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.