Evening star., 1938-06-26

~oMEwEIERE out in the dismal waste Of the
winter Atlantic, the tiny tramp steamer
~ Arcon was ploughing her way eastwards,
grimy and salt-encrusted, her iron decks
chilly mess of slush. In the cherries wireless
cabin a young man sat disconsolate at his
instrument desk and felt acutely the infinite
misery of all around him.
For Ringer. the wireless operator, hated
the sea, the monotony and the hardships, the
stupid, suppressed men who lived in the
squalid ships. and most of all Captain Manley.
A snarling, evil-tempered old man. vicious
and spiteful, devoid of any redeeming feature
- that was Ringer grim estimate of Captain
Manley.
He'd had plenty of opportunity of making
it. too. he thought despairingly. For five
months, FIVE months of unadulterated hell
he'd been on this, his first ship his first trip to
sea, and - it would be his last, too!
What warped beings these glamosous
sailors really were, Ringer thought disgust
edly. And Captain Manley was the prize
example of them all. Never civil word, sneers
every day and persecution if any resentment
was shown, that was what he d had to put up
with from Captain Manley.
That time he'd been ordered down into the
hold to tally cargo and he'd had to appeal
to the Union Agent in New York. The time
he'd been cursed and threatened by Manley
over a weather report from Lisbon. when
everyone knew that Portuguese reports were
famed for their inaccmacy. And that sneer of
his today: did you isten-in last night?"
lust because the weather was nasty! The
weather had been nasty for the past week.
and the old fool knew quite well that an
operator couldn't stay up every night on the
off-chanoe of hearing an SOS. The Captain
had been antagonistic to him right from the
start. According to the rest of the crew, he'd
been the same with all past operators.
And with the engineers, too. Apparently it
was the age-old feud between the bridge and
the engine room over again in new form -
the resentment of an old-time skipper who
finds the completeness of his command gone;
who has to rely on others for the many things
on the ship, his ship, which he does not
understand.
A shudder ran through the vessel as beam
sea smashed against the side Spray whipped
the glass of the port like lead shot. and Ringer
glanced at the little clock on the bulkhead.
Eight O'Clock Eight O'Clock on Saturday
night and back in the little High Street
there were throngs of Saturday night shop
pers, happy and cheerful. There was COM
panionship and comfort and zest in living -.
while here was he, cooped up in an ice-cold
cubbyhole for his two hours watch, with
nothing at the end of it except to climb into
his bunk and try to sleep.
He adjusted his telephones and switched
on the receiver Usual nightly hubbub.
Valentia, ireland, was coming in quite strongly
over the nine hundred miles of sea. He'd
try a call now =. be good to speak with
home again. He put out hand to start his
motor, then he saw the meter on the mains
panel and he cursed softly.
THAT swine of a Chief again, he breathed.
and a surge of hot rage welled up within him.
Again the chief engineer was cutting down
steam on the dynamo to save his boiler
pressure.
Usually it meant a scramble along the
freezing wind, and probable soaking from
the seas and spray coming inboard. Then
long climb down greasy ladder into the
reeking engine room, there to cajole the
engineer on watch into speeding up the
dynamo. Damn it, he'd had enough of this!
He was going to the Captain this time!
He went out into the alleyway and down
the companion to the saloon, the panelled