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.
[Illustration]