 Words at war presents logbook. One, two, three, woof. One, two, three, woof. Got it? We'll start on your signal. Go ahead in ten seconds. All right, Jack. Say what you want. Say it how you please. Speak the truth of what you know. Now. I'm an Englishman, a sailor. My first name is Jack. I'm sitting here with a funny little stump where a perfectly good right foot used to be. The radio people have asked me to tell you what happened. They tell you also what I'm fighting for. Me and others like me. Well, we were torped, or some of us got in a raft. We were lucky. I'd been so badly wounded I was losing consciousness. But I remember two or three things. I remember how one manor, I'll never know who, held on to me their whole time to keep me from slipping off. I remember MacDavid, the second engineer with it, with a little ore about three feet long, smacking away to scare the sharks. I remember lots of things. Yes, and we had plenty of time to think what it was we were fighting for. Plenty. Words at War. The National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with the Council on Books in wartime brings you another adaptation of an important war book, Log Book, by Frank Laskier, British merchant seamen. Laskier torpedowed three times in this war, lost a leg on the third, and during his convalescence was invited before the microphones of the British Broadcasting Company. The story he told electrified his countrymen. Now, Frank Laskier has written Log Book, a novel that doesn't tell his own life, but a story not unlike it. I was a tall lad for my years, insignificant member of a large family, and a problem to my parents. My father ran a laundry. A battle, silent, unrest, and went on in me. Come, boy, up to it. This is a laundry I'm trying to run, not a morgue. Where do these go? The large bundle of wet wash goes to Mrs. Brawerby and those fresh shirts to McCready's. And you're way back, stop at Mrs. Parsons and pick up some dirty linen. Is that all? That's all. Oh, uh, Jack. Yes, Father? I know what's he eating here. It's not because I'm your father that I know, but as a man who sailed the seas and knows the feeling. Dick's going to say he's working in a tanker. Joe's in a banana boat. And I'm in my father's laundry. You're a big boy now, Jack. Too big to go moping around like a jilted bride because your mother and I are against a sailor's life for you. But why? You were a sailor. Mother's three brothers are all semen. Why am I of all the family? I know the sea. I know that it makes fools of wise men and wiser men of fools. Jack, you're a headstrong lad, and you're likely to pay dearly for what wisdom you may gather. But don't run up too big a bill for yourself. But Father... No, no, no, they're waiting for the laundry, boy. Hurry it up now. Way home in the salt sea. My father was gentle. I almost wished he wasn't. I dreamed of being beaten by a cruel parent or making a desperate escape to a life at sea to the jolly tires and the Spanish men. My departure when it came was more ordinary. Sent one day to take laundry to a ship. I went to board as ordered, took the money from the chief officer and surrendered a parcel of clean shirts. On the gangway, picking my way over railway lines, I passed another ship and ran off. The duckyard gang was taking the box of timber from the ship's side as the duck filled with water. The gangway hovered loose and fluffy, ready to be swung up and inboard. And I passed the same. Hey there, you lad! Yes, sir? You want a trip to Australia? Yes, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Are you a team? I am. You got a father or a mother? No, sir. And I've been on one trip before. Come on, I'll get you on. The six shillings, a stolen laundry money and a boundless bath, I started my career at sea. His father was a laundry man, hella, bella, bella, hella, bella, bella, his father was a laundry man and he went off to sea to sea and he went off to sea. Gibraltar was passed early one morning, a clean, beautiful sight with the blue waters of the straits and the whiteness of a Spanish village on one side. Then, port side, I was rubbed right and left and gave one bearded lecher the scoundrel ten shillings for four filthy photographs. Then the canal, the red sea, the passion gulf. Then, abadan, with a greasy, pervading stenture crude oil, I learned the life of a ship and the life of the ports. And meanwhile, I became impudent full of my own importance. I didn't care much for work or for the bosons' watchful eye. Hey, you! Yes, sir. What do you think this is? Look at you. What do I think what is, sir? Looks like dirt to me. Dirt? When do you scrub this focusle? Oh, yes, now. Scoundrel, I tell you, I'll knock it out of you. Look it down and scrub it, you hear? Now! Yes, sir. I know you're kind. Running away to sea for adventure. You'll not find it. Instead, you'll spend your life running away. And when you finish scrubbing that floor, get some fresh water and then scrub it again. And all he did was scrub the deck hullabaloo belay, hullabaloo belah belay with a boson always at his neck, hullabaloo belay. Poor boson. I didn't know anything then about the years that toiled behind some of our shipmates. When labor and the wives and mothers at home with struggles of their own, I had it all to learn. But I remember well what boson got for his years at Toil. One day, as I was doing some cleaning on bridge, the sailors were painting ship. I watched the boson as he was all up in a chair to the took of the foremost. Up he went, his bare arms and shoulders still wetted against the boo's sunny sky. Watch a ball in the tip of his head gleamed with sweat. Up, up, up he went. Hold it! Hold it there! Then the sailor below bent the end of the liner on the cleat and then suddenly the line slipped. He landed in a soft, huddle of eek. There was a foot as his head jerked back and burst on the pipeline. I couldn't move, couldn't take my eyes from that dreadfully pathetic figure as I saw it twist and die below me. The sun beamed on and the engine chuffed on like a tired old local train. That night, sewn up in white canvas, his body was laid on the poop deck covered with a flag. They tilted the hatchboard. The body turned one pitiful somersault and landed with a foot in the black waters. And he sank into the low and low into... We never mentioned the Borson. Went on. Australia, the Indies and then back again. And all the time I became cockier and more sure of myself. I was paid off at Falmouth, got my railway warrant and left for Rome. I got there at about 7.15 in the evening. I woke up the little warp to the door giving a creditable limitation of a sailor's role and then burst in. Hello, anybody home there? Hello, Mother. Hello, Father. Well, I say, isn't anyone going to even say hello? Hello, Jack. Oh, Jack. Why haven't you written in all these months? There she sits and all is still. I didn't realize then until years later the pain and disappointment that caused my parents. I went back to Falmouth signed on another tanker. Quite the old sea dog now. After all, I was 17. I learned to drink, to fight and grow a moustache. Then, after two more trips, I went back again to my parents. This time they looked so tired and all that decided to stay a while. I was 20 now with a beautiful belief in myself. I was ready to take on any sort of job selling and canvassing. Then, at the park concert in the intermission, I met a girl. You come to the park often? Only concert nights. There's something about listening to music outdoors. Yes, I know what you mean. It sounds so different out here. Cleaner. Yes, it does. That last number was beautiful. So was she. And so sweetly spoken, I fell in love with her. She taught me all I've ever known about clothes, politeness and good behavior. I began to have visions of settling down with a nice home with my wife. I worked hard here, trying to sell vacuum cleaners on a commission basis. It was the only job I could get. But I didn't collect any commissions because I couldn't sell my vacuum cleaners. Soon, my funds were gone. The result was a foregone conclusion. Taking my girl out required money. Something had to happen. I was completely done. I broke into ours, found 15 pounds and took it. The police were on my track almost at once. I was arrested and taken to a local prison. A horrible place with long dark echoing halls interlaced with steel galleries, gloom and depression and the filthy lonesome smell of stuffed up lavatories. The complete negation of everything that is clean and beautiful in life. I was dragged out and in a bare little room watched over by warders, I sat and looked at my mother. I... I brought you some cake, Jack. Thanks, mother. From there I was sent to a reformatory where I saw all the rays of model degradation. For solace, they let me have books, PG wardhouse stories about people who had so much money they apparently never had to think about it or about unpaid bills. But I could never escape from my awful little room, the prank bed and the mattress. Hope died. Nothing was left but an automaton wandering aimlessly through life. After two years and three months, they released me. I went home. Was welcomed and forgiven. I saw my girl once as I was striding along the street. She saw me, gave me one tragic look and asked me by. I looked for a job then, but there weren't any on land, so I went back to sea, surly and nasty, feeling cheated because I couldn't make a go of it and sure. I took to the roll of the fist, spoiling for a fight. I arrived at Kingston, Jamaica, got drunk in room with a drip three days. At Santa Marta, I repeated the performance and tequila. Three hours before the ship was due to sail, I was dragged from a cafe in a statement-defies description. At Montego Bay, a black discharge was inevitable. I deserted ship and then I sunk still lower. That ship going back to England? Yes, indeed. Want to sign on? Sure. I can use it, remember? Sure. Discharge book? No, sir. Sign here. We sail tonight. And it's England. Bare England. We'll see once again. That ship was a sailor's testimony. The food from the galleys' kunk. The foxtail was an evil smell infested in the hall. Fire bed was a junkiest breakfast with one frisbee blanket. The place had the oddifying smell of bugs about it. It permeated the old ship. Easy and dirty and the egg was terrifying. No refrigerator. One small ice box. Not in use. And the food? Salted beef with maggots and biscuits with weevil. For the rest of my life, I'd like to remember not to tap my bread in the table before eating it. And no free water. The issue was one half bucket a day per man and no soap. I remember in a cafe in San Pedro, I caught sight of myself in a fly-blown mirror behind the bar. A tall, thin man with a fish-belly complexion with ridges of dirt and grease. Then I heard the bartender say, Hey, you! Drink up, get it down and beat it. We don't encourage no wild pums here. What shall you do with a drunken sailor? What shall you do with a drunken sailor? What shall you do with a drunken sailor? Lie in the morning. In Melbourne, at the seamen's mission, we'll have a barge for some money. I'm sorry, no sum. But, of course, you could have a bath, if you like. After the bath, he offered me some clean clothes. We had tea together and talked. Barge, you're welcome. I feel different. I'm glad. Son, don't jump your ship. Why not? She's what you need to straighten you out. Keep on her. Work and try to recapture your love and understanding of beauty. Don't let it get you down. All on the bowling, the ship she is rolling. All on the bowling, we're not licked yet. That day, I went below and sang at my work. This time I wouldn't run away. I didn't. And at last, in Cardiff, I was pulled off and was free. Oh, I wasn't on the right track yet. Not by a long shot. But perhaps I was no longer on the way down. I went home, saw Mother and Father, then shipped out again. Then, in various ports of the world, I began to see there were things going on I hadn't thought much about. I began to see fascism. The effects of it. And it wasn't the pleasant sight. I saw it first in Las Palmas. One lovely spring morning, we tied up there at Mall. I just got to tie up after the second mate and the remainder of the watch. When everything was finished, I stood with the mate and lit a cigarette. What's going on down there, Mr. Matt? They're hungry. So is the average sailor. Oh, but these poor devils are in earnest. Look at that old lady. Look on her coat. Look on her quiet eyes. Oh, it's enough to turn your art, ain't it? The old lady caught my eye and the naked appeal in her face sent pretty surgeon through me. I turned around and saw a slush the cook coming up from the refrigerator. In his hand, he had a long strip of gristle and skin that is cut from the back of a sheep and is presumably no good for eating. The cook came up on deck and slung the refuse into the bin. Then he disappeared into the galley. Where are you going, Jake? I'm going to get that meat, the cook tossed out. Watch. There you are, old lady. Here. Good Lord, look at him dancing and delirious with pleasure. Here, you're not going to give her that. Of course I am. I wash it off, vessel. There we are. There we are. Mother, there we are. Over this way, mother. Here you are. Here, mother. This is for you. Oh, much is gratious in you. You stay good, dear. What is happening here? I was only giving my galley a little present. Give me that. She does not need that. No, wait, you give that back to us. You hear me? You stupid feminists. You... Hey, Jake, come up here. Hit him on the jaw and get on board. Hit him on the jaw and get on board. Hit him on the jaw and get on board. You already got a meet. The policeman was out cold. It was looking for me the ship sailed that night. And came September the 3rd, 1939. I was in a pub at home with Dick, my old boy, old chump and a couple of other seamen. We were listening to the wireless. Well, that's it. It was coming, we knew it. Well, I'm signing right on again tomorrow morning. The missus and kid won't like it, but I'm going. I'd like to get the ruddy hun in the sights of a dick gun. I'm with you, Dick. How about you, Jack? Yes, how about it, Jack? Ah, don't you listen to him, Jack. What do we owe this country? I'm asking you. Remember the last war and the profiteers? Well, they'll be around again. Why risk your life so that they can get fat on you? Come on, don't be a ruddy fool, Jack. What about it, Jack? You can count me in, Dick. I'm with you. Blow you in to the morning. Blow you in to the high hole. We're in it all together now and blow, blow, blow. Dick and I joined the gun school at Liverpool. We passed the course and got our tickets. I became merchant seamen gunner 909. We sailed out in separate convoys. Why did I go? I wasn't sure. I just went. What was I fighting for? What was I trying to defend? I didn't really know. Not then. I sailed. I came home two or three days at a time and sailed out again. On one trip, I found our street very quiet. My friend Dick was dead. I sailed out again. And on one of those ships says, 40-odd ships plunged and bucked along in convoys through the night and the phosphorus gleamed in the wake of the ships and I stood on deck at my gun, watching. Suddenly the world opened up in a blinding flash. In fact, I was breaking loose. Bodies fell on the deck in a bloody glow. And suddenly I was thrown out where I tossed the deck full myself over it. And I didn't have anything where my right foot used to be. Knit's blood and despair and the groans of the fair and the groans of the fair over the poor ship's side. Then came the raft, the sharks, the rescue ship, the amputation and the norm. From Liverpool, they sent my mother a telegram and brought me on in a car. It was a bright, sunny day. The sky was clear blue and our own little street was still there, safe and intact. Mother stood in the doorway. She wasn't crying. I got out of the car. I pulled my two crutches after me. Mother came to me with her usual short, cuddling steps. Come on in, Jack. Your tea is ready. Some time later, a gentleman came to see me. Jack, dear, this is Mr. Defars. How do you do? I'm from the British broadcasting company. Oh, won't you sit down and please? I heard over in Liverpool that you might have a story to tell. But a good story, there might be a fiver in it for you. A good story? Yes, it'll be easy. All you have to do is just get to a microphone and talk. Now then, I'll make all the necessary... So that's the way they think of it. How do you mean? A good story. They always watch and they ghastly raft. The sharks snapping at your legs. And they want a good story. Well, now, look here. I came here to forgive me if I'm bitter, Mr. Defars. You get that way. Sit in here staring at two crutches and thinking about your life. So they want it a story. I'd give them one. After they left, I thought it out. Hear people, I'd say. I'm Jack Fisher. You don't know me. I'm one of the bad boys. Once I was plenty and full of life and hope that your system sent me to a reformatory. What good did that do to my immortal soul to learn the ins and outs of crime? You spent 80 pounds a year, dear taxpayers, to keep me there. And when I got out, you spent your time and energy in keeping me from a job. But when the war started, you forgot all about that. It was a rise, British sailors. Sail out and bring back our food for us. Don't find the torpedoes or the dive bombers or the raiders. Please feed us. Okay, we did. We'll fight your war for you. We'll win. But by heaven there'll be some interesting ceremonies afterwards. We'll win the peace, too. Good night. That's what I thought of saying. I sat in my room in front of the fire bed with one leg, crucifying myself. All the frustrations poured like poison into my brain. The fire became water, backwater, a deep dark ocean floating in the ocean with a dark body. It seemed to rise, floating gently to the surface, the clothes ballooning grotesquely about it. The air dealt back, water streaming through eyes and nose and ears. A great jagged gash in the side showed our death had come. The figure was revolving slowly in the water, up and up. I saw that it was thick, thick, my friend, looking up at me, his face unmasked. I felt a great peace then. If I could speak for even a moment for the people, the little people of the earth sitting at this microphone, my leg is a stump. I'm one of many, one of millions. I'm asked to tell you the truth of what I know. I'm a sailor, an Englishman. My first name is Jack. I'm quite an ordinary sort of individual. All we sailors are. We have a job to do. We do it. This is the story and now and willful. As the 28th program of Words at War, we've brought you a dramatization of logbook by Frank Laskier. The book was adapted for radio by Edmund Bernbriar. Part of Jack was played by Harold Young. The music was adapted and sung by Tom Glazer. William Meader was at the organ. The production was under the direction of Anton M. Leeder. Words at War will present an adaptation of the Ninth Commandment by Hendrik Willem van Loon, who will appear in person to tell the story of the rape of Holland. Words at War is brought to you in cooperation with the Council on Books in Wartime by the National Broadcasting Company and its affiliated independent stations. This is the National Broadcasting Company.