It was a foggy night, a chilly night, and not a night Ensign George Rawlings wished to be on watch. He would have preferred almost anything to standing sheltered in the bay on the cliffs, watching for any sign of distress from the passing ships, but mostly his thoughts turned to a roaring fire and a smoke in The Fox, with perhaps that pretty barmaid, Angela, offering him a pint of ale. With that dazzling smile of hers, he could never resist anything she offered. And her charming company would certainly be preferable to the fog and the sea, his current companions. They were cold and lifeless, and she was young, and beautiful, and vivacious, and…
He shook his head abruptly, trying to clear her from his thoughts. It was torture to think of her, and the fire, and the warmth, and all the rest, when he was stuck out in the chill on this rock for the next four hours. But His Majesty’s loyal servants had a duty, and the duty of men such as Ensign George Rawlings was to watch the coast for any sign of British ships in distress, and any sign of enemy ships on the horizon. Not that it was likely that the Germans would attack in this fog. They’d have to be mad too. Mind, if all Rawlings had heard about them from the Newsreels was true, most of them were mad. Still, even the insane would think twice before venturing out in this weather. The fog was so thick and chilly that it clung to him, and the spray from the sea only made matters worse. And he couldn’t light a fire for fear of giving away his position. The best he could do, he reasoned, was to settle himself in the lea of the rocks, relatively sheltered from the spray, and huddle together with his thick winter coat and blankets, and pray that the watch would pass quickly and without incident.
His prayers were not answered. The moment he had settled down, he heard a beeping coming from the small shelter in which the radio had been set up. Cursing, he rose and hurried over to the device, which was beeping out a familiar signal in Morse code: SOS…SOS…SOS.
Rawlings picked up the intercom. “This is Ensign George Rawlings of His Majesty’s Navy. Please relay your position, over.”
There was silence on the other end, merely a crackling sound. Rawlings repeated the request. “Relay your position, over.”
More crackling. And then a repeat of the Morse code distress signal: SOS…SOS…SOS. This signal sounded further off and farther away, and was soon overpowered by the crackling. And then, silence.
Rawlings put down the intercom, uncertain of what to do next. He couldn’t locate the ship in distress if he had no coordinates to go by; it could be anywhere. On the other hand, he couldn’t just leave a ship in distress, nor one which clearly had no other means of communications.
The crackling suddenly sounded again, and the code was repeated. SOS…SOS…SOS. It was louder this time, coming through loud and clear. Rawlings repeated, “Relay your position, over.”
SOS…SOS…SOS…and then silence again.
Rawlings waited, but the signal did not return. He waited for several minutes, and then turned and left the radio, returning to his position of watch on the rocks.
And it was then that he spotted a dark shape in the midst of the fog, bobbing along at the mercy of the tides. It was not a warship; it was too small, but it was headed right for the rocks near the cliff. At that moment, the crackling radio started up again, and this time the signal echoed around the cliff. SOS…SOS…SOS.
Rawlings wasted no more time. He seized hold of the phone next to the radio, and dialed a number. The dialing tone rang once, twice, and then a voice on the other end sleepily muttered, “Hello?”
“Sorry to wake you, sir, but it’s Ensign Rawlings,” he said. “I know it’s an unsociable hour, but I think you’d better come here, sir. We may need to organize a rescue.”
“Damn it, man, can’t you handle it?” muttered the man on the other end, yawning.
“I think not, sir,” replied Rawlings, hesitantly. “The ship’s communication appears to be out, and it’s heading for the cliff…they don’t appear to be able to steer, sir. We’re going to need to have the lifeboats ready for rescue…”
“Yes, yes, yes, all right,” interrupted the other voice. “I’m on my way.”
Rawlings hung up the telephone, and returned to the cliff to watch the ill-fated ship. It was heading straight for the rocks, being tossed mercilessly by the waves toward its doom. Rawlings watched a moment more, and then began to take the path down the cliff face to the waiting lifeboats on the beach. The fog was thicker down at sea-level, and Rawlings could no longer see the ship. He could only see his hand in front of his face if he held it about an inch from his nose. Fortunately he knew the beach very well indeed, and could find the waiting lifeboats without the aid of sight. He began to untie one from its moorings, and could still hear the radio up above on the cliff, repeating its distress call: SOS…SOS…SOS.
Rawlings reached into his pocket and withdrew his compass – he would need it to navigate in this mess. Sight would be completely useless; in fact, it was complete madness to go out to sea at all in this fog. But he had no choice. There were lives at risk, and his duty was to save them.
He leapt into the boat, and put the oars into the water. He then began to row due north, hoping that he would be able to locate the ship by sound.
He was not disappointed. After only a few moments of rowing, his boat suddenly knocked against the hull of another ship. The sea had stilled and was now almost eerily calm, but the fog was still thick and impenetrable, and Rawlings couldn’t make out the rest of the ship above him as he cupped his hands and shouted, “Hello, this is Ensign George Rawlings, His Majesty’s Navy. Permission to come aboard?”
Complete silence from above. Rawlings waited a few moments, and then reached into the bottom of the boat and picked up a grappling hook and lasso. He swung this around his head and above, onto the deck of the ship. He heard a hollow, ringing sound as the hook met the metal deck, and then caught on the railing. With great difficulty, Rawlings managed to climb up the hull. He saw that it had been pierced by bullet holes, and wondered to himself how the ship had managed to stay afloat with such damage. Still puzzled, he swung himself onto the deck.
The fog was heavy and oppressive, hiding the deck from view. “Hello?” repeated Rawlings, taking a tentative step forward. “Hello? Captain? This is George Rawlings, His Majesty’s Navy. Is anyone on deck? Hello?”
He took another step forward, and his foot touched something. Looking down, Rawlings saw a shape in the fog, but couldn’t make it out. Reaching for the torch at his belt, he withdrew it and flicked it on, and then leapt back with a gasp.
A corpse lay at his feet. The corpse of a man in a British navy uniform, clearly dead for many days. His face was bereft of color, and he had begun to decompose. Dead eyes stared up at him through the fog. Overcoming his initial shock, Rawlings bent down and examined the body further. Bullet holes littered his chest, like those from a machine gun.
“Hello, Rawlings!” shouted a voice from below, startling Rawlings.
He rushed over to the rail and called, “Is that you, Captain?”
“Who the hell else would it be?” grumbled a stout, bearded man, hauling himself onto the ship. “Nobody else would be out at sea in this blasted weather, at this blasted hour, unless he’d been expressly summoned by his gibbering underling. Now what is so damn important, Ensign?”
“I think you’d better have a look at this, sir,” said Rawlings, leading his captain back toward the body.
The Captain looked from the body to Rawlings. “A dead man isn’t what I’d call an emergency, George, especially in a war. The man was clearly shot, again nothing exceptional in a war. Where’s the Captain?”
“I don’t know, sir,” replied Rawlings. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone here.”
“Nonsense, George,” retorted the Captain. “There has to be someone. The ship couldn’t have steered itself all the way here. And someone had to send out that distress signal, don’t forget. We just need to have a search. Here, scurry back to the life boat and fetch a lantern, will you? I’ll have a look about.”
Rawlings obeyed, and returned to the deck with a large lantern which, when lit, illuminated much of the deck even with the fog. Rawlings could see that the body he had discovered was not the only one on deck; it appeared to be littered with corpses. The Captain was examining one nearby, and Rawlings came over to him.
“Another one shot, sir?” he asked.
The Captain shook his head, slowly. “No, this one’s a bit odd, I’ll give you that, George. This man drowned, you see? He’s still wet and bloated. But if he drowned in the water, I’ll be damned if I know what he’s doing back on deck. Couldn’t have climbed back up, could he?”
“No, sir,” replied Rawlings, but he shivered involuntarily. No doubt he was chilled by the fog.
“We need to see if we can find someone who knows what’s going on,” said the Captain, turning toward the helm. “Let’s search the cabin and see if we can find the Captain. Or at least the radio that sent that signal.”
They made their way across the deck, and Rawlings cast a cursory glance over the rest of the bodies. Some had been shot, others looked like they had drowned. A few had ugly red spots on their bodies, and Rawlings pointed these out to the Captain, whose eyes narrowed. “Something is definitely wrong, George. No crew would keep diseased corpses on board for fear of spreading the contagion. They’d be tossed overboard in an instant…”
A horrible fear shot through Rawlings. He swallowed and murmured, “What if…what if they were, sir? And what if…what if they came back up?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, George,” retorted the Captain. “Mind you, I don’t blame you for being spooked, but there’s no reason to lose your head. There’s going to be a perfectly rational explanation for all of this, you’ll see.”
He opened the door to the Captain’s cabin as he said this. The door opened with a reluctant creak, and Rawlings and the Captain were assaulted by a foul smell of dampness and decay. Rawlings held up the lantern and examined the small room. It was empty, except for a radio placed on a table, which had a man in uniform seated in front of it, his back to them.
“Ahoy there!” cried the Captain. “Ahoy, Captain!”
No response from the figure. The Captain strode forward, and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. He instantly drew it back as terror filled his eyes. “He’s stone cold,” he murmured. “He’s dead, George.”
Rawlings held up the lantern to the man’s face, with shaking hands. “Drowned,” he whispered, revealing the man’s bloated features and glassy, sightless eyes.
“But then how…how could he have sent a distress call?” breathed the Captain.
“I don’t know, sir,” whispered Rawlings. “I just know that there’s no one alive on this ship, sir.”
The two men stood in silence in the damp, oppressive room with the dead figure seated at the radio. Then the Captain whispered, “Come on, George.”
They left the cabin, shutting the door behind them. The Captain stood on deck, surveying the scene. At last he whispered, “George, what does SOS stand for?”
“Save Our Ship, sir,” whispered Rawlings.
“I always learned it as Save Our Souls,” replied the Captain. “Now George, I’m going to try to explain this the only way I can think of. Suppose there is a God, George. You believe there’s a God, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered Rawlings. He did now, whatever he had thought before.
“Now suppose you die, George, say, at sea, in battle, in a storm, of disease, with no one to give you your last rites, no one to absolve you from those sins that God says you mustn’t commit. What happens to you?”
“You go to Purgatory, sir,” replied Rawlings.
“Aye,” agreed the Captain. “And you’ll stay there, in Purgatory, until your sins are absolved, until your soul is saved. And who’s to say, George, that Purgatory isn’t…well…isn’t on earth? Isn’t where you die, and that you don’t haunt that place, that location, until your sins are purged?”
“You mean like ghosts, sir?” asked Rawlings.
“Yes, like ghosts,” replied the Captain. “And suppose those ghosts, or spirits, or souls, or whatever you’d like to call them, try to communicate by any means at their disposal. Who’s to say they wouldn’t try to radio for help? Who’s to say they wouldn’t try to ask someone to save their souls? Someone like us, George.”
Rawlings silently digested all this information. “What can we do, sir?” he whispered, at last.
“Well, I’m no priest,” retorted the Captain. “I can’t forgive them their sins. But here’s what we can do, George. We can return to shore and wake up the vicar, and see what he can do for these poor men. Unless you can think of a better idea.”
Rawlings shook his head, slowly. “Right, then,” said the Captain. “Let’s be off. The sooner we leave this behind, the better.”
They both returned to the life boats, and rowed to shore. Rawlings kept his eye on the ship as long as he could before the fog swallowed it up. He waited with the boat on the beach while the Captain went to wake the vicar. When he returned with the grumbling doctor of divinity in tow, he said, “I’ll take the vicar out to the ship, George. You return to your post.”
Rawlings obeyed gratefully, scaling the path to the cliff again. The fog was beginning to disperse as a light breeze had started up. As the mist began to clear, Rawlings tried to make out the distressed ship in the distance, but he could see nothing. He was just settling back down with his blanket, when the radio began to beep again, that same distress signal. SOS…SOS…SOS. Only this time it seemed to grow farther and farther away, as if the sound was coming from a great distance. It grew fainter and fainter and finally trailed off altogether. Rawlings stared at the radio, wondering what that could possibly mean.
He didn’t have to wait long to find out. He heard shouting from below on the beach, and then the Captain shouted, “George, get down here!”
Rawlings obeyed, and found the vicar quarreling rather loudly with the Captain. “…absolutely disgraceful that you first rouse me from bed with ludicrous tales of a haunted ship, drag me all the way out to sea in this miserable weather, and then there’s nothing there! It’s a bit much for a practical joke, Captain!”
“But it was there!” shouted the Captain. “And Rawlings will verify it, won’t you, George?”
Rawlings nodded vigorously. “I swear to you, sir…”
“A lot that’s worth!” interrupted the vicar, yawning. “You’re probably both in it together, anyway. Now that’s enough. I’m returning to bed. Ghost ship, indeed! In future, you should fill your head with fewer tales of the supernatural. There are greater things to fear than ghosts in this world.”
The vicar turned and left, leaving the two men alone. “Greater things than ghosts,” murmured the Captain. “I should say there are, eh, George?”
“Yes, sir,” whispered Rawlings.
The Captain was silent for a few moments. “You know, George, first thing tomorrow, I think I’ll go to church,” he murmured. “There are a few things I need to confess, I think.”
“Me too, sir,” agreed Rawlings, wondering if his thoughts about Angela counted. Better to be safe than sorry, he supposed.
“I’ll go wake up Higgins,” said the Captain, heading for the cliff path. “He can take over the watch tonight. I think we’ve both earned a rest.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Rawlings, following him up.
“Very good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” said the Captain. “Goodnight, George.”
“Goodnight, sir,” replied Rawlings, returning to his post until Higgins arrived. He stared off into the clear, dark night, but there was nothing to see except the empty, unending sea which seemed to stretch to infinity. He thought he heard a soft echo of SOS before it was swallowed up by the darkness, and then he heard nothing but silence.
