The Daily Worker Newspaper, June 25, 1927, Page 9

Men Who Feed the Beast Mat rose on the edge of his bunk. “It’s a hell of a life, eh Yank?” Mat was too sick to answer. His face was pallid, He felt a sinking feeling“at the pit of his stomach. “Another first-tripper’—the Swede looked at him sympathetically. “Don’t smear the fo’c’stle,” he counselled and pointed to the bucket near the door- way. . Mat lurched toward it. He was in the first spell of sea-sickness. The ship was still in the bay. It rolled lightly on the swell. The movement sent Mat staggering uncertainly to the doorway. “Cut *out your bloody groans,” the cockney growled on being wakened. “Shut your face,” the Swede answered sharply. The cockney turned over and pulled the blanket over his head. * 4 o The stokers ate from the pans of food on the table in the center of the fo’c’stle. Mat sat on the edge of his bunk. The sight of food again sent him reeling to the doorway. The third engineer appeared, ime was up. They reached for their jackets and sweat-rags. The Swede nodded to Mat. “Your watch, Yank.” Mat followed up the stairway and across the deck. Thru the galley, then down a ladder into a hellish pit from which the heat rose and wrapped him in a fiery, suffocating blanket. The steel rungs of the ladder scorched his hands. The pit of his stomach felt sickening. He lurched thru the door- way to the bunkers, bulging with coal. “Take your time, now,” the Swede advised. “This ain’t no office.” He pointed to his shovel. “Better get used to it while the coal is only a step away. It’ll be worse when you have to wheel it from the bunkers.” The Swede threw the furnace door wide open with his shovel. His hardened muscles rippled under his glisten- ing skin as he pushed the long slicing bar under the red coals, He leaned on the bar. Pulled it out smoking and tossed it aside without effort. He threw heaping shovelful after shovelful of coal into the furnace with an ease and grace that Mat, tho sickened and weak, watched with admiration. In a few montents the coal-pile at his feet disappeared into the fiery cavern. He clanged the door shut with ° his shovel. He wiped his sweat-dripping face with his rag and nodded to Mat, pointing to the spot the coal was on. “Now dont hurry,” he coached. Then with a glance at the gauge, “There’s plenty of steam up for a while.” Mat heaped his wheel-barrow to ride it a few yards to the feet of the fiery moloch he must feed for eight hours everyday. For tora yh and more until the trip was over. Then again. He stopped half way to the furnace. Seasick. “You'll get over it, Yank. Here, get under the ventilator.” * * * For four days all the misery of the world was centered in the pit of Mat’s stomach. Every day for four hours, beginning at noon, and four hours be- ginning at midnight, he plodded doggedly in the ‘heat of the stoke-hole where men were damned to turn their blood into steam that sped the ship. The ship pitched and tossed now like a maddened bull. The waves crashed over the bow and tossed the muscle-weary stoker against the iron-work of the deck. Bruises were added to burns. Every move sent a deep-rooted ache from his body. His mind was a listless void uncontrolled and distant. After four weary hours he climbed the ladder out of the hellish hole and swallowed in gulps the wind that rode the sea. A trained parrot sat in a cage on the forward deck. At the sight of every coal-blacked stoker he screeched, “Ashes, you bawstard—ashes.” It-sent a shiver thru Mat. Mat was no longer seasick. On the midnight watch the Swede taught Mat some tricks of the trade. “Who in hell owns more than one pair of shoes, anyway? Not a bloody stoker!” While the engineer was away, the Swede sent Mat up to make a bucket of tea. He gave full di- rections and a sharp knife. Mat made tea. Then he carefully walked in the deepest shadows until he reached the dining room. Quickly he cut a generous strip of the deep rug on the floor and disappeared. Between every visit of the third engineer on the watch, the men inserted pieces of rug into the soles of their shoes. Hot coals quickly burn soles away. Mat was no longer seasick. But now his body was a mass of aching bones and flesh. Burns and bruises. On the same watch, another first-tripper was car- ried out of the hole to the hospital. Each watch there were-anxious moments of weakness. Mat sat on the coal while the surroundings reeled about him. The Swede gave him a bit of lime-juice. A cigar- ette. “You'll be alright.” The rest of the watch looked on in admiration. Phe bloody fool ’as guts, eh mate?” “Who in hell would a thought it of a bloody white-collar stiff!” Each watch Mat felt would be his last. * * * He began to eat. ferociously. There seemed no end to his appetite, With a change of water and food his stomach was in disorder. The doctor gave him a mustard plaster. The stokers roared in laughter. Only a first- tripper went to a ship’s doctor. Stokers and sailors were never sick. Whatever the ailment, they were never too sick to work. Whatever the ailment, they got a mustard plaster. The old-timers carried their own remedies from shore. The ship was out to sea for ten days. Mat was now living thru painful hours. Four hours on, eight hours off. Fours hours on—if there was no over- time. The Swede advised a hair-cut. The Swede cut it. Mat’s head was clipped close to his skin. White, uneven sigan shown on his close-cropped head. The liquor gave out among the stokers. Firemen, coal-passers, snarled at each other, at the sailors and stewards. The cockney heaped abuse on every- one. On Mat in particular. Port was still three days away. Mat felt his bones and flesh would collapse. The Swede cautioned him and helped him out of the stoke-hole. As Mat’s head rose above the . To An Aesthete Listen, brother, the next time that supercilious you, between sips of benedictine, remark the beauty of a phrase, refer, the way you do, to Philistines or perhaps the stark loveliness of Stravinsky think of this What in hell do you know about the nineteen-nineteen steel strike or the _Chinese Revolution ‘Dying miners clutch hard face coal gasp for breath and leave _ their souls to fossilize in beds of coal ; and in the Kremlin sleeps Jack Reed Listen, brother, the next time that you, ' mention Scriabin, as you often do, between sips of scotch, or Jean Cocteau, ask yourself what in hell sbout the Lawrence strikes you know —HARRY FREEMAN aa, an By WALT CARMON deck, the parrot, perched on the deck, screeched, “Ashes, you bawstard—ashes!” Mat was thrown into a frenzy. “God. -” he cursed hysterically. He reached for a bar and threw it madly at the screeching bird, missing it by inches. The Swede held his arm. wash up.” He led him to the showers. silently. “Go easy with the kid,” one whispered. “Here Mat, throw your bloody overalls ’n’ sweat- shirt into my bucket. Let it soak.” He had not changed since the trip began. “The overalls he wore to his waist were stiff with sweat, grease and coal-dust. He handed them over to soak. They could be washed tomorrow. * * * Another watch. More coal for the red mouth of the Moloch. An unsatisfied, deep-bellied monster. The coal in the bunkers. was far back now. Deep in the back it rose in a straight ledge to the very ceiling. Above, a few huge boulders held the mass together. Mat shovelled from the foot of it fear- fully. “Watch that damn pile,” the Swede cautioned. “Careful when the ship rolls!” Mat heaped the wheel-barrow and started away. The ship rolled and the ledge moved. He dropped the wheel-barrow and turned, backing away. The huge boulders crashed down past Mat and mass of coal swirled and eddied about him. “Jesus. . .” the Swede cried. The men rushed to Mat’s aid. Before the furnace they pulled his overalls over his knees to disclose a_mass of torn skin and bruises. The Swede felt for broken bones. “Nothin’ much, thank Christ. That’ll heal with a quart of liquor as soon as we land.” Mat’s nerves gave away. He did not feel the bruised legs. From head to foot his body thumped in pain. The falling coal was a last straw that made him reel before his mates. The Swede held him under the ventilator. “Steady now, Yank. Steady, boy. .” The third engineer looked on sympathetically. He nodded to the Swede. He held Mat’s arm and led him pale, unnerved, to the ladder. To his cabin. He poured a large tumbler full of whiskey and handed it to Mat. He drank, hardly aware of his actions. The raw liquor ran warm thru his aching body. In a moment the weariness had passed. “Feel bétter?” Mat nodded. He returtied to the stoke-hole. Ashes were piled in heaps. Two more men on the sick list threw all three shifts behind. Mat volunteered for overtime with the rest of the men. The cockney gripped his hand. “You're the first bloody clerk with guts in ‘im I ever saw.” The Swede looked on approvingly. Three gin-soaked days in port. Three days off rest for aching muscles. Three days to forget. The spells of faintness were passing. His body was gradually becoming less pain-wracked. His muscles were hardening. The tender breeze of the South Seas was a soft caress. The montonous beat of the motors was be- coming a soothing hum. The ship rolled ahead lightly on calm seas, onward, into space. The skies were star-laden. The Swede pointed out the Southern Cross gleame ing overhead. They sat on a deserted deck enjoy- ing a cigarette before going down for four more hours in hell. Maybe six. A lone sailor stood on watch on the forward deck. “E-le-ven o’-clock and all is we-l-l!” he sang out. From below, a stoker in good natured banter called; “And all the sailors can go to he-]-]!” The Swede smiled. “You see, Yank, seein’ -you must earn your livin’ the sea ain’t so bad.” Mat paused a moment. “Maybe it ain’t.” Tonight he looked at life more leniently. “Anyway, I’d like to choose what I want to do.” The Swede smiled in the dark. “Yan, I’ve been to sea for fifteen years now. I “Come on Yank, let's The others looked on - worked on a farm in Sweden. Ran away from there. I worked in factories in the States. I worked all my life. And it’s ali the same. Sweat, work, eat, sleep.” They sat quietly a moment, “Then croak, I suppose,” Mat ventured. The Swede tossed his cigarette over the rail. light flickered a moment, then disappeared. “Just like that!” The ship rolled on into space. “Will it ever be different, Swede?” “There are some who say it will.” The Swede rose. He added with emphasis: “. , .and I’m one of ’em!” The INFORMATION WANTED There is a letter at this office for Mr. Bernard Coffin, who had a story in a re- cent issue of the New Magazine. If he sends in his address it will be forwarded to him.