Storm Below. Hugh Garner
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down the dusty platform towards the ugly red-brick waiting room. Over their shoulders would be slung the gas masks which were the mark of the overseas man. His mother would be standing there, and as she saw him she would nudge his sister Shirley before beginning her run towards him on shoes that were just a little too tight for a lady of her build and age.
He would kiss them both before introducing Knobby. “Ma, this is Knobby Clark, a shipmate of mine from Medicine Hat, Alberta. He’s going to stay here for part of his leave.” Then he would turn to Knobby and say, “And this is my kid sister Shirley.”
After the introductions were over and they were seated in the taxi he would be asked, “What does it feel like to be on land again?” by a mother who wanted the taxi driver to share with her the knowledge that her son was a seagoing man.
Later, after a supper that consisted of real, honest-to-God roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, they would go for a walk, he and Knobby, and stop in at Beaulieu’s Tavern at the corner for a quick one. Mr. Beaulieu would look at them, mentally gauging their ages, then, seeing their uniforms, would shrug and place the sweating glasses of ale before them.
They would talk of the English pubs, not too loudly, but loud enough to let the civilians hear, and after a few to “give them an edge on” they would take a trolley downtown to St. Catherine Street and see what they could do in the way of picking up a couple of girls....
When the watches changed at eight o’clock Butch eased himself gingerly over the side of the crow’s nest and scrambled down the mast to the bridge. Two of the officers were talking and laughing together as they stood against the voice pipes. One of them was Mr.
Bowers, the first lieutenant, and the other was the Jewish-looking one, Harris. They stepped aside absentmindedly as he passed them.
He hurried to the mess, realizing that if he was late most of the issue would be eaten, and that he would have to make a trip to the galley with his plate. This was a foolhardy undertaking while the leading cook was there. It was better to go hungry or fill up with bread and butter rather than have this martinet give out with a blast about young ordinary seamen who came for second helpings just because the weather was calm.
As he entered the mess he became aware of the aura of quiet where usually at this time of day there was noise and laughter. He peeled off his coat and cap and threw them over the hammock rack.
Instead of the debris of plates and cutlery the table usually contained, there was a person lying asleep. He thought, with a feeling of alarm, “Oh, God, I’m either too early or too late this morning!”
He moved closer, holding with one hand to a stanchion, and peered into the face of Knobby. “Well, you old son-of-a-gun!” he cried, happy to find that it was his friend who lay there. “Get up, we want to eat!”
“Stow it, dough-head!” a voice called from across the mess.
“What’s the matter? I can wake Knobby up, can’t I?”
“Leave him alone; can’t you see he’s hurt?”
He stared at the figure on the table. “Hurt?” he asked bewilderedly.
“He’s got a broken arm. Come on over here and eat.”
Poor Knobby! He had looked forward so much to his visiting with him in Montreal. Now they would be sure to take him off in Newfoundland and send him to hospital. He brightened suddenly.
And yet that didn’t mean that he would be unable to go. By the time they got their leave Knobby’s arm would be healed and he could come back to the ship. Sure, what was he worrying about!
He moved over behind the table and sat down on the locker. Maybe Knobby would like a cup of tea, he thought. He began shaking him by the shoulder to awaken him. Knobby’s eyelids fluttered and he turned his head, but did not awaken.
“Hey, Jenkins, here’s your grub over here,” Leading Seaman McCaffrey yelled through a mouthful of food. “Come and get it while it’s warm.”
“I don’t want any. I’ll sit here with Knobby until he wakes up.” “Suit yourself,” answered McCaffrey. Butch could hear him asking which of the others wanted an extra egg.
He and Knobby had gone through training class together. They had been inseparable on the liner going over to Scotland, and in the barracks there they had been together every time they got the chance. When the draft came for two men to proceed to Londonderry for the Riverford they had asked for it and, miracle of miracles, they had been sent together.
He was a year younger than Knobby, but between them was the bond which joins the last two entries into a mess, or the two youngest members of a group, anywhere. During the incubation period, before a man proves himself to his fellows, he is lonely and hurt at their misunderstanding. He wants them to know him as he really is, but is prevented from showing them by the fact that he cannot hurry up the process without being brash and forward, and thus defeating his purpose. Knobby had been a fellow sufferer upon whom he had leaned for the companionship denied him by the others. To remain alone was unthinkable.
Low, so that the others could not hear him, he whispered, “Knobby!”There was no movement to reward his plea. He pushed his way under the hammocks and went below to the sick bay, the euphemism given to a small cupboard screwed on the bulkhead in a corner of the communications mess. The sick berth attendant was eating his breakfast by himself. He looked up as Jenkins descended the ladder. “What do you want?” he asked.
“It’s about Knobby.”
“What about him?”
“He looks pretty sick.”
“Do you want me to hold his hand?” asked Bodley sarcastically. The remark was not meant to show a lack of feeling toward the injured man, but was a protective mechanism thrown up by a person who knows that something is beyond his limitations.
“I want you to do something for him,” cried Butch angrily. “Listen, mate, I’ve done everything I can, so far. After breakfast we might move him into one of the officers’ bunks, and I think that the Old Man is going to get the MO over from the St. Helens,” Bodley said, his impatience gone now as he saw the genuine distress upon the other’s face.
“Oh,” said Butch, mollified. He was glad to learn that others were also trying to do something for Knobby. “Okay, thanks!”
He hurried up the ladder and took his place again beside the table upon which Knobby was lying. He straightened out the blanket covering the boy, being careful not to move the injured arm. After this was done he sat staring silently at the face of his friend.
From across the mess could be heard the subdued laughter and talk of the other seamen. A stoker came through the hatch from below and took a look at Knobby. He asked an unspoken question of Butch, who shook his head.
After a few minutes Knobby seemed to rally. His head twisted on the rolled-up duffle coat serving as a pillow, and his legs stretched as though feeling for the bottom of a bed.
“That-a-boy, Knobby!” Jenkins said. “You’ve got it beat, kid.
Wake up, fella, this is Butch here.”
“How’s he doing?” McCaffrey asked from the other table.
“He’s coming round.”
“Sure, he’ll be all right.”
Butch lifted Knobby’s head and cradled it in his arm. The boy lifted his eyelids and stared uncomprehendingly at the low ceiling of hammocks above his face. Then he turned his eyes and looked at Jenkins. His good arm moved from beneath the blanket and gripped Butch by the front of his shirt.
“That’s the stuff, Knobby. Relax, kid, and I’ll get you a cup of tea,” said Butch happily.
The hand gripping his shirt twisted itself into the denim, and Knobby’s eyes fluttered wildly before rolling back into their sockets. His breath was expelled in a long, low snarl, and from his nose and ears the too-red blood flowed down in