The Cruel Sea (1951) by Nicholas Monsarrat Read Free Book Online Page B

case, it was a move in the right direction. Then, as Ericson mounted the ladder towards the bridge, the small annoying scene faded from his mind and was swiftly replaced: he was aware only of an intense personal satisfaction that all the months of waiting, all the worry of fitting-out and commissioning, and all the loose ends of departure, had now been disposed of, and that Compass Rose – his own responsibility, almost his own invention – was ready at last for her maiden trip.

    It was not particularly impressive, that first tow downriver to the oiler, save for one odd accompaniment to it which Ericson, like many other people on board, found moving. As Compass Rose edged outwards from the quay and gathered way, with a tug at either end, Petty Officer Tallow at the wheel, and Lockhart with his fo’c’sle party neatly fallen in by the windlass, a small cheer broke out from the knot of dockyard workers lining the quayside. It was ragged, it was uncoordinated and unrehearsed: it was all the more impressive for this rough spontaneity. Other men from other yards left their work to wave to Compass Rose as she passed downriver – men who had built ships, were building them now, and would build countless others, pausing in their jobs to speed on her way the latest product of the Clyde. The moment of farewell was not prolonged: it was too cold to stand about, and the dusting of snow that overlay the quays and docks and berthing slips lining the river was a sharp reminder of the wintry day. But the gesture, repeated many times on their way towards the open sea, remained in the memory: the last message from the fraternity of men who built the ship, to the sailors who would live and work and fight aboard her.

    Five hours later, Compass Rose , under her own power, left the last narrow section of the river and nosed her way down stream towards the Tail-of-the-Bank, the naval anchorage off Greenock. The early winter dusk was beginning to close in, hiding the far reaches of one of the loveliest harbours in Britain: the line of hills surrounding it turned from purple to black shadow, the lit buoys and the shore lights came up blinking to challenge the twilight. It was now very cold, though the wind had died earlier that afternoon. Their berth had been signalled to them, and identified on the chart; they still had a few hundred yards to go before they dropped anchor, and the Captain, with leisure to look about him, was studying the other ships which crowded the broad sweep of the Clyde Estuary.
    There were many of them – a battleship, a smart new cruiser, half a dozen destroyers, an aircraft carrier, scores of minesweepers; beyond them, in the merchant ship anchorage, was line upon line of ships collecting for a convoy, dominated by two huge liners in the grey wartime dress of troopships. At the back of the bridge, Ericson could hear Leading-Signalman Wells giving a running commentary on the ships in company – a commentary which revealed, as could nothing else, the sense of family which informs the Royal Navy. (‘The battleship’s the Royal Sovereign – we were at Gib. with her, last spring cruise – there’s the old Argus, one of the first carriers ever built – that must be the Sixth Destroyer Flotilla – wonder what they’re doing here – that’s one of the new Town Class cruisers – didn’t know they were in commission yet . . .’) The pilot, a bluff Clydesider, said suddenly: ‘Just coming on the bearing now, Captain!’ and Ericson returned to the business of anchoring. The telegraph clanged for ‘Stop engines’, and then for ‘Slow astern’: he called out ‘Stand by!’ to Lockhart on the fo’c’sle; and a minute later, as the ship gathered gentle sternway, his shout of ‘Let go!’ was answered by the thunderous roar of the cable running out. Compass Rose lay at anchor, her first journey accomplished. The time, he was pleased to note, was three minutes past four: the dividing dusk was now upon them, and