Chapter IX: The Port Look-Out

There is a tendency among some people to regard war as a morally uplifting pursuit. Because a man fights in the cause of right and freedom, it is believed by quite a large section of those who don’t fight that he goes about the business in a completely regenerate spirit, unhampered by any of the human failings that were apt to beset him in pre-war days. Be that as it may, Able Seaman Pettigrew, wearer of no good conduct badges and incorrigible leave-breaker in peace-time, remained in war merely Able Seaman Pettigrew, leave-breaker, and still minus good conduct badges.

He stood at the door of a London public-house, contemplating the night distastefully. The wind howled down the muddy street, and the few lamps casting smears of yellow light at intervals along the thoroughfare only served to illuminate the driving rain. His leave expired at 7 a.m. the following morning, and he had just time to catch the last train to Portsmouth that night. To do Mr. Pettigrew justice, he had completed the first stage of his journey--the steps of the public-house--with that laudable end in view. Here, however, he faltered, and as he faltered he remembered a certain hospitable lady of his acquaintance who lived south of the river.

“To ’ell!” said Mr. Pettigrew recklessly, and swung himself into a passing bus. As he climbed the steps he noted that it passed Waterloo station, and for an instant the flame of good intent, temporarily dowsed, flickered into life again. His ship, he remembered, was under sailing orders. He found himself alone on top of the bus, and walked forward to the front left-hand seat. For a moment he stood there, gripping the rail and peering ahead through the stinging rain while the bus lurched and skidded on its way through deserted streets. Then his imagination, quickened somewhat by hot whisky and water, obliterated the impulse of conscience. He saw himself twenty-four hours later, standing thus as port look-out on board his destroyer, peering ahead through the drenching spray, gripping the rail with numbed hands....

“Oh--to _’ell_!” said Mr. Pettigrew again, and sitting down gave himself up sullenly to amorous anticipation....

He was interrupted by a girl’s voice at his elbow.

“Fare, please.”

He turned his head, and saw it was the conductress, a slim, compact figure swaying easily to the lurch of the vehicle. Her fingers touched his as she handed him the ticket, and they were bitterly cold.

“Nice night, ain’t it?” said Mr. Pettigrew.

“Not ’arf,” said the girl philosophically. “But there! it ain’t so bad for us ’s what it is for them boys in the trenches.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Pettigrew archly. “Them boys--_’im_, you means.”

The girl shook her head swiftly. Seen in the gleam of a passing lamp, her face was pretty, and glistening with rain. “Not me,” she said. “There was two--my brothers--but they went West. There’s only me left ... carryin’ on.” The bus lurched violently, causing the little conductress to lose her balance, and her weight rested momentarily against Mr. Pettigrew’s shoulder. She recovered her equilibrium instantly without self-consciousness, and stood looking absently ahead into the darkness.

“That’s what we’ve all got to do, ain’t it?” she said--“do our bit....”

She jingled the coppers in her bag, and turned abruptly.

Mr. Pettigrew watched the trim, self-respecting little figure till it vanished down the steps.

“Oh ’ell!” he groaned, as imperious flesh and immortal spirit awoke to renew the unending combat.

Five minutes later the conductress reappeared at Mr. Pettigrew’s shoulder.

“Waterloo,” she said. “That’s where all you boys gets off, ain’t it ...? You’re for Portsmouth, I s’pose?”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Pettigrew. He jerked to his feet, gripping his bundle, and made for the steps with averted head. “’Night,” he said brusquely. The bus slowed and stopped.

“Good luck,” said the girl.

* * * * *

The port look-out gripped the bridge-rail to steady himself, and stared out through the driving spray and the darkness as the destroyer thrashed her way down Channel. He was chosen for the trick because of his eyesight. “I gotter eye like a adjective ’awk,” Mr. Pettigrew was wont to admit in his more expansive moments, and none gainsaid him the length and breadth of the destroyer’s mess-deck. None gainsaid him on the bridge that night when suddenly he wheeled inboard and bawled at the full strength of his lungs:

“Objec’ on the port bow, sir!”

There was an instant’s pause; a confused shouting of orders, a vision of the coxswain struggling at the kicking wheel as the helm went over, and a man’s clear voice saying--“By God! we’ve got her!”

Then came the stunning shock of the impact, the grinding crash of blunt metal shearing metal, more shouts, faces seen white for an instant against the dark waters, something scraping past the side of the forecastle, and finally a dull explosion aft.

“Rammed a submarine and sunk the perisher!” shouted the yeoman in Mr. Pettigrew’s ear. “Wake up! what the ’ell’s up--are ye dazed?”

Mr. Pettigrew was considerably more dazed when he was sent for the following day in harbour by his captain. From force of custom on obeying such summonses, the ship’s black sheep removed his cap.[4]

“Put your damned cap on,” said the lieutenant-commander. Mr. Pettigrew replaced his cap. “Now shake hands.” Mr. Pettigrew shook hands. “Now go on leave.” Mr. Pettigrew obeyed.

* * * * *

For forty minutes the policeman on duty outside Waterloo Station had been keeping under observation a rather dejected-looking bluejacket carrying a bundle, who stood at the corner scrutinising the buses as they passed. Finally, with deliberate measured tread he approached the man of the sea.

“What bus do you want, mate?”

Mr. Pettigrew enlightened him as to the number.

“There’s been four of that number gone past while you was standin’ ’ere,” said the policeman, not without suspicion in his tones.

“I’m very partickler about buses,” said Mr. Pettigrew coldly.

“Well,” said the constable, “’ere’s another one.”

The sailor waited till it slowed up abreast of them. His blue eyes were cocked on the rear end.

“An’ _this_ ’ere’s the right one,” said Mr. Pettigrew.

He stepped briskly into the roadway, ran half a dozen paces, and swung himself on to the footboard beside the conductress.