Námořníci a suchozemci

Námořní tradice je pro obyvatele britských ostrovů stále něčím naprosto samozřejmým. Se stejnou samozřejmostí se očekává, že běžný anglicky čtoucí občan ovládá základy námořnické a lodnické terminologie - a totéž musí zvládnut i překladatel.

V capse máte k dispozici knihu N. Monsarrata The Cruel Sea. Ukázky, které budeme překládat, jsou ze dvou různých kapitol.
Než začnete překládat, zjistěte si základní fakta o autorovi a knize, vyhnete se tak trapným omylům!


další technické termíny, obvyklé v námořní literautře na téma 2. světové války:

asdic

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/asdic

http://merchantships2.tripod.com/ian/asdicdiagram.jpg

aldis

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2q7zhC4On84

 


PART ONE 1939: Learning
Chapter 11 (p. 40)
For three weeks they worked very hard indeed. From the moment that the Admiral's barge approached in a wide, treacherous sweep right under their stern and almost caught the Captain
unawares, the ship's company was in a continual state of tension. If they were not out exercising
with the submarine, they were doing gun-drill or running through Action Stations in harbour: if they were not fighting mock fires or raising the anchor by hand, an urgent signal would order them to lower a boat and put an armed landing-party ashore on the nearest beach. In between times, relays of men attended drills and lectures ashore: sometimes, with half the crew thus absent and their normal organization unworkable, a fearsome directive from the Admiral would set them to some manoeuvre which necessitated every available man tackling the nearest job, irrespective of his rating.
Stokers would find themselves firing guns, seamen had to try their hand at hoisting flag-signals: telegraphists and coders, gentlemanly types, would take on the crude job of connecting up filthy oil-pipes from the oiler. 'Blast the old bastard!' said Bennett sourly, when some crisis or other found him hauling on a rope instead of watching other people do it: 'I'll be cleaning out the lavatories next.' Lockhart wished it might be true. ... The three week's ordeal was exhilarating, and profoundly good for the ship, as far as training was concerned; but there were occasions when they all felt due for a holiday, and none too sure that it would arrive in time.



PART FOUR 1942: Fighting
Chapter 5 (p.195)
The torpedo struck Compass Rose as she was moving at almost her full speed: she was therefore mortally torn by the sea as well as by the violence of the enemy. She was hit squarely about twelve feet from her bows: there was one slamming explosion, and the noise of ripping and tearing metal, and the fatal sound of sea-water flooding in under great pressure: a blast of heat from the stricken fo'c'sle rose to the bridge like a hideous waft of incense. Compass Rose veered wildly from her course, and came to a shaking stop, like a dog with a bloody muzzle: her bows were very nearly blown off, and her stern was already starting to cant in the air, almost before the way was off the ship.
At the moment of disaster, Ericson was on the bridge, and Lockhart, and Wells: the same incredulous shock hit them all like a sickening body-blow. They were masked and confused by the pitch-dark night, and they could not believe that Compass Rose had been struck. But the ugly angle of the deck must only have one meaning, and the noise of things sliding about below their feet confirmed it. There was another noise, too, a noise which momentarily paralysed Ericson's brain and prevented him thinking at all; it came from a voice-pipe connecting the fo'c'sle with the bridge - an agonized animal howling, like a hundred dogs going mad in a pit. It was the men caught by the explosion, which must have jammed their only escape: up the voice-pipe came their shouts, their crazy hammering, their screams for help. But there was no help for them: with an executioner's hand, Ericson snapped the voice-pipe cover shut, cutting off the noise.
To Wells he said: 'Call Viperous on R/T. Plain Language. Say --' he did an almost violent sum in his brain; 'Say: "Torpedoed in position oh-five-oh degrees, thirty miles astern of you".'
To Lockhart he said: 'Clear away boats and rafts. But wait for the word.'
The deck started to tilt more acutely still. There was a crash from below as something heavy broke adrift and slid down the slope. Steam began to roar out of the safety-valve alongside the funnel.
Ericson thought: God, she's going down already, like Sorrel.
Wells said: 'The R/T's smashed, sir.'
Down in the wardroom, the noise and shock had been appalling; the explosion was in the very next
compartment, and the bulkhead had buckled and sagged towards them, just above the table they
were eating at. They all leapt to their feet, and jumped for the doorway: for a moment there were
five men at the foot of the ladder leading to the upper deck - Morell, Ferraby, Baker, Carslake, and
Tomlinson, the second steward. They seemed to be mobbing each other: Baker was shouting 'My
lifebelt - I've left my lifebelt!' Ferraby was being lifted off his feet by the rush, Tomlinson was
waving a dish-cloth, Carslake had reached out above their heads and grabbed the hand-rail. As the
group struggled, it had an ugly illusion of panic, though it was in fact no more than the swift
reaction to danger. Someone had to lead the way up the ladder: by the compulsion of their peril,
they had all got there at the same time.
Morell suddenly turned back against the fierce rush, buffeted his way through, and darted into his
cabin. Above his bunk was a photograph of his wife: he seized it, and thrust it inside his jacket. He
looked round swiftly, but there seemed nothing else he wanted.
He ran out again, and found himself already alone: the others had all got clear away, even during
the few seconds of his absence. He wondered which one of them had given way.... Just as he
reached the foot of the ladder there was an enormous cracking noise behind him: foolishly he
turned, and through the wardroom door he saw the bulkhead split asunder and the water burst in. It
flooded towards him like a cataract: quickly though he moved up the ladder, he was waist-deep
before he reached the top step, and the water seemed to suck greedily at his thighs as he threw
himself clear. He looked down at the swirling chaos which now covered everything - the
wardroom, the cabins, all their clothes and small possessions. There was one light still burning
under water, illuminating the dark-green, treacherous torrent that had so nearly trapped him. He
shook himself, in fear and relief, and ran out into the open, where in the freezing night air the
shouting was already wild, the deck already steep under his feet.
The open space between the boats was a dark shambles. Men blundered to and fro, cursing wildly,
cannoning into each other, slipping on the unaccustomed slope of the deck: above their heads the steam from the safety-valve was reaching a crescendo of noise, as if the ship, pouring out her vitals,
was screaming her rage and defiance at the same time. One of the boats was useless -it could not be
launched at the angle Compass Rose had now reached: the other had jammed in its chocks, and no
effort, however violent, could move it. Tonbridge, who was in charge, hammered and punched at it:
the dozen men with him strove desperately to lift it clear: it stuck there as if pegged to the deck, it
was immovable. Tonbridge said, for the fourth or fifth time: 'Come on, lads - heave!' He had to roar
to make himself heard; but roaring was no use, and heaving was no use either. Gregg, who was by
his shoulder, straining at the gunwale, gasped: 'It's no bloody good, Ted ... she's fast.... It's the list...'
and Tonbridge called out: The rafts, then - clear the rafts!'
The men left the boat, which in their mortal need had failed them and wasted precious minutes, and
made for the Carley floats: they blundered into each other once more, and ran full tilt into the
funnel-guys, and shouted fresh curses at the confusion. Tonbridge started them lifting the raft that
was on the high side of the ship, and bringing it across to the other rail; in the dark, with half a
dozen fear-driven men heaving and wrenching at it, it was as if they were already fighting each
other for the safety it promised. Then he stood back, looking up at the bridge where the next order -
the last order of all - must come from. The bridge was crooked against the sky. He fingered his lifejacket and tightened the straps. He said, not bothering to make his voice audible:
'It's going to be cold, lads.'
Down in the engine-room, three minutes after the explosion, Watts and E.R.A. Broughton were
alone, waiting for the order of release from the bridge. They knew it ought to come, they trusted
that it would. ... Watts had been 'on the plate' when the torpedo struck home: on his own initiative,
he had stopped the engine, and then, as the angle of their list increased, he had opened the safetyvalve
and let the pressure off the boilers. He had followed what was happening from the noise
outside, and it was easy enough to follow. The series of crashes from forward were the bulkheads
going, the trampling overhead was the boats being cleared away: the wicked down-hill angle of the
ship was their doom. Now they waited, side by side in the deserted engine-room: the old E.R.A.
and the young apprentice. Watts noticed that Broughton was crossing himself, and remembered he
was a Roman Catholic. Good luck to him tonight.. . . The bell from the bridge rang sharply, and he
put his mouth to the voice-pipe:
'Engine-room!' he called.
'Chief,' said the Captain's far-away voice.
'Sir?'
'Leave it, and come up.'
That was all - and it was enough. 'Up you go, lad!' he said to Broughton. 'We're finished here.'
'Is she sinking?' asked Broughton uncertainly.
'Not with me on board.... Jump to it!'