Benedict Jones - Hell Ship

There was the bark of an order and two shots rang out. They watched the Canadian skid and fall, shot through both legs. The Japanese officer pointed his riding crop at the fallen man and shouted. Two soldiers ran forward with thin rope, not much thicker than cord, in their hands. The other nine men watched as the soldiers tied the Canadian’s arms together and to his body in a series of ever more complex knots. Once they were done they dragged him over through the gore to the open rails. He was punched until he knelt, forehead touching the deck. One of the burly executioners stepped forward and planted his feet. The katana was brought up and the other soldiers watching took in a breath as one. The blade dropped and the Canadian’s head rolled away like a melon falling from a fruit stall. The second swordsman picked up the head and dropped it in a basket while the first used his foot to roll the decapitated soldier to the side. Another kick and he went over, disappearing from view with a splash into the sea. The man who had kicked him over turned and smiled at those who remained as he used the rag to wipe clean the blade of his sword.

‘This is murder, murder plain and simple,’ muttered Nunhead.

‘And what they’ve been doing to us these last two years wasn’t?’

Nunhead had to concede Cort-Smith’s point, but this was different. Another man was pulled from the group and the process was repeated. The complex knots, the dragging through the spilt blood and then the beheading.

‘Looks like this is it, old man.’

‘How can you be so bloody blasé about this?’

‘Oh, I’m not, Bill. But I am resigned to it – and at least it’s clean. I’d much rather die clean, I decided on that a long time ago but I’ve never been brave enough to see it through.’

Nunhead looked around; he could see the officers of the ship watching through the windows of the bridge, up to the higher deck where the officer in the pith helmet stood watching and it was then that he saw the figure who stood next to the officer. He was shorter than the officer and slightly bent, as though he had a partial hunch, his face was hidden in the shadows cast from his conical hat. He was clad in robes of so dark a blue that they were almost black, a string of prayer beads as large as golf balls was hanging down from his neck, and he leant on a long thin staff. In this world of machines, guns, soldiers, and uniforms the man stood out as an anachronism who looked like he belonged in some earlier century, whispering advice in the ear of a Shogun or Daimyo, a Samurai lord’s religious advisor.

The guards grabbed at Cort-Smith and the blonde officer seemed intent to go quietly but Nunhead could not accept his friend’s acquiescence. He stepped forward from the side and drove his head into the guard’s face. Nunhead grunted in grim satisfaction as he felt the man’s nose break and he grabbed for the rifle. There was shouting one of the other guards stabbed out with his bayonet which bit into Nunhead’s side. The scream of his friend drove Cort-Smith to action. He brought his knee up hard into the guard’s groin and then punched him in the throat. Weak as it was the blow choked away the guard’s breath and the Japanese soldier threw his hands up to his throat letting go of his rifle.

Nunhead struggled for the rifle of his guard and Cort-Smith scooped the fallen weapon up from the deck, working the bolt as he did so. He turned and shot the guard that Nunhead was struggling with through the head. Nunhead’s heart rose. They had a chance, slim as it was. Bang-bang-bang; three shots in swift succession. Cort-Smith coughed and stumbled forward. The officer with the riding crop stood above them with his Nimbu pistol in his hand, smoke rising from the barrel. Nunhead swung the rifle determined to avenge his fallen friend. Something hard smashed into his temple and the world span. His legs went from under him and Nunhead hit the deck. He looked across at Cort-Smith and watched the light go out of his eyes. Nunhead sobbed and when he was picked up he did not struggle.

When they tied the knots around his wrists and body the ropes cut into him and burned his flesh. Then he was up and being dragged over to the side. Cort-Smith had said at least it was clean this way and Nunhead found himself agreeing with his friend as he was pinned to the deck. The katana went up and then came down. Another head in a basket, another body as shark bait, the circle continues.

The officer and the priest watched the sky; shapes swirled behind the blue and the sky began to change and twist as though other skies were pressing at it from behind. The blue seemed to bulge, darker colours trying to show through. The priest turned to look at the soldier.

‘Yori oku no dansei.’ More men .

The officer nodded and thunder broke somewhere in the distance.

Dark. Wet. Cold. Cold enough to steal the breath from your lungs – and it does. You go under and taste salt. Fight your way back to the surface and blink the seawater from your eyes. The sky above you is as dark as the water beneath. You wonder if the tattoos on your feet will do their jobs; a pig on the top of your right foot and a chicken atop the left. Everyone knows that pigs and chickens can’t swim, even God, and if he were to look down and see those ink animals on your feet you hope he would take mercy and put you down on land.

The sky above you is lit suddenly, a flare from your ruined ship that lies behind you. How long till it goes down? Machine parts in the hold so it could be mere minutes. You push away trying to put some distance between yourself and the broken ship that you called home. The waves are choppy and high. One raises above you and then crashes down like a cleaver onto a butcher’s block pushing you towards the deep.

Break free of the icy fingers clutching at your limbs and drag a breath into your lungs. That’s two. You go under the third time and you don’t come back up. Everyone knows that. What was it that got you; submarine, mine, raider, some terrible mechanical fault with the engines? Does it matter? You are in the water now, the dark water, and alone on the grace of God.

The moonlight plays across something and you strain your neck like the turtles you saw in the Seychelles, desperate to see, to believe. Yes, yes, it is. A boat. Some bastard, some glorious bastard must have managed to launch a boat before the ship tilted. You’ve been in the water before. Made it to a boat then and you can make it to the boat again.

Arms like lead now but you swing them, no pretence at technique, and try to crawl through the blackness towards the boat. You kick your legs desperate to stay on the surface, fearing what may lie below (crucifixes inked on the soles of your feet to ward them off).

The sea is your enemy tonight; for every stroke of your arms the water pushes you back three. You kick and fight, claw at the ocean and try to drag yourself through it. Risk a look for the boat and see that it is further away than when you started. Whisper a prayer to God and another to Neptune – it always pays to hedge your bets.

The boat drops away over a wave and you see the wall of blackness coming for you. As it rises above you the fight goes out of your limbs, easier to rest now and let this take its course. You wish you had never made it off the ship, wish you didn’t know how to swim, wish that you hadn’t even tried.

Five souls sat in the jolly boat and watched the Empire Carew burn. Occasionally the fires would flare and light up the sky above them. The jolly boat was a decent enough size, space for around thirty people at a push. A young man in a white double-breasted officer’s jacket and white cap looked around him at those in the boat with him; a deckhand he vaguely recognised, Putner from the radio room, one of the black lads from the kitchens, and a young woman he guessed was one of the small contingent of Australian nurses which they had been carrying as well as the cargo of machine parts.