Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy

II

The chaplain leant back in his chair with a yawn, knocked out and refilled his pipe, lit it, and then gazed wearily and with great distaste at the pile of letters and post-cards on the table in front of him. He, Peter Wooten, the senior watch-keeper, and Hannibal Chance, the captain of marines, were the three officers whose unenviable duty it was to censor all the outgoing private correspondence of the officers and men. As a rule they took the days in turn; but on Saturdays and Sundays, when the men had had more time to themselves and more opportunities for writing, the mail bound London-wards assumed colossal proportions, and all three censors had to buckle to to get the work done in time. To-day happened to be a Sunday, and his reverence had retired to his cabin after tea with a bag full of letters and post-cards to be read through before he took his evening service at six o'clock. Wooten and Chance were in their respective apartments doing the same.

It was a dismal job at the best of times, this prying into other people's private correspondence, and the padre, for one, hated it. But he realised it was necessary. The censorship had been enforced from the very outbreak of hostilities; and though letters could be written, provided they were presented unsealed, post-cards seemed more fashionable. They were examined, stamped 'Passed by Ship's Censor,' and then despatched in sealed bags to the G.P.O., London, whence they were forwarded to their destinations. Sealed letters, uncensored, could also be sent in the ordinary way; but these were subject to considerable delay in transmission, and were not very popular. They could, moreover, be examined at any time if considered at all suspicious. The movements of the fleet or of individual ships, and details of other vital matters which might be of use to the ever-inquisitive Hun, were rigidly taboo. The restrictions, sweeping as they were, did away at one fell swoop with practically all the subject-matter for an ordinary peace-time communication; but in spite of it officers and men found plenty to write about, and plenty of people to write to. Long-forgotten grandmothers, aunts, female cousins, and other people's sisters seemed to have come up to the scratch in a most extraordinary way, and those men who had few friends and relations, and whose correspondence was limited in ordinary times to perhaps one letter a month, now received and wrote three or four a week. Very nice for the men, no doubt, to be able to feel that those at home took an interest in their welfare, but rather trying for the censors in a ship with a company of eight to nine hundred souls.

Taking up his blue pencil, the padre selected a missive from the pile in front of him. It was from FitzJohnson, and was addressed to his outfitter:

'Dear Sir, – I shall be much obliged if you will kindly send me as soon as possible one pair of uniform trousers, one pair of patent leather evening pumps, and one uniform cap, size 6⅞. The last monkey-jacket I had from you a week ago I am returning for alteration. It is rather tight across the' —

Having got thus far, his reverence inserted the letter in its envelope, moistened the flap with a small sponge, and then dabbed at it with a large rubber stamp and pushed it aside. It was 'passed' all right; but he vaguely wondered what on earth the Dook proposed to do with dancing-pumps on board a battleship in time of war.

The next missive, a post-card, written by some one to his wife, was slightly more exciting:

'My dear Wife, – a p. – c. to let you know that I am still alright, dear, hoping you and the children are the same dear. received your letter alright dear and I was pleased to hear that you are getting on alright also the children. well, Darling, I am sending you the flannel dear hope you will get it alright. I hope you get my Post-cards regular. I see by your letter you have not got any yet. let me know if you have got the money yet dear if not I will send you a letter to copy out and send for it it will be quite alright dear. let me know as soon as possible Dear. so now with love to you dear and the children with many kisses from your loving husband,

'Bert.'

The padre chuckled, stamped the affectionate and strangely punctuated effusion, and passed on to the next.

It was a letter from one of the sub-lieutenants to his aunt Janet – a rich Aunt Janet, judging from the letter. He thanked her affectionately for one pound of peppermints, a beautiful knitted muffler, and a pair of mittens, and assured her that they would keep him as warm as toast during the rigours of the coming winter. And did Aunt Janet know of any place where one could buy cheap but reliable vacuum flasks to hold a quart, and a decent pair of six-power prism binoculars? He had broken his own, he said, but had heard that those made by Messrs Ross of Cockspur Street, London, were very good. He was not quite certain, however, and would like to have her advice before buying them. He added one or two bloodthirsty remarks about Huns, remarks calculated to reduce the good lady to a state of considerable alarm if she was at all inclined to be timid, furnished the information that he was as fit as a fiddle, and remained her loving nephew.

The censor smiled, remembered that the young officer in question had written to numerous other ladies thanking them for winter comforts, and asked himself how many mufflers, mittens, balaclava helmets, body belts, and pairs of socks the sub really possessed. They must run into dozens.

He stamped and sealed the letter, took the next envelope which came to hand, but, having read a few lines of its contents, frowned:

'Dere Wife' – it ran – 'i hope this finds you as it leaves me. we have had a terrible time, and last week we had a fierce and bloody battle in the North sea with the Germans, sinking many of them and some of ours likewise was sunk and many brave lads killed, we come back into harbour with the mainmast gorn and the funnels nearly falling down with the holes in them the ship was a terrible sight and the skipper was wounded bad but still fought on, the commander was killed and 40 men likewise the engineer commander and the chief pusser wot was in the sick bay at the time. Our ship done gallant and our decks running in blood i am alright and did not suffer a scratch but still feel the strain it was awful and now dere wife goodbye and many kisses from your loving husband

Ted.'

The Belligerent, to the great disgust of her ship's company, had not as yet been in action, while every one of her officers and men was still very much alive and kicking. The whole letter was a tissue of lies from beginning to end, and what had induced the man to write it, or had led him to imagine that the censors would pass it, the padre could not think. He glanced through the bloodthirsty missive again, picked up the envelope and looked at the address, and then stretched out a hand and pressed an electric bell-push.

'I want to see Stoker Walley of No. 67 mess,' he said when a bluejacket messenger answered his ring.

Ten minutes later there came a knock at the door. 'Did ye send for Stoker Walley, surr?' inquired a voice.

'Yes,' said the padre wearily. 'Come inside, Walley.'

The stoker, a burly fellow six feet tall, and broad in proportion, removed his cap, entered gingerly, and stood strictly to attention. He was unused to being invited into officers' cabins.

'Did you write this letter to your wife, Walley? the chaplain asked, picking up the offending missive.

'Oi did, surr,' said the man, not the least abashed.

'Don't you know that the censorship regulations forbid you to say anything about the movements of ships or what they're doing?'

'Oi do, surr. But what Oi've put in me letter isn't what's been happenin', surr.' He was perfectly correct in his statement, for what he had written was nothing but the wildest fiction.

The padre smiled. 'No,' he remarked, turning round in his chair and looking up at him, 'I dare say it isn't true. But doesn't it strike you, Walley, that you're doing a very wrong thing in writing like this? The letter's a falsehood from beginning to end.'

'Oi didn't mean no harm, surr,' the stoker protested, rather puzzled.

'No, perhaps not. Have you ever heard of the Defence of the Realm Act?'

'Oi have not, surr.'

'Well, I believe the Act lays it down that any one spreading false information is liable to a very severe penalty. You don't want to be punished, do you?'

'Oi do not, surr,' said Walley stolidly, quite unable to understand how he had offended. 'Oi've never been a defaulter since I joined the navy.'

'You'll soon get into trouble if you write letters like this,' the padre observed grimly. 'Suppose I took this one to the captain, and asked him to read it? I think you'd find he would regard it as a very serious offence.'

'Oi'm sorry, surr, if Oi've done wrong, surr,' the stoker answered, nervously fidgeting with his cap. 'Oi only wrote a bit of a yarn like t' amuse the missis.'

'To amuse your wife!' ejaculated the chaplain. 'Surely, surely your wife must be feeling a little anxious about you?'

'P'r'aps, surr. Oi don't rightly know,' admitted the culprit. 'P'r'aps she is a bit anxious like, surr.'

'Of course she is, Walley. Any woman is bound to be anxious with her husband at sea in war-time. Tell me now, truthfully, do you really think that a letter like this will make her feel any less anxious? You go into gruesome details of a fight at sea which has never taken place, and expect her to be – er – amused. 'Pon my soul, I've never heard of such a thing.'

'Oi'm sorry, surr. Oi didn't mean no harm.'

The chaplain sighed. 'Well,' he pointed out, 'I consider you acted very wrongly in writing this letter at all; and besides that, you're being very unfair to your wife. After all, she deserves a little consideration – what?'

'Ye haven't seen me wife, surr,' said the stoker. 'She likes a bit of excitement now and then.'

The chaplain got rather annoyed. 'I dare say she does,' he answered; 'but that is no excuse for your sending her a letter which is nothing but a pack of lies. Now look here, Walley,' he added very sternly, 'if I took this matter forward you would find yourself in serious trouble. I don't want that to happen, though, so I'll tear it up; but you must promise me faithfully you'll never write a letter like this again. Will you promise?'

'Oi will, surr,' said the man, looking genuinely frightened. 'Thankin' ye very much all the same, surr.'

The censor tore the letter into minute fragments and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. 'There,' he said, 'that's the last you'll hear of it, Walley; but don't let it occur again. You can keep the envelope, and if you're quick you'll just have time to write another letter before the mail leaves. No horrors this time, mind. Tell your wife you're well and happy, and all that sort of thing. D'you understand?'

'Oi do, surr,' the stoker replied sheepishly, taking the envelope. 'Thank ye, surr.' He left the cabin.

'Heigho!' yawned the padre, resuming his unwelcome occupation; 'I've been in the service for seven years, but it seems I don't understand the men yet. I wonder if I ever shall!' He often asks himself the same question.

III

'I'm fed up wi' this 'ere war!' exclaimed Pincher Martin, flinging away the fag-end of a cigarette with a petulant gesture. 'It's bin goin' on fur over four bloomin' months, an' we ain't see'd a ruddy thing yet!'

'Th' way some o' you blokes talks makes me fair sick,' Able Seaman Billings retorted. 'S'pose yer 'ad see'd somethin', as yer calls it, yer might 'ave lost th' number o' yer mess. W'y carn't yer be content wi' wot ye've got? That's wot I wants ter know.'

Pincher snorted. 'Content wi' wot I've got!' he jeered. ''Ow kin I be? I reckons I wants ter fight, same as other blokes.'

Joshua laughed. ''Ark at th' little cock-sparrer!' he said, turning to M'Sweeny. 'Did ye 'ear wot 'e sed, Tubby?'

'I did, chum,' agreed M'Sweeny severely, sucking hard at a particularly evil-smelling pipe. ''E sez 'e wants ter fight, an' I reckons 'e'll git orl 'e wants afore long. We'll all git more'n we wants in th' way o' fightin' afore we've finished this 'ere war. Them Germans ain't fools.'

'Don't yer want ter fight yerself, Tubby?' Pincher inquired.

M'Sweeny thought for a moment. 'Carn't say 'xactly as 'ow I don't, Pincher, an' carn't say as 'ow I does.'

'Wot yer jine th' navy fur else?'

'Jine the navy! W'y, I jines th' navy 'cos I thought it wus a good perfession.'

'Fightin' perfession,' Pincher supplemented.

'Yus; but yer don't seem t' understand wot I means,' Tubby explained. 'It's like this 'ere. I don't mind fightin' if it comes ter fightin'; but I sez that any bloke wot sez 'e likes it arter 'e's once 'ad it is a bloomin' liar. I ain't afraid o' them Germans,' he added. 'I ain't afraid o' any one wot I knows of; but I sez war's a norrible thing.'

'An' so it is,' agreed Joshua. 'You wait till yer 'as yer fu'st little bu'st up, Pincher; yer won't want another fur a bit. It's orl right ter talk th' same as yer do, but yer don't know wot it's like same as me an' Tubby.'

'But you an' Tubby ain't never bin in action,' Pincher protested.

'No, we ain't,' said Billings. 'But we ain't 'ot-'eaded young blokes same as you. We thinks abart things, an' looks at things more serious like. We doesn't mind fightin' w'en it comes; but we ain't anxious ter fight 'cos we likes it – see? I reckons no bloke really does, an' them as talks most gen'rally does least w'en it comes ter th' time. Me an' Tubby 'as seen things you 'aven't,' he added; 'so we two knows wot we're talkin' abart.'

M'Sweeny gave an assenting nod.

''Ow d'yer mean?' Pincher wanted to know. 'Wot is it ye've seen wot I ain't?'

'I'll tell yer,' said Billings. – 'Tubby, d'yer remember that 'ere gun explosion we 'ad w'en me an' you wus shipmates up th' Straits?'

'Yus, I do, chum.'

'Explosion! 'Ow did it 'appen?' Pincher demanded. 'Spin us th' yarn.'

'Ain't I spinnin' it as fast as I can?' said Joshua, rather testily. 'Don't be so impatient! Well, we 'ad our six-inch guns in that ship in casemates like we've got 'ere. Yer knows wot a casemate is, don't yer?'

Pincher did not condescend to reply.

'Well, they wus firin' at th' time, an' somethin' 'appened, an' a cartridge hexploded afore th' breech o' th' gun was properly closed.' Joshua paused.

'An' wot 'appened?'

'There was an 'ell of an explosion an' a big flare up, an' four blokes belongin' ter th' gun wus blowed sky-'igh, an' orl th' others wus badly messed up. I wus in there soon arter it 'appened. It makes me fair sick ter think of it.'

'Wot! blood?' Pincher queried breathlessly.

'Blood!' Billings sniffed. 'Buckets of it, an' bits o' poor blokes wot 'ad bin breathin' men a few minutes afore plastered orl over th' sides an' roof. 'Orrors ain't in it. Arms an' legs blowed orf, an' th' 'ole place drippin' somethin' crool! – Wasn't it, Tubby?'

'It wus, chum,' M'Sweeny corroborated.

'I reckons that if ye'd seen that, Pincher, ye'd never say as 'ow ye likes th' idea o' fightin',' Joshua went on. 'If we goes into action it'll be somethin' like that, only wuss.'

'Don't sound good,' Pincher admitted grudgingly.

'Don't look good neither, w'en bits o' blokes 'as ter be scraped up in shovels,' said M'Sweeny grimly. 'We ain't frightened o' fightin', me an' Billings isn't, yer see, but we've see'd things wot you youngsters 'asn't, an' we knows wot it's like.'

Martin made no reply.

So, on the whole, their only feelings, after four months of war, were those of regret and envy – regret because they themselves had not been in action, envy for those of their comrades who had. They were sorry for those of their relations and friends who had been killed in action ashore and afloat, but, like the inscrutable people they were, accepted their fate in a calm and philosophical spirit which must have seemed positively callous to any outsider. To people who do not understand them, however, our seamen always do appear callous. They seem to treat death in a very casual and light-hearted fashion, due, perhaps, to the fact that they themselves have stared Him in the face so often that they have become inured to His presence. Familiarity with danger does breed contempt for death.

But yet, in reality, bluejackets are among the kindest-hearted men alive, and the sight of a howling infant in a street will attract the hard-earned coppers from their pockets like steel filings to a magnet. It is said that one child in a certain naval port discovered this generous trait, and invented a new profession on the strength of it. He did not beg or whine – did not utter a word, in fact; but, with true commercial instinct, plastered his face with mud, stationed himself near the dockyard gates when the libertymen were streaming back to their ships in the evening, and wept bitterly – merely wept. The pathetic sight aroused the bluejackets' sympathy and opened their purse-strings, and at the end of the nightly performance the youth – aged eight – went home with a cheerful grin and his pockets bulging with pennies. The game could not go on for long, of course; but it was a very paying one while it lasted.

But though Christmas was nearly upon them, and they had never had a 'scrap,' as they termed it, the men secretly revelled in the thought that they, in common with the remainder of the navy and army, also came under the category of what to the great British public were 'our gallant defenders.' Their natural modesty forbade them thinking about themselves as 'gallant,' 'brave,' or 'heroic,' adjectives which were sometimes hurled at their heads by people at home. They were merely doing their ordinary peace-time job, with a few extra dangers thrown in in the shape of submarines and mines; but they did derive no small satisfaction in realising that folk at home recognised that they were doing their bit, and liked to know that a sudden and very overwhelming interest was being taken in their welfare. Overwhelming in more senses than one.

Wives, mothers, aunts, female cousins, sweethearts, and lady friends seemed to be consoling themselves for the absence at sea of their husbands, sons, nephews, cousins, 'young men,' and acquaintances by an orgy of knitting. Avalanches of woollen home-knitted mufflers, balaclava helmets, mittens, gloves, jerseys, and body-belts, besides shoals of socks, soon came pouring in by every mail, until every officer and man in the Belligerent had received a full outfit of everything necessary to keep out the cold. They were duly grateful for the kind attention, for the mufflers of thick blue wool and the warm socks were as different from the ordinary articles of commerce as cheese is from chalk. Some of the things had stamped post-cards attached on which the fair knitters desired an acknowledgment; and, judging from what the censors said, the ladies were not disappointed. Others bore little silver paper horseshoes for good luck, while many of the socks arrived with cigarettes and chocolates, either loose or in packets, snugly ensconced inside.

'I thought there wus somethin' wrong wi' this 'ere!' Pincher remarked one day, removing his right sock, turning it inside-out, and discovering the coagulated remains of several chocolate creams. 'I thought it felt a bit knobby-like w'en I puts 'im on, an' now I've bin an' gorn an' wasted 'em!' It was a dire calamity, for Pincher had a sweet tooth, and regretted the loss of his chocolates far more than the energy he would presently have to expend on cleansing the sock of its stickiness.

People who did not knit sent other things instead. Well-to-do folk provided gramophones and records, boxes of fruit and game, vacuum flasks, warm waistcoats, books, jig-saw puzzles, and games, all of which were very welcome. One public-spirited gentleman, a yacht-owner, forwarded a consignment of many dozen brand-new 'sevenpennies,' and was blessed for his gift. Societies and clubs sent more reading matter; and though it is true that Chatterbox for 1891 and bound copies of a poultry journal for 1887 do not appeal to modern sailors as they should, the greater portion of what arrived was eagerly seized upon and as eagerly read.

The men's friends themselves contributed regular consignments of newspapers, tobacco, cigarettes, soap, tooth-powder, biscuits, home-made cakes, sweets of all kinds, fruit, tomatoes done up in flimsy brown-paper parcels, and many other articles of food and utility too numerous to be mentioned in detail. These gifts also were most acceptable, though it was found that bull's-eyes and peppermints sometimes had an unhappy knack of melting in transit, while as often as not the fruit and tomatoes were found at the very bottom of the mail-bags in the form of a nauseating, ready-made salad well impregnated with brown paper, string, and the rapidly disintegrating contents of other people's parcels.

What with the extra food and their warm garments, the figures of the 'gallant defenders' rapidly assumed elephantine proportions. Thin sailors became bulbous; fat sailors became colossal. They had never had such a time in all their lives.