Canteen Flat where Bongo Lewis was in charge of Number One Damage Control Section.
A motley rabble of stokers, electrician’s mates, shipwrights, E.R.A.s, stewards and sick berth attendants choked the flat outside the Base. A Chief Stoker was standing on a hatch cover calling out names and ticking them off on a board. Michael could see no order or rote in the roll-call but one by one men crept furtively away to unknown destinations and for unnamed reasons.
Inside the Base itself were Bongo Lewis, a stoker on the switchboard, an E.R.A. wearing a pair of headphones, and a miscellaneous rating, who might have been a cook or a steward, crouched in a corner smoking a cigarette.
Bongo was speaking on the telephone and grimacing at the bulkhead.
“I don’t think that’s possible, sir. ... If you remember, we tried it last time, sir. . . . No, we couldn’t get it out for days. . . . But sir. . . . Aye aye, sir.”
Bongo replaced the telephone and looked despondently at Michael.
“Christ Almighty,” he said. “Commander (E) wants to exercise taking a pump down the Naval Store and pumping it out. Last time we did it, it broke somebody’s foot and got jammed down there. We had to burn away a stanchion to get it out.”
The loudspeaker on the bulkhead hummed, and spoke.
“All sections, this is H.Q. One, report when your sections are closed up and in Damage Control State One.”
The stoker on the switchboard, who had the name “Yorky” in white paint across his shirt pocket, came to life. He picked up a telephone and made two switches.
“This is D.C. Base One section closed up and in Damage Control State One,” he said, without consulting Bongo Lewis or even asking any other person for information.
“All sections, this is H.Q. One, test communications.”
Yorky began to test communications. He settled down to the job in comfort, as though he understood it perfectly and knew that it would take him at least an hour.
“ ‘C’ Fire and Repair Party,” he said, “this is D.C. Base One, testing communications, how do you hear me?” He paused and looked up at the deckhead. “ ‘C’ Fire and Repair Party this is D.C. Base One, how do you hear me?” He paused again. “ ‘C’ Fire and Repair Party, this is D.C. Base One, how do you hear. . . . Hello, that you Jumper? Yorky here. How’s yourself? Loud and clear? Loud and clear also. Cheers, oppo.” Yorky reset the switches and made two more. “ ‘A’ Magazine Flood, this is D.C. Base One. . .
“It’s pointless testing communications really,” Bongo said to Michael. “There’s never anything wrong with the telephones. The trouble is getting somebody to speak on them the other end. This section is so big once people get away from the base you can never find them again. They just disappear like water in the sands of the Nile. It’s all right for people like Paul. His base is next door to his cabin and he’s got everything all round him. I have to keep half a dozen hands outside the door here so I’ve always got someone I can send right away. Who are you?”
The crouching figure in the corner stood up.
“I’m a . . .”
“Take that cigarette out of your mouth! “
“I’m a steward, sir.”
“Yes, but what are you?”
“I’m the runner, sir,” the steward said shamefacedly, as though he were confessing to some loathsome disability.
“The runner! Didn’t know we had one. Well, run round to the Chief Stoker in the Capstan Flat and tell him to start getting his pump down into the Naval Store. We’ll be needing it.”
Bongo sat down and put his feet up on the table.
“It always takes them a quarter of an hour to get themselves sorted out in H.Q. One,” he explained to Michael.
Michael looked outside. He was repelled by the hostile stares of six stokers who were squatting on the deck. They all wore blue overalls with their names painted across the pocket. Michael noticed that the names fell into clearly defined groups. There were
A motley rabble of stokers, electrician’s mates, shipwrights, E.R.A.s, stewards and sick berth attendants choked the flat outside the Base. A Chief Stoker was standing on a hatch cover calling out names and ticking them off on a board. Michael could see no order or rote in the roll-call but one by one men crept furtively away to unknown destinations and for unnamed reasons.
Inside the Base itself were Bongo Lewis, a stoker on the switchboard, an E.R.A. wearing a pair of headphones, and a miscellaneous rating, who might have been a cook or a steward, crouched in a corner smoking a cigarette.
Bongo was speaking on the telephone and grimacing at the bulkhead.
“I don’t think that’s possible, sir. ... If you remember, we tried it last time, sir. . . . No, we couldn’t get it out for days. . . . But sir. . . . Aye aye, sir.”
Bongo replaced the telephone and looked despondently at Michael.
“Christ Almighty,” he said. “Commander (E) wants to exercise taking a pump down the Naval Store and pumping it out. Last time we did it, it broke somebody’s foot and got jammed down there. We had to burn away a stanchion to get it out.”
The loudspeaker on the bulkhead hummed, and spoke.
“All sections, this is H.Q. One, report when your sections are closed up and in Damage Control State One.”
The stoker on the switchboard, who had the name “Yorky” in white paint across his shirt pocket, came to life. He picked up a telephone and made two switches.
“This is D.C. Base One section closed up and in Damage Control State One,” he said, without consulting Bongo Lewis or even asking any other person for information.
“All sections, this is H.Q. One, test communications.”
Yorky began to test communications. He settled down to the job in comfort, as though he understood it perfectly and knew that it would take him at least an hour.
“ ‘C’ Fire and Repair Party,” he said, “this is D.C. Base One, testing communications, how do you hear me?” He paused and looked up at the deckhead. “ ‘C’ Fire and Repair Party this is D.C. Base One, how do you hear me?” He paused again. “ ‘C’ Fire and Repair Party, this is D.C. Base One, how do you hear. . . . Hello, that you Jumper? Yorky here. How’s yourself? Loud and clear? Loud and clear also. Cheers, oppo.” Yorky reset the switches and made two more. “ ‘A’ Magazine Flood, this is D.C. Base One. . .
“It’s pointless testing communications really,” Bongo said to Michael. “There’s never anything wrong with the telephones. The trouble is getting somebody to speak on them the other end. This section is so big once people get away from the base you can never find them again. They just disappear like water in the sands of the Nile. It’s all right for people like Paul. His base is next door to his cabin and he’s got everything all round him. I have to keep half a dozen hands outside the door here so I’ve always got someone I can send right away. Who are you?”
The crouching figure in the corner stood up.
“I’m a . . .”
“Take that cigarette out of your mouth! “
“I’m a steward, sir.”
“Yes, but what are you?”
“I’m the runner, sir,” the steward said shamefacedly, as though he were confessing to some loathsome disability.
“The runner! Didn’t know we had one. Well, run round to the Chief Stoker in the Capstan Flat and tell him to start getting his pump down into the Naval Store. We’ll be needing it.”
Bongo sat down and put his feet up on the table.
“It always takes them a quarter of an hour to get themselves sorted out in H.Q. One,” he explained to Michael.
Michael looked outside. He was repelled by the hostile stares of six stokers who were squatting on the deck. They all wore blue overalls with their names painted across the pocket. Michael noticed that the names fell into clearly defined groups. There were
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