Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy. Dorling Henry Taprell
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Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy
This story was written in rather difficult circumstances, and subject to frequent interruption. Indeed, when the first chapters appeared in Chambers's Journal early in 1916 the narrative was barely half-finished. Sometimes I almost despaired of ever completing it, for it can perhaps be understood that writing on board a small ship actually at sea in time of war is impossible for more reasons than one.
The reader is cautioned against accepting the story as an official account of the part played by a certain section of the Navy during the war. Incidents described are true; but, for reasons which must be obvious, it has been necessary to give them fictitious colouring. It also seems desirable to add that all my characters are fictitious, and that each chapter was submitted to the censors at the Press Bureau before publication.
It should be added that a considerable amount of matter is contained in this volume which did not appear in Chambers's Journal when the story appeared in serial form.
More than ever am I deeply sensible of the very real debt which I owe to my wife, both for her help in revising and correcting the proofs, and for her many suggestions for improvements.
1916.
CHAPTER I
HIS FIRST SHIP
'There ye are, Martin. That's 'er.'
The leading seaman in charge of the party paused, and waved a hand toward a squat gray battleship lying on the other side of one of the basins in Portsmouth Dockyard.
The little expedition of which he was the leader consisted of himself; Martin, the man he had spoken to; and a small hand-cart propelled by another ordinary seaman, breathing heavily. The cart contained a sausage-shaped, khaki-coloured hammock, bound with its seven regulation turns of lashing, and a bulbous brown kit-bag. They were Martin's belongings. He was joining his first seagoing ship.
''Er?' he queried in answer to the leading seaman's remark, shivering and looking rather puzzled. ''Oo?'
He was a puny, undersized little rat of a man, with a pallid, freckled face and a crop of sandy hair. It was early winter, and the piercing wind bit through to his very marrow, while the drizzling rain had already found its way through his oilskin and down the back of his neck. It was distinctly chilly. The tip of his nose and his fingers were blue with cold, and he looked, and felt, supremely miserable.
He repeated his question as the leading seaman executed a few violent steps of a clog-dance, and flapped his arms like an elderly penguin to restore his circulation. ''Er?' he said at last, pausing for breath and seemingly rather surprised at Martin's ignorance. 'That there's the Belligerent. That's the ship we're goin' to join – you're goin' to join, that is.'
'That 'er?' Martin ejaculated, gazing with awe at the battleship's great bulk. 'That 'er? Gor' blimy!' He seemed rather appalled.
The leading seaman tittered and sucked his teeth. 'Lor'!' he laughed, not unkindly, noticing the anxiety in the youngster's eyes, 'you needn't look like that. They can't eat yer; leastways not if you be'aves yourself they won't. 'Er commander's a werry nice gentleman; 'e wus shipmates along o' me in th' Duncan up the Straits1 six year ago. 'E wus a lootenant then, an' a bit of a flyer; but 'e's a gent so long as you don't get in the rattle.'2
He paused and eyed the ordinary seaman with the hand-cart, who had released the shafts and was swinging his arms. ''Ere, young fella, not so much of it!' he ordered abruptly, quite forgetting that he had called the halt himself. 'Get a move on yer! You ain't no bloomin' baronite drivin' your own motor-car, to stop 'ere an' stop there has you thinks fit. You ain't wheelin' no perishin' whelk-barrer down Commercial Road neither. Show a leg, me lad!'
The ordinary seaman seized the shafts, and the procession moved forward.
Ten minutes later Martin, with his bag and hammock, was standing on the quarterdeck of his Majesty's first-class pre-Dreadnought battleship Belligerent. The leading seaman and the man with the hand-cart were already on their way back to the Royal Naval Barracks, and Pincher Martin, alone, for the first time, felt horribly nervous and uncomfortable. He had been received with scant courtesy or interest by the marine corporal of the watch, who had told him to remain where he was while he fetched a ship's corporal; and now, eyed critically by the grinning side-boy and the messenger, youngsters like himself, who made facetious, rather uncomplimentary, and very audible remarks about his personal appearance, he shivered and waited.
Over on the other side of the deck a tall officer, clad in a greatcoat and swinging a telescope, was walking up and down dodging the rain-drips from the awning. He was a lieutenant, from the two gold stripes and the curl on his shoulder-straps, and was, as a matter of fact, the officer of the watch. Presently the merriment at Martin's expense became rather raucous, and the officer turned round and saw the messenger and the side-boy laughing together. The chubby-faced youths caught his eye roving over them, and immediately both became rigid, with an innocent expression on their faces.
'Come here, you two!' he called, beckoning with his telescope.
The two youngsters trotted up and halted before him with a salute.
'Skylarking again, eh?' the lieutenant asked.
'Oh no, sir. We wusn't skylarkin',' the elder of the two protested.
'Humph! I don't know so much about that. I suppose you were making fun of that man who's just joined, eh?'
'Oh no, sir. I only said to Horrigan' —
'I don't want to hear what you said to Horrigan, or what Horrigan said to you,' interrupted the officer of the watch, smiling to himself. 'Evidently the time hangs heavily on your hands, and I'll not have the quarterdeck turned into a bally music hall.' He looked round the deck, and noticed some untidy ends of rope near the ship's side.
'You, Bates,' he went on, 'can amuse yourself by coiling down the ends of these boats' falls and awning jiggers; and you, Horrigan, can broom all that water into the scuppers.' He waved his hand toward some pools of rain-water near the edge of the deck. 'When you've done that you can let me know, and I'll find you another job. Go on – away you go!'
The boys pattered off, and the lieutenant resumed his perambulation.
Presently a ship's corporal, accompanied by the marine who had gone in search of him, came through the battery door and went up to Martin.
'Name and rating?' he demanded abruptly, referring to a book in his hand.
'Martin. Ord'nary seaman.'
'You'll be in No. 47 mess,' said Ship's Corporal Puddicombe, 'and will be in the forecastle division, starboard watch, first part, first sub. The capten of your top – Petty Officer Casey's 'is name – will tell you off for your stations in your part of the ship. You'll stow your bag in the fore cable flat, starboard side, and your 'ammick in the starboard forecastle rack. I'll show you where to put 'em, and if you comes along to my office after tea to-day I'll give you a card with it all written on – see?'
'Yessir,' said Martin, looking very bewildered, for he had hardly understood a word of what the man had said.
'It's all right, me lad,' the corporal went on, more kindly. 'You needn't look so scared. You'll soon shake down. Is this your first ship?'
'Yessir.'
The corporal nodded and went off to report to the officer of the watch, who presently returned with him.
'Ord'nary Seaman Martin, sir. Come to join the ship from the barricks.'
The lieutenant eyed the new arrival critically. 'What division's he in, corporal?' he queried.
'Yours, sir. Forecastle division.'
'How long have you been in the service?' the officer asked next.
'Six an' a narf months, sir,' said Martin.
'Well, it's about time you got your hair cut, my lad. It's much too long. The forecastle division's my division,
'The Straits' = the Mediterranean.
'In the rattle' = in trouble.