Benedict Jones - Hell Ship

‘I’m Lily. Reckon us girls need to stick together on this little jaunt. Where you from?’

‘Little town called Nelson, about fifty miles from Darwin. You?’

‘Stepney, love. East End of London. How comes you ended up in all this?’

‘I’ve got a brother in the army. It didn’t seem right that I just sat back on the farm and did nothing while all those lads were doing their best to stop the Germans and the Japanese.’

Lily nodded.

‘I had a brother. Killed in the desert. This fucking war…’

Amelia blanched at the language and Lily laughed.

‘Sorry, love. Too much time around soldiers and sailors – and before that I helped my old dad in his pub. Maybe one day I’ll sing for some of the RAF boys and then I’ll have to mind my Ps and Qs,’ she winked at Amelia and the nurse couldn’t help but laugh.

‘What is it you do?’

‘Oh, I sing; radio, concerts, wherever I get sent, try to keep the boys spirits up,’ she turned her head and gestured at Conrad Warner. ‘We passed through South Africa and then did a couple of dates in your neck of the woods. We were meant to be on our way to Ceylon and then on to India. Connie’s my agent, my manager, all of that. He says after the war is done he’ll be able to get me some proper gigs and make sure we can see some money.’

‘It sounds nice.’

Lily shrugged.

‘It is what it is I suppose. It beats living off ration books and black market meat back in Stepney.’

‘Gis a song,’ shouted Busby from his place back at the rudder.

Lily smiled.

‘My audience awaits, help me out if you can.’

And then she began to sing.

Faltering at first Amelia added her voice to Lily’s and Busby gave a clap of delight.

Amelia’s cheeks glowed red as the rest of the boat clapped. Lily gave a little bow of her head before speaking.

‘Course, when Cole Porter wrote that I think ‘e was on something of a different sort of cruise to the one we’ve ended up on…’

The water lasted three days. The cigarettes and tobacco ran out on the same day as the water. The mutton lasted them four and the biscuits five days. The condensed milk kept them alive while they waited for the rain.

The clouds grew thick and heavy above them and they waited. And waited. Lips chapped and split, skin becoming hot and dry to the touch like ancient papyrus left out in the desert. They prayed and they cursed but the sky just would not break no matter how much it threatened. Until then all they had was the dew that they collected each morning from the boat cover.

‘Almost like we got a Jonah on this boat…’ said Busby throwing a look at Snell but there was no real malice in his words, he just wanted someone to bite and give him an argument to break the monotony.

No one took him up on his offer.

Hamilton and Warner talked about music, jazz mostly. Lilly and Amelia kept close company. Busby watched Snell and Snell watched Busby. Collins moaned and begged to die. Putner kept to himself and Connelly wished that he had something, anything, to read.

‘What I wouldn’t give for a gin,’ said Lily.

Warner smiled.

‘At the Café Du Paris.’

‘Oh, naturally,’ replied Lily.

‘Cold beer for me,’ threw in Connelly, ‘so cold it makes the glass of the bottle sweat.’

‘Bottle of Cutty Sark,’ Busby.

‘Rum,’ Hamilton.

‘Beer for me too,’ Putner.

‘You don’t like beer. Have a lemonade,’ Busby again.

‘I do to, I like a beer.’

‘Let him have a beer if he wants beer,’ said Connelly, ‘and I’ll have another.’

‘Champagne all round.’

Lily looked at Warner.

‘You finally standing a round then, Connie?’

Warner gave her a wink.

‘We get out of here, kid and I promise the drinks are on me.’

‘Best make that two bottles of Cutty Sark then.’

‘For you Busby – of course! Maybe a woman as well?’

Busby closed his eyes and groaned.

‘Don’t get me started on women. There’s some little chippies in Colombo that’ll make your toes curl back up on themselves with what they can do with their mouths…’

‘Busby…’ threw in Snell but it was a half-hearted reprimand. ‘For me it’d have to be a sandwich.’

The others all looked at him, rapt.

‘What kind?’ asked Warner, sitting up.

‘Ham, sliced off a big hunk that’s been roasted with honey and cloves – the way my mother used to do it. Cheese, Cheddar, big slices of the stuff. Lashings of mustard and lots of butter. White, door step bread – rations be damned!’

Busby laughed.

‘Pickled onions on the side?’

‘Hardly a ham sandwich without,’ replied Snell, a smile on his lips.

‘Oysters,’ threw in Warner.

‘Oh no,’ replied Amelia, ‘nothing from out of the sea – a big fat steak, rare as you like and dripping with essence so you need a piece of bread just to mop up the plate after.’

Connelly’s mouth watered at the thought.

‘And all on Conrad!’

‘Drinks, I said drinks – you can all buy your own food.’

‘Cheapskate.’

‘Well, I ain’t Rockefeller.’

The talk stopped and they were all left with their thoughts. And then a drop of rain fell, then another.

‘Get the water pot!’

‘Make sure the cover is up.’

‘Get your cups out.’

‘Open your mouths and turn ‘em skyward!’

The rain fell hard and heavy. While the others filled their cups as best they could, Busby leant over the side and slipped his hands into the water. A moment later he flipped a large fish into the boat.

‘Finish that off for me,’ Busby said to Putner.

The young radio operator looked at a loss and then Hamilton slammed the butt end of one of the hooks down onto the fish’s head. Busby tossed another into the boat. Everyone waited with baited breath as he repeated the feat for a third time like a magician producing rabbit after rabbit from out of a top hat. Everyone stared at Busby in amazement.

‘They like the rain, makes ‘em come up,’ Busby said with shrug and then took out his knife, popped the blade, and began to gut and clean the fish.

They cooked the fish in the cans left over from the biscuits and mutton. They ate well and washed down with a quarter-cup of water each. The water pot was half-full again and the crew of the jolly boat was sated. For the moment, at least.

Day nineteen. No water for three days, no food for four.