J. E. MacDonnell - 025

by The Blind Eye(lit)

"Goodbye, sir."

  Bentley turned and walked to the door. As he did so he saw the admiral turning back to his paper-cluttered desk, and he got the impression that that smiling face and gimlet eyes had infinitely more to worry about than the testing of a newfangled secret weapon.

  He reached the stretching expanse of quarterdeck, and his keen eyes did not fail to take in the covert curiosity on several officer-faces. It was not hard for him to manage a revealing smile, for the very fact of the admiral's knowing about his defending of his convoy against a Jap cruiser squadron was sufficient, even without his stated congratulations. Commander Bentley, skill and experience regardless, was a very human officer...

  He sat in the stern-sheets of Wind Rode's motor boat and as he was taken back across the ship-crammed harbour he was thinking of a soft-nosed, uncomplicated-looking, super depth-charge. The thing looked simple enough, but then so did a fifteen-inch shell, and Bentley needed little scientific background to appreciate the months, possibly years, of research which must have gone into the design and building of the frightful weapon he was to test. If the new depth-charge worked successfully, if it was proved that its discharge was harmless to the firing ship, then the whole war against U-boats could be revolutionised. It would be a case of simply find-and fire. If the fat canister proved harmless for the firing ship. If it did not, then his ship's selection for the test would prove to be a dubious honour. He was thinking about removing all normal depth-charges and explosives from the quarterdeck, as well as men, when the motorboat ran up alongside the destroyer's gangway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN HIS CABIN BENTLEY pondered on how be should deliver the admiral's message, and thus satisfy the ship's curiosity about his summons. He would have liked to clear lower-deck and address the men himself, for Granville had been vehement in stressing the need for secrecy, and there had to be no doubts in any man's mind as to the reason for the flagship visit.

  But the congratulations could be delivered in a couple of sentences, hardly a justification for gathering almost 200 men together from their work. He had decided that a notice, signed by himself, on the main notice-board would suffice, when a knock sounded at his door.

  "Come."

  Randall had received his captain at the gangway, but Bentley had made straight for his cabin. Now the first-lieutenant's face as he stepped in was deliberately uncurious. The attempt to hide his concern was so patent that Bentley's mouth pulled down at the corners in an appreciative grin.

  "There you are, Bob," he greeted his friend and deputy, "it took you longer than I expected." Randall noticed the grin, and the sheet of paper under Bentley's hand. He said, relieved:

  "What are you up to? Writing an application for a V.C., or your resignation?"

  "Unfortunately no notice would be taken of either," Bentley grimaced. "No, shipmate-you are looking at an officer who has just been handed a very nice pat on his careworn shoulders by his admiral,"

  Randall lowered himself into a chair. His tough, honest face was furrowed with the wide stretch of his grin.

  "No! Which shindig?"

  "There are more than one?" Bentley laughed. "The Jap cruiser-squadron."

  "So the old coot heard about that? Nice work, What'd he say?"

  "He didn't write a book about it, I must say. Things were a bit crowded. I followed the Rear-Admiral, Cruisers in, and heaven knows who came after me. Let me see now..."

  "As if you don't remember every damn word he said!" Randall charged.

  "I think they might be recalled to my mind," Bentley smiled. "We talked a bit about destroyers-he was in the boats, you know- and anti-submarine tactics, that sort of thing. Then he asked me if I had a clue as to why he'd sent for me, and I had to answer in the negative, so he smiled a very nice smile and told me to congratulate the ship's company-negative first-lieutenant-on a fine piece of seamanship and stoushing against those Jap cruisers. Then he butted his cigarette-I must remember the way he did that-and I was in no doubt that the interview had ended. Then back I came to this speck on the water."

  "Well, now," Randall said, his face quite incapable of concealing the pleasure he felt, and Bentley felt a twinge of conscience at his own deceit, "that was bloody nice of him. Of course you mentioned that it was the first-lieutenant who insisted on remaining and facing the foe?"

  "Of course," Bentley nodded, and his momentary and unjustified twinge was replaced by relief that his second-in-command had accepted the story so readily.

  "Will you clear lower-deck?"

  "No. Before I was rudely interrupted I was writing a note to the ship's company."

  "Yes," agreed Randall, "that might be better."

  "Thank you," the captain said solemnly. "And now..." taking up his pen suggestively.

  "You forgot to butt your cigarette," Randall grinned. "In any case I didn't come up here just to hear whether you'd been courtmartialled. While you've been chewing the fat with four fat rings, something has transpired aboard."

  Bentley's glance was sharp, the bantering forgotten, but Randall's unworried face reassured him.

  "Such as?"

  "Such as the boxing tournament-the Fleet championship. Your cobber across the way is mighty keen on physical fitness-or didn't he discuss that?"

  "Get on with it!"

  "It seems in the flagship," Randall obeyed, "there is a bloke mighty handy with his mitts. Amateur heavyweight champ of England, something like that. Up till now nobody could be found stupid enough to have a lash at him. But as from ten minutes ago- just after you returned aboard, in fact-H.M.A. destroyerWind Rode finds herself the challenger to the flagship."

  Bentley's smile was easy, a gesture born of definite conviction.

  "That's what you think," he remarked, and shuffled the sheaf of paper on which he was waiting to write. "I'm a bit too old in the tooth to go about taking on amateur heavyweight champions."

  Randall's grin widened, and his captain proceeded to disabuse his mind of any frivolity it might entertain.

  "First, my stoushing is now confined to getting out of trouble you can't handle yourself. Second. I'm a commanding-officer, elevated beyond the nasty delights of jaw-bashing-thank heaven! Third. I'm way out of condition. And fourth-and final-he might beat me. At the moment I have a nice little cup sitting in that bookcase there. I don't intend it to remain there under false pretences. And there are some pretty hefty specimens on board here. If I came back licked we'd have a mutiny inside twenty-four hours."

  Randall looked at him, still grinning, his large head held a little on one side in mock puzzlement.

  "I haven't," he said, "a clue what you're drivelling about."

  "Eh?"

  "I agree with everything you just said. Completely. You're fat as a pig, and you won that cup under false pretences anyway; you couldn't fight your way out of a light fog."

  Bentley's smile was still easy.

  "There's no fog surrounding your childish intentions,'' he sneered, "you haven't a hope of talking me into it. Now clear out for Pete's sake."

  "At your command, master,'' bowed his friend, "I'm on my way. But..."

  "Well? What is it?"

  "I know you're slipping-keenness dies with old age, I suppose. But I thought the commanding-officer would at least show some slight interest in the name of the bloke who's volunteered to uphold the honour of the ship, and all that." You don't get to command a Fleet destroyer with sump-oil clogging up your mental processes. The truth dawned on Bentley before he asked:

  "What the devil are you gabbling about?"

  "A man. A seaman. A petty-officer, A bloke you've had some fisticuffs with."

  Bentley laid down his pen.

  "Gellatly," he stated.

  "Gellatly," Randall nodded. "He's done quite a bit of it, as you know. Pretty handy with `em, they tell me."

  He was watching his friend's face shrewdly, and he was not surprised to see the pleasure form in it.

  "That's excellent!" Bentley said, and his voice went on quickly and de
finitely, "give him every facility. Let him ashore whenever he wants to. Running, swimming, toughening exercises, things like that. Organise the loan of a punching bag from one of the cruisers. Not the flagship-we don't want their chap to know that ours is out of training. A psychological advantage can be damned important. See to that punching bag right away."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Randall grinned. "Ah-there's one small detail I don't think I can manage."

  "Oh? We'll see about that! Gellatly's to have everything he needs." He rubbed his chin reflectively, smiling. "I remember in the Australia when we towled up the whole Med. Fleet just before the war. This could be another win for the old convict colony." He glanced up at Randall, his tone unconsciously curt.

  "Now what's this detail worrying you?"

  "The provision," Randall told him, "of a sparring partner."

  "No!" said Bentley at once, but Randall noticed he pushed himself up from his chair. "I've got far too much to do. How the hell do you expect me to look after the ship and jump around the torpedo-space in the dog-watches?"

  "How the hell do you expect a man to win a tournament when he hasn't had the gloves on in months?" Randall queried gently.

  Bentley looked at the deck. His balled right fist was gently tapping at the palm of his left hand.

  "It might do me good," he muttered, almost privately.

  "I'll tell Gellatly to take it easy," Randall grinned. "Today's Wednesday-make and mend for alt hands. It'll be first-class entertainment for them. You could start after lunch."

  "I'll handle my own blasted training!" Bentley scowled. "Anyway, what's up with a great lug like you? What are we worried about a punching-bag for?"

  "The first-lieutenant," Randall informed him portentously, "is in close contact with the men. I might get some bullocky bloke who says he's in training just so's he can get a crack at me."

  "What you really mean is your stomach is so beer-sodden you couldn't last ten seconds," Bentley said rudely.

  "You always were one to swing your rank," his friend told him. "Be that as it may-will you do it?"

  "Of course," Bentley said, and smiled.

  Ashore there were several drinking dives which failed to dignify themselves by the title of nightclub, an open-air picture theatre and a ramshackle dance hall.

  All of these forms of entertainment presuppose for their full enjoyment the accompaniment of a lady-or at least a female. But the feminine European population of the big naval base was as restricted as its forms of entertainment for 12,000 men. It consisted almost wholly of nurses, some English, some Australian, and a few American.

  It will be appreciated that the nurses' off-duty hours were hardly lonely-fifty does not divide at all satisfactorily into 12,000-and so that afternoon, being Wednesday, and-at least in destroyers-always a half-holiday, or make and mend, there was a solid turn-up of nonpaying spectators in the open space directly abaft the torpedo-tubes.

  They were not disappointed.

  Bentley knew there was barely a fortnight to the tournament, and consequently Gellatly could not indulge in the usual refinements of preparation for a big fight.

  In any case, training facilities were limited. There was no small punching-bag on which he could practise his timing, no canvas-decked ring in which to move and judge distance, and only one sparring-partner of any, helpful standard.

  Gellatly, therefore, could only concentrate on actual boxing, using his restricted time to practise distance and judgment and timing on Bentley's face and body.

  The captain also knew that the contender in the flagship would be afforded every facility, even to an actual ring: you can do a lot with a deck 600 feet long and more than a hundred feet wide. As well, there were certain to be plenty of sparring partners among 2,000 men. And every help would be given their man, for his win would reflect shiningly on the ship.

  Bentley was thinking of this last factor as he forced his hands into the gloves. His mentor, old "Aunty" Sainsbury, had done it, in this very harbour, with another Australian destroyer. That time the challenge had been between pulling boats. A second Australian ship had beaten the entire Mediterranean Fleet in Alexandria before the war. It would be very nice indeed if one of the junior units of this great Fleet, and a visitor at that, could demonstrate her country's superiority in a different field.

  Randall laced his gloves and Bentley glanced up at his opponent, for whom the gunner's mate was performing a similar service.

  Bentley saw the youth of the petty-officer, the breadth of his shoulders, and the smooth muscles which boxing and his frogman training had given his arms and legs and back.

  There was no doubt of his fitness. What he needed to win was the experience the erstwhile heavyweight champion of the Australian Navy could offer him. Gellatly looked up, and smiled respectfully at his captain.

  "Ready, sir?"

  Bentley nodded, and stepped forward.

  "It's been a long time,'' he grinned slightly, "take it easy."

  Gellatly was not deceived. But his perception could not prevent a left-handed glove from landing with reduced force three times against his chin in the next ten seconds. Bentley lowered his hands.

  "We'll have to keep that right hand up," he warned. "I caught you with a left the first time, you guarded your chin for about three seconds, then you lowered your right. You must remember that a man may repeat the same punch three, four, or even five times in quick succession. All right, then."

  They shaped up and Bentley's left hand struck like a snake. It met a protective open glove.

  "That's it," he grunted, and struck again.

  Again the blow was countered, and again. The next instant Gellatly jerked back, his mouth open, gasping. Bentley had slid in and a fraction after his left hand had snaked out his right hand had jolted forcibly against Gellatly's solar plexus.

  "By the same token," Bentley told him, his own breathing measured and even, "you've got to remember that a continuous line of punching may be followed by a totally different attack. All right?"

  "Yes, sir," the petty-officer nodded, and fell into his crouch.

  They boxed on, and Randall knew that Gellatly already knew what he had been told, and that it was simply the speed of his opponent which had prevented him from countering the punches.

  You should be taking on that flagship bruiser, he thought. Gellatly's good, but not in the same class as you. But then you're right. It's a men's tournament. A sub-lieutenant perhaps, even a lieutenant, could safely enter, but a commanding-officer was in a different category.

  There was no actual rule forbidding the entry of even the admiral-the Navy is democratic in its sports-but there were certain indefinable lines drawn beyond which the captain of a vessel found it prudent not to step.

  Randall heard the swift slap of leather, and the grunts of the fighters, and he covertly glanced about him. The area was crowded, some men perched on the tubes, others looking down from X-gun deck, and on all their faces was intense interest. He knew its cause. Not so much the spectacle of two men boxing, as it was the fact that one of them, and obviously the superior one, was their own captain- their remote and authoritative lord, now descended into the arena of intimate contact and combat with one of their own.

  Every ship's captain, Randall mused idly, should be a champion boxer...

  A crisp smack of sound broke into his musing. He saw Bentley forced back, at the same time as he ducked the right hook which followed Gellatly's blow to the face.

  They clinched, and every man present, Randall included, had his eyes laid on the captain's face. That was a smart punch, it had caught him squarely, and it must have hurt.

  They should have known their captain better than to wait for some sign of anger against their messmate. Bentley broke clear and his grin at Gellatly was friendly and rueful.

  "Keep those for the flagship," he grunted, and bore in behind a flashing stab of punches.

  They had gone three rounds, a fifth of the distance Gellatly would have to survive, when above
the slap of leather and the shuffling of feet Randall heard beside him:

  "I didn't know this was on."

  The voice was quiet, a little wondering. Randall glanced down into a refined face with soulful eyes.

  "Hullo, Ping" he grinned. "The Old Man's tiring a bit-like to take over?''

  "No, thank you," rejected Lieutenant Peacock, the asdic-officer. His spaniel-like brown eyes followed the captain with surprised interest. "I had no idea he was expert at this sort of thing."

  There's a lot you don't know, Ping-and never will know about that boy, Randall grinned to himself. He said:

  "Next time you're in his cabin take a look in his bookcase. There's a silver cup there. It refers to the heavyweight champion of the Fleet."