THE PLIMSOLL LINE RISES
By JAMES HANLEY
[The line which indicates the limit to which a ship may be loaded is generally known as the Plimsoll Line] SAILING in and out of bombed ports and dodging the mines, watching for the periscope, the prelude to the open boat, and the mind made up for that, wondering about the family at home, the tanker fired and the cargo boat sunk under one—these are the things around which the average sailor's life revolves, the daily curriculum. They are part of the job. This being so, I was somewhat surprised the other day, when, in the course of conversation with a bosun newly arrived home from a long and arduous trip, none of these things were mentioned, all the more so since they have been accepted in terms of " the job." Two ships had gone under him, in quick succession, but he made no mention of it, and it seemed fairly obvious that he had not the slightest intention of referring to the matter. He did agree that the shipping-position was bad. His mind was made up about that. He wasn't a statistician, he didn't think of the matter in terms of the monthly reports on losses, he simply said, and in the most casual way, " The Plimsoll line is going up."
He was concerned about that. Not about bombs or mines or torpedoes or raiders, merely about that safety-line, and he was old enough to remember the hard fight that won it, and he had the greatest admiration for the lone crusader who spent most of his life battling with indifference and prejudice. " Aye, it's going up a bit every day," he said. And there was the bone of the shipping position so far as he was concerned. " That's how it is," he added after a long silence. He was more than concerned, he felt really sad about the matter, it was a blow to him. He didn't mind the other dangers, going to sea was dangerous all the time, war added to normal dangers, but he did mind that rising line.
"That is so, then?" I said. "Aye! A little bit higher every day. It's the cargo space, you see. It can't be helped. Not enough ships. You may think I'm blowing my whistle too hard, but the fact is that Plimsoll line means as much to a sailor as Magna Carta meant to the people in King John's time. You see Mr. Plimsoll is more than a name to sailors. You might think it funny, but if it wasn't for Saint Christopher Mr. Plimsoll would have been the patron saint of the sea. No man understood the sea less than he did, no man was further removed from the sailor's life than he was, yet no one fought harder than he did, what seemed like a losing battle many a time. But he won through, and that line round a ship was like a lifebuoy. Make no mistake about it, sailors remember Plimsoll as the greatest friend they ever had. If he thought it was going up today, why he'd turn in his grave. But, as I say, it can't be helped. There's not enough ships."
And that was how he saw the whole business, in terms of a white line running round a ship from stern to stern. It was like the hauling down of a flag, it was a sort of surrender. The whole conversation centred round this. " They'll have to do something about it," he said, direct, earnest, " have to do some- thing about it." I tried to break him off the subject by asking what he thought about the war. " Well," he said, " I was in the last war, at sea, of course, and I find we're dodging the same sort of swine as before." And that was that. Forty- eight hours ashore and he was going off again, during which time he saw his family housed, and buried his mother, arriving home just after a blitz. He made no comments, aired no opinions, these things seemed to lack the element of surprise; he might have been doing that sort of thing all his life.
" Never know where you're going from one trip to another. Ah, well! . . ."
I asked him what he thought about the position ashore. He was very forthright about the dockers. " Some of them are doing a damned fine job," he said, " and some of them are lousy." He was emphatic, he meant it. And that, so far as he was concerned, summed up the position at the docks. He had been bombed two or three times, torpedoed twice. About that there were no reactions, there was nothing to say. I did not press for them. He was just the sort of sailor one often finds sitting alone on a hatch-top, quiet, reflective, enjoying fugitive periods of isolation from his mates. He worried about his family whilst away at sea, but that was only the worry of every sailor afloat. He liked his present ship, touching the table with the stump of his index finger (the better part of it having disappeared in an accident) " touching wood." She was a little ship, " not much good for convoys." He expressed a prefer- ence for taking chances, not liking what he called " the extra risk."
He was optimistic about the American shipbuilding pro- gramme, " build ships as fast as they build cars," and this made him very hopeful. The whole man spoke then, nothing was hidden, one realised then that he had no other concern in the wide world but this question of Mr. Plimsoll and his safety- line. He tapped the table again with his finger-stump, and like the musician tapping for coda returned to the rising line.
" Worst thing that ever could have happened, believe me. Men don't like it, but, of course, as I say, it can't be helped. Hope for the best, I suppose. Just think of the fight that old man put up, against every sort of obstacle, and now look what's happened, and what's worse, you never hear a word about the matter. Taken for granted, sort of thing. That's what gets my goat. Like hauling down your flag."
He might have gone on talking about this subject for hours had I given any encouragement. It was like the lowering of a creed or a belief into the grave. It was as though Mr. Plimsoll himself had suddenly been robbed of his self-respect. Perhaps at that very moment the old gentleman was turning in his grave. Certainly he could never have wished a greater admirer than this dour little bosun. " Sailor's best friend, Plimsoll was," he said, then diverged slightly. " Funny thing," he went on, " but d'you know that at that time our strongest supporters in the long fight for safety at sea were the miners. Aye! It's a good sailor that remembers how they helped . . ." And then he pulled up sharp, looking at the clock.
" Must be getting along," he said, making to move. He was sailing at midnight. He finished his drink and got up. Then he sized me up. " You asked me what I thought about things," he said, " and I told you, didn't I? Mr. Plimsoll's line is going up—up. Well, so long," he said, and with a cheery wave of the hand left the pub.
And that was one sailor's opinion on the shipping-position today.
Previous page
