the way to a vacant table. They sat down and Rhodes said: “See the bloke second from the end of the bar. That’s him.”

In the poor light, McCall could not see much of the small man standing talking to another, taller one. He had the kid’s build, though his shoulders seemed pinched and rounded.

“Wait here and I’ll fetch him,” Rhodes said. He walked across and touched the small man on the shoulder. The small man turned and McCall saw his face in the light. It was an older, thinner face, but it was the kid all right.

Rhodes brought him to the table and McCall stood up. “Hullo, Freddy,” he said, reluctant somehow to call him kid with that high, creased forehead.

“Hullo, Rocky,” Freddy said.

They shook hands. It’s the same hand, McCall thought as he pulled a chair out. “Sit down and tell me how you’ve been.”

“Oh, thank you. And I must apologise for not coming to the reunion. Actually, I intended seeing you at the march tomorrow. I thought we might have some drinks after it ends.” He sat down, hands neatly folded on the table. McCall noticed his fingernails; long and pointed and lacquered pink. Then McCall noticed several things all at once: the delicate gestures of the men at the bar; the quiet talking; the close, passive atmosphere of the place. “It’s been a long time, Freddy,” he said.

“A very long time, Rocky, and much has happened.”

“Much,” said McCall, and glancing at Rhodes, saw him gazing at the painting of a nude man.

“Shall we have something to drink?” Freddy asked.

“Sure.” McCall’s hand went to his pocket but Freddy would have none of this. “Let this be on our house,” he insisted, and clapped his hands together quickly to attract the waiter. “Raymond. Oh Raymond will you serve us please?” he called out.

Raymond came over. He was big and hefty but looked kind of soft. He took their order for three beers and went back to the bar, leaving a smell of perfume behind him.

Freddy was looking blandly from McCall to Rhodes and he smiled at McCall. “I’ve often thought about you, Rocky, and wondered if I’d know you if I saw you in the street. I know now that I would have.” He suddenly seemed to remember his friend at the bar and looked at him anxiously. The friend had turned around and was watching him. Freddy smiled and waved, then turned to McCall. “Tell me now, where are you and what are you doing with yourself?”

“Remember that old truck I used to say I’d buy?” McCall said.

“Of course I do.”

“I drive it around Perth carrying junk.”

Freddy’s eyes lighted up. “Really. But why so far away as Perth?”

“I dunno. When pussers kicked me out I wanted to get as far away from them as I could. Perth was it. Reckoned on staying there for a couple of years only. But I met the wife and settled down.”

“Have you any children?” Freddy asked.

“Three.”

“Oh.” He sat plucking at his nails for a while, then looked up smiling. “I’m glad you got what you wanted, Rocky. I really am.”

They drank their beer and Rhodes ordered another round. Freddy’s attention was divided between McCall and his friend at the bar. He seemed nervous. McCall watched him and wondered about him. “Tell me about yourself, Freddy.”

“Me.” He shrugged expressively. “I work in a clothing store in Pulteney Street, not far from here. I’m in charge of a counter there. I like it and after work . . he spread his arms to embrace the bar … “all my friends are here.”

Raymond came with the drinks and Rhodes drank half of his and said: “Look, you’re a nice bloody pair. We’ve been sitting here for half an hour and have said nothing worthwhile. This is a reunion.”

“We’re reunited,” McCall said.

“But what about the old times? London. The things we did in Alex. Hardridge. The mutiny.”

Freddy said: “Do you know, I’ve almost forgotten all that—all except the island.”

“The island. What was to that?”

“I think I’ll always remember it,” Freddy said, and was looking at McCall in the old way. He dragged his gaze back to his friend at the bar and glanced nervously at his watch. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you now,” he said. “My friend is waiting for me.” He got to his feet. “Will I see you at the march, Rocky?”

“Sure,” McCall said, though he knew he wouldn’t be there.

“It’s been wonderful seeing you again,” Freddy said. He shook hands with McCall and went back to his friend.

McCall watched them standing close together at the bar, sipping their drinks. He shook his head. “Let’s get to hell out of here, Dusty.”

“What’s the hurry?” Rhodes asked.

“Just let’s go.”

They crossed the floor and started climbing the stairs. McCall was trailing behind, deep in thought. “Do you see much of him ?” he asked.

“Who, Freddy? Once a month or so.”

“How is he really?”

“He’s fine. He has his ups and downs, of course. A year or so ago he got rolled by a couple of thugs. They skun him of everything except his clothes. He’s been up on a couple of charges only—got off with fines both times. But otherwise he keeps happy.”

McCall stood on the top step, staring out into the street. “What a life,” he murmured.

Rhodes put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, I wouldn’t worry about Freddy. He’s found a niche for himself and he wouldn’t swop places with any of us.”

“That’s what worries me,” McCall said.

“Why the hell should it?” Rhodes lit a cigarette and looked at McCall standing there lost in thought. “Hey, wake up. It’s eleven-thirty and nearly Anzac Day. Let’s go back to the pub and drink a quicky before they close the lounge.”

McCall seemed in no hurry to go. Anzac Day. The reunion. They didn’t seem to matter now. He wished they hadn’t been; wished urgently to return to his wife and kids.

Hardridge lay on a couch near the south wall of the room in which he spent most of his spare time. Beside him, on an occasional table, was a half bottle of whisky and an almost empty glass. His pipe lay there too, cold and forgotten. He was on his back, his hands under his head. His eyes were closed but he was not asleep, only drowsing in the warm bath of reflection brought on by the considerable amount of whisky he had drunk since he had returned from Jamestown early in the evening, disappointed that the high bidding had prevented him from buying Gidgeby.

Hardridge could drink a lot of whisky and not be drunk. The effect the spirit had on him was rather to soothe his conscience against the disappointments of life and grant him a certain immunity from any remorse. A clock on the wall above the door chimed softly and he opened his eyes and saw that it was eleven-thirty. They will all be drunk now, he thought, and closing his eyes, thought again about the old destroyer.

He stood on the bridge and looked astern at the frothing wake streaming out in a long V. Then he looked down on her narrow decks and saw members of her crew working. A host of memories crowded him and the significant ones lingered and gathered detail. He walked her decks again for the first time in Southampton. His ship. His first command. Other memories heaped up: Stukas diving on a convoy; a submarine being scuttled; Arab scavengers in a boat at Alexandria; defaulters mustering on the quarter deck at Aden, at the island, mutiny … At the memory of mutiny, his face twitched and he lifted one hand as if to ward off a blow. Then he relaxed again and sat opposite a tall admiral at his desk at Navy Board headquarters in Melbourne … “I sent for you, Commander, to make the findings of the board clear to you.” The admiral opened a large file on his desk and read for a while, then said: “The committee of inquiry find that the mutiny followed considerable discontent among the officers and men which began soon after you took command. Those who agitated this to the stage of mutiny have as you know been summarily charged and recommended for court martial.” He turned a page of the file and traced a passage in the text with the tip of one finger. “At the bottom of all the trouble the board finds a number of factors involved. The length of time the men had been away from home; the threat of Japanese invasion of Australia; the prevalance of homosexuality on board, are matters that must be considered inevitable in the circumstances that existed.” The admiral paused, looking steadily at him, and for the first time he felt pangs of doubt as to the reason for this interview. “But there are other factors involved for which you must take the blame, Commander. Your harsh discipline, especially against Able Seaman McCall, only served to aggravate the discontent. And while the Board does not find McCall alone to blame for the mutiny, they believe it might never have occurred if you had drafted him off the ship instead of fruitlessly trying to discipline him on board.”

Again a pause and he used it to defend himself: “Sir, as I repeatedly said at the inquiry, I considered it my duty to correct McCall’s behaviour, and I remain convinced I would have succeeded if I’d had the co-operation of those officers in charge of him.”

The admiral stared at him and said bluntly: “Commander, McCall’s record shows him to be completely incorrigible and in the interests of himself and the service he ought to have been dismissed long ago.” The admiral closed the file and set it aside. “Now Commander, as far as the lower deck of our Navy is concerned you have been exonerated of blame for this mutiny; but in the opinion of the board you have not. Therefore, we have decided to relieve you of command.”

Lying on the couch, Hardridge flinched as if he had been struck in the face. “Sir, I respect your decision, but must say that I think it is unfair. Jacaranda’s action record under my command has been excellent and I’ve done my best to carry out my duties faithfully and …”

“No one is questioning your action record or your loyalty, Commander. It has been in your command of the crew that we consider you have failed. Frankly, we believe you failed to understand the kind of men you were dealing with. Destroyer men, Commander. It was a mistake of course that we had you take command, but the emergency arose and we believed you were capable of meeting it.”

Hardridge stirred briefly on the couch, then lay still. “Does this mean I will be transferred to another ship, sir?”

“No, it means you will be transferred to Flinders training depot. We believe that with your ability to produce top efficiency through discipline you will be most suited there. We realise this will be a disappointment to you, but mutiny is a very grave business as you must realise.” The admiral stared grimly at him for a while, then his face softened a little. “That will be all, Commander. But before you go let me give you some advice. Don’t let this destroy your career. We are all prone to errors and where they concern mutiny we must pay for them. Accept that and learn from it. Others have lived it down, so can you. You’ve got to, Commander.”

Now Hardridge opened his eyes and sat up on the couch.

He yawned and massaged the back of his neck for a while, then reached for the bottle of whisky and poured out half a glass. He sniffed it, tossed it down his throat. Then he got to his feet and began pacing the room. Back and forth he walked, with his hands behind his back and his eyes on the floor. The clock began chiming and he stopped and listened to each stroke of the hour. The room was utterly silent after the last stroke. He walked to his desk, took the invitation card from the waste paper basket, and read it again. Then he tore it into small pieces and dropped them back into the basket.

He hovered around the desk for a while, fiddling with things. Then suddenly, almost angrily, he lifted the phone from its cradle and pressed the inter-room button.

“Roger,” said his secretary.

“Were you asleep, Roger?”

“No, I was sitting up waiting for you to call.”

“You take me for granted don’t you?”

“I suppose I do. But the others have gone and I knew you’d phone sooner or later.”

Hardridge waited a moment, holding the phone to his ear. Then he said: “All right, you can come up now.”

Roger’s chuckle came softly to his ear. “I’m coming, John.”

SOLILOQUY IN THE SIMPSON

“It is almost impossible, when writing of an Australian novel, not to refer to Nevil Shute, and Watkins’ resemblance to Shute in the style of Soliloquy in the Simpson is inescapable.”    Yorkshire Evening News

THE PERILOUS HOURS

“The Perilous Hours is by far the best of Mr. Watkins’ several books, and is as lively and suspenseful a novel as you could spend a long train journey or quiet night at home with.

“All in all, Perilous Hours is good strong stuff, and helps stamp Mr. Watkins as one Australian author with a gusty style and something pertinent to say—and a ‘to hell with the academic’ approach that is as refreshing as a cold glass of beer on a hot day.”     Ward McNally

ANDAMOOKA

“The characters are rugged, hard-working, and both tough and sentimental, and Mr. Watkins’ style is just right for this sort of story. He has a wry sense of humour and a slightly melodramatic sense of drama, and this novel shows his ever-increasing control over both characters and plot. For those who like their outbackery presented with plenty of action and variety, Andamooka is just the thing.”    Australian Book Review

SHADOW OF THE WHIP

In Shadow of the Whip Wal Watkins moves into Adelaide and shows once again his complete mastery of the Australian scene. Curly Jensen is a lad from the bush, newly arrived in the city, and the reader follows his adventures as he is alternately duped and befriended by the more sophisticated city dwellers. The two women in his life, Monica Coombes and Sue Rowe, present a striking contrast, and tension is maintained throughout until Curly learns at last to recognise this fact.

This is at once a warm-hearted and a gripping story of characters one can know and believe in.

Table of Contents

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen

- Chapter Nineteen “ Clear lower deck. All hands muster on the quarter deck.”

- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five