Larsen &apos;s last haul . lucky Larsen , the ruthless skipper of the Arctic trawler Volsung , did not believe in hell hereafter . he only believed in the immediate hell of his savage way of life &amp;hellip; by George Goldsmith-Carter . the Arctic trawler Volsung laboured heavily at her trawl in the looping ground-swell to the west nor&apos; west of Andenes lighthouse , flashing feebly against the sleet-blurred , rocky backdrop of the coast of north west Norway . above the tiny vessel the northern lights rippled in green , barbaric radiance across a sable , freezing sky . beneath her restless keel rolled water which , glacial blue in the few hours of half light yet to come , was now black and bitter as death . the massive bulk of lucky Larsen , skipper of the Volsung , loomed in the open window of the wheelhouse , from whence he stood watching , heedless of the gathering rime of frost which glittered on the red stubble of his heavy jaw . he looked across the dark sea to where the tip of the new moon was thrusting like a silver dagger from behind the shark-toothed peaks of Andoy , then his wolfish eyes shifted to the fish-pounds in the fore-deck beneath him . illuminated by the glare of the deck lights a dozen men were toiling , their oilskinned backs hunched against the bite of the searing wind which glazed the ship with ice . those men had been on their feet for seventy hours now , labouring without a break , and , half blind and savage with exhaustion , they were reduced almost to the level of beasts . men driven beyond endurance by the silent menace of the watcher above to shoot and haul the giant net , to gut and pack the torrent of bronze-backed haddock which shimmered endlessly inboard , and curse the cooks if the mugs of strong and scalding tea were not forthcoming . Larsen &apos;s luck lay in his inherited ability to find the roving fish shoals when others could not and having found them , harry his crew without mercy until the fish holds were full . yet in spite of his reputation men still joined his ship to share the wealth he found , knowing that in the finding he would break their bodies and their spirits , driving them with flaying tongue and fist until the voyage was made . then when at last the hatches were battened down , they would reel below to drop exhausted in their reeking clothes , lying like corpses where they fell . the crew of the Volsung had almost reached that point now , for their bloodshot eyes were glazed with exhaustion and the blank look of sleep walkers was on their scale and slime masked faces as they toiled unceasingly amid the slaughter of the fish-pounds . there was comprehension but no pity on Larsen &apos;s face as he bleakly watched his crew , for he knew that there was no room for pity in this way of life . a few hours back a young deck-hand on his first trip had stumbled up to him , his frost-ravaged , bleeding hands held out in supplication . for the love of God , skipper , I just can n&apos;t carry on ! he had cried . with bitter and contemptuous words Larsen had ordered him below to help the cook , telling him that thereafter he would receive no pay . Larsen &apos;s restless gaze swept to the fish-gutters , their inflamed and toil-swollen wrists swathed in old rags to ease the abrasion of the sand spilling from the bellies of the fish which they were ripping open . the gutting knives flashed ceaselessly , in at the vent , out at the gills . like automatons the men worked , flinging the livers into baskets for rendering into fish-oil , tossing the entrails overboard in an endless stream . Larsen &apos;s frost-blackened lips curved cynically as he watched the screaming horde of sea-fowl swooping avidly at the offal which encircled his ship . all about him gleamed the fishing lights of many nationalities . he knew that each trawler , like his own , was emptying the sea of fish , destroying unborn life and fouling the sea with an endless torrent of filth . with savage irony men had called this mighty gathering of fishing craft the league of nations , for the trawlers fished in bitter rivalry , the larger vessels ruthlessly thrusting the smaller ones from where the haddock shoaled the thickest . one thing alone Larsen knew these raiders had in common - a blind rapacity which chose to disregard the barren future of the seas . yet this heedless rapine meant nothing to him , for in his grandfather &apos;s day men had thus plundered the North Sea . the gamecocks , the short blues and other great fleets of rival sailing trawlers had swept bare the Dogger Bank , denuded the fabulous silver pits , looted the fishy gold of the California grounds . then with the North Sea almost barren they had turned to the west , scouring away the lemon soles of Cornwall &apos;s Klondyke ground . in his own time the Spanish trawlers had pillaged , almost overnight , the silver hake of southern Irish waters , ruining Milford Haven , once the chief hake port of the world . then with home waters a desolation , a new type of trawler had appeared . the powerful high altitude trawlers which now ravaged the bitter waters of Bear Island and Nova Zembla ; the plaice abounding shallows of the White Sea ; the cod-rich Icelandic Banks - and these haddock-teeming Norwegian deeps . the wall of death some called the place , a grim spot where the continental shelf swooped steeply from the surf smashed rocks of the shore , ending in a submerged precipice which plunged twelve thousand feet into the oceanic depths beneath . against this deep-drowned cliff the gale-driven surges of the Arctic Ocean beat in elemental malice , creating a maelstrom which was death to ships and men . yet Larsen knew no pity for the dead whose bones lay far beneath him , he knew only the law of the northern trawl , the weak perish but the strong survive . nor did he heed the fools who believed these water haunted by ghost ships with the earth-bound spirits of their crews doomed forever to endure the torment of their earthly memories and re-enact in endless ghostly parody the last moments of their lives . he smiled sardonically to himself , for he knew that there was no hell hereafter . reason told him that nothing but oblivion , blacker and deeper than the depths beneath him , lay beyond this hell that men called life . leaving the wheelhouse , Larsen glanced astern to where the wire trawl-warps twanged and quivered away into the heaving night . get some weight on that after warp , bos&apos;un ! he bellowed . going back into the wheelhouse he scanned the echometer , watch your steering , blast you ! he growled at the weary helmsman . you &apos;re wandering over the edge . tonight the haddock were shoaling massively in three hundred fathoms , along the very edge of the wall of death . a little to the westward of this sounding lay an abyss of eighteen hundred fathoms , beyond the reach of any trawl and the haunt of alien species . here swam the snake-like Cyclothones , the rat-tailed Chimerae , the swag-bellied oceanic angler fishes , useless monstrosities , armoured against the cold depths with incredible slime and carrying their own weird luminosity to light their mindless gropings in awful pressure and a blackness beyond night . Larsen was not interested in marine biology , only in profit . the mate came into the wheelhouse . he was a young man whose eyes were black holes of fatigue burned into his thin , dirty face . the scarred and broken nailed fingers of his left hand were locked in the handles of two grime-streaked mugs of tea , whilst his right hand steadied him against the uneasy lurching of the ship . have a mug o&apos; lotion , skipper , he said hoarsely . Larsen gulped the lye-strong , scalding fluid then rasped how are the men ? the mate shrugged , knowing well that Larsen &apos;s concern was not with the crew &apos;s welfare , merely with their ability to continue working . they say that they &apos;re spragged , skipper , and that whether you like it or not , they &apos;re stopping for a kip . Larsen leaned out from the wheelhouse window , his out-thrust face like that of a gargoyle . which of you &amp;hellip; is stopping for a sleep ? his voice was hardly raised but it seemed to bite into the very ice-bound fabric of the plunging ship . the men beneath him raised their haggard faces and though dull hatred glimmered in their clouded eyes , none spoke . come on my lads he chided softly , a thick vein hammering in his corded throat . who wants to sleep ? &amp;hellip; do n&apos;t be afraid . speak up . when nobody answered him he nodded as if satisfied . good . any more of that talk and I &apos;ll be down amongst you &amp;hellip; his voice cracked suddenly like a whip . now get back to work you &amp;hellip; s ! for a moment he watched them go , trying to flog the life back into their frozen limbs . then he spoke to the mate . how does the fish tally stand ? fifty thousand stone of haddock , skipper . the holds are full &amp;hellip; a record catch . Larsen &apos;s bitter face showed no jubilation . this next haul will be our last . that &apos;s all . when the mate had gone Larsen went back to the open window , where oblivious to the slashing , needle-pointed sleet , he stood with his powerful legs braced against the motion of the ship . for an eternity , it seemed he &apos;d been at strife with the elements and at strife with men . with axes and steam horses he had fought the creeping black frosts which had tried to burden his ship with their deadly weight of ice . with brain and furious strength he had fought the giant seas which had licked men away like flies and threatened to engulf him . with cruel fists and crueller words he had cowed crews made mutinous by wicked overwork . but memories he could not cow . they crept into his mind at unguarded moments . he remembered the day on the Rockall Bank when he had heaved down on the winch to free the trawl which was fast to some obstruction two hundred fathoms down . the net had not come free and he had heaved down like a madman , in spite of the lurching ship and frightened glances of his men . he had heaved until the water lapped the rail . heaved until a massive iron bollard had exploded like a bomb and the trawl-warp flailing clear of its captivity , had scythed away a man &apos;s head . he remembered how the decapitated body had taken three dreadful steps before it fell . he remembered , too , the night off North Cape when only he had dared fish whilst other craft lay hove-to for their lives in the hurricane wind and giant seas . the ton-weight otter board of the net had ripped free of its dog-chain and swinging inboard from the fore-gallows , had crushed the boatswain to a pulp . yet men called him lucky - a man whose wife , overwhelmed by loneliness , had left him . a father whose grown children had long since become as strangers to him . in the tiny radio cabin behind the wheelhouse the radio operator had switched on the receiver and a babel of voices and tongues broke in on Larsen &apos;s thoughts . the skippers of many nations were asking for instructions from their company offices ; some were rejoicing in their run of luck ; others blasphemously cursing it . one voice was drowning all the others with its ire . lost all my nets but one and that &apos;s ripped to doll rags &amp;hellip; all for the sake of a lousy two hundred boxes of fish . will n&apos;t clear my expenses ! over and out . gone me &amp;hellip; . a look of contemptuous amusement came to Larsen &apos;s face . he knew the owner of that rancorous voice , it belonged to the skipper of the trawler Valkyrie &amp;hellip; Dan Scarden , a man known for his bitter complaints . going into the radio cabin Larsen switched on the transmitter and called Volsung to Valkyrie , Volsung to Valkyrie . d&apos; ye hear me Dan ? &amp;hellip; over . he waited for an answer but none came . tapping the speaker in his hand Larsen called Volsung to Valkyrie , Volsung to Valkyrie . need a hearing aid , Dan ? for god &apos;s sake stop chafing and start fishing &amp;hellip; he grinned maliciously you can have a couple of my spare nets . 