Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He sighed. ‘But if she’s not, then the problem is still there.’

  Critchley turned to study his profile, the level stare, the small crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, evidence of watchkeeping, of hunting the enemy.

  A few more like Ainslie and there’d be room for optimism, he thought. As it was . . .

  The commandeered yacht must have been a beautiful vessel in her day, Ainslie thought. In spite of being stripped of many of her old owner’s refinements she retained an air of elegance and grace, from the clipper bow and figurehead to her fat yellow funnel. As a young sub-lieutenant in a destroyer, Ainslie had come across many such yachts, probably even her, in the peacetime days of service with the Mediterranean fleet. Malta, Naples, Piraeus. Soft nights, music, girls with tanned shoulders and bold stares for the young officers. Another world, probably gone forever.

  Lady Jane was the yacht’s original name, and there was a builder’s crest and plate in the spacious saloon. Now she was labelled as Tender to Terror II, the title of Singapore’s naval base.

  The day after Ainslie’s arrival was another scorcher, but aboard the old yacht, moored apart from the warships and harbour craft, it seemed cooler, while the perfect service provided by two Chinese messboys added to a sense of unreality and detachment.

  While Critchley was ashore on one of his secret missions, Ainslie waded through the pile of correspondence, instructions and orders which had awaited his attention.

  He found he could forget the chief of staff’s unhelpful attitude as he studied the carefully collected details of his giant prize. Perhaps because all the uncertainty had become less so, or maybe, as he suspected, it was due to the first good night’s sleep and leisurely breakfast he could remember for a long while.

  Secrecy was vital. To stay out of the limelight with every security man working to that end was one thing. To hide a complete prize crew for the massive Soulrière was another entirely. A real headache for Critchley and his colleagues, Ainslie thought.

  Ainslie knew most of the men who would make up his new company, some very well indeed, Like John Quinton, who had been his first lieutenant in Tigress, and who by rights should have a command of his own. An Australian with a rugged and cheerfully unorthodox attitude to his British companions, he had said more than once, ‘If they’d had subs in our navy I’d have stayed put.’ They had been in some very tight corners together. Ainslie hoped he would be the same and not embittered by being appointed as his Number One again.

  He knew the senior engineer officer, too, Lieutenant Andrew Halliday. They had served together in another submarine at the outbreak of war.

  There were others, too, like Bill Gosling, the coxswain; Dugald Menzies, the yeoman of signals; and a torpedoman named Sawle who had acted as wardroom messman aboard the Tigress, and had volunteered for this mission without even asking what it entailed.

  Ainslie had met the others at HMS Dolphin, the submarine base in Hampshire. It was to be a mixed company indeed, which would include four Free French officers, two of whom had served in Soufrière’s forerunner Surcoul. They would be invaluable.

  At the Admiralty, just before he had left for Singapore, Ainslie had completed a final briefing with the head of naval operations.

  Brushing aside Ainslie’s doubts he had said cheerfully, ‘Well, if nothing comes of it, it’ll be damned good experience anyway.’

  For what, Ainslie had wondered?

  He stood up and walked to a polished brass scuttle as he heard a motor boat chugging alongside. He saw Critchley, strangely changed in white shirt and shorts, followed by two other officers, clambering up the accommodation ladder. The second officer he did not recognize, but the last one, with two gold stripes on his shoulder straps, was John Quinton.

  Ainslie turned away and looked across the saloon, examining his feelings. If Quinton had been brought here it meant one thing. The operation was going ahead.

  Critchley hurried through the door, mopping his face and hurling his cap on to a chair as he exclaimed, ‘I need a drink!’

  Ainslie smiled. ‘At this hour?’ He turned as the tall Australian lieutenant crossed the worn carpet and grasped his hand firmly. ‘Hello, John. It’s good to see you.’

  Quinton was as dark as Ainslie was fair. He had deep-set brown eyes, and skin so tanned he looked like a buccaneer from the Spanish Main. Although he was only twenty-seven he looked older than his commander.

  He let his glance rest on Ainslie’s new shoulder straps and said, ‘Congratulations, sir. You earned it.’ He looked over at Critchley. ‘A beer if you’ve got one handy.’

  Ainslie watched him thoughtfully. Quinton seemed unchanged, except for the ‘sir’.

  Critchley introduced the other officer as Commander Melrose, the senior operations officer.

  Then as one of the Chinese messboys busied himself with glasses and, mercifully, ice, Critchley said quietly, ‘We’ve found her, Bob.’ He nodded to the messboy who left as noiselessly as he had entered, and then unrolled a chart on the table. ‘Here. About three hundred miles north-east of this table.’ His finger rested on a scattered line of islands of all shapes and sizes about two hundred miles off the coast of Borneo at a guess. Critchley continued calmly. ‘This one, Datuk Besar, part of the archipelago, but under French control. Up to a point anyway. There is a local ruler, but he does what the French tell him. Well, he did.’

  Ainslie was not deceived by Critchley’s calm. He was bursting with excitement. Maybe the Soufrière operation had found life in his brain. It seemed very likely.

  Quinton said, ‘From here it looks as if the Japs are about the same distance from the place as ourselves.’ He rubbed his dark chin. ‘Interesting.’

  The operations officer regarded him curiously and said, ‘Our agents stumbled on the information by accident. Even the RAF hadn’t spotted anything on their recce flights. There’s some sort of lagoon at Datuk Besar, not much room, but plenty of depth. Just the place to hide the beast.’

  Ainslie glanced at Quinton. The beast. They were already creating a personality.

  Quinton said. ‘I still don’t see we’ve a chance of surprise. All that way.’ He shook his head. ‘Reckon we’ll have to go in with guns popping!’

  Melrose smiled. ‘The agents are right down south, in Java, Surabaja to be precise. They discovered that someone had chartered an old tramp steamer for passage to Datuk Besar. Closer investigation showed she was filled to the hatch covers with drums of diesel. It shows carelessness on someone’s part. Nobody in his right mind would need that much oil in a place that size. But it does show urgency, too. Otherwise they’d have sent the ship a longer way round to allay suspicion.’ He smiled broadly, pleased with himself and his department. ‘The old tub’s steaming up the Java Sea right now.’

  Ainslie looked at Critchley. ‘All right?’

  He nodded. ‘With any sort of luck we’ll bag her without raising a squeak.’ He frowned. ‘Then it’ll be up to you, Bob.’

  Quinton spread his arms. ‘As it used to say in my mother’s cook book: first, catch your fish. . . .’

  Melrose said, ‘The ship left Surabaja two days ago. It’s only just been confirmed by W/T. At her speed, say six knots, she’ll be suitably placed in five days’ time.’ He raised his glass, his part done. ‘Cheers.’

  Ainslie could almost see it happening, as if it had already been. Some clapped-out old freighter eking out her days with any cargo she could get. Trying to avoid the war at all costs, yet unable to resist the temptation which with luck might lead them to the French submarine in her hiding place. Urgency, Melrose had mentioned. Perhaps the French commander had heard something, or expected the Japs to mop up this last tiny fragment of empire with Soulrière still at her moorings.

  He knew so much about the Soufrière from his investigation and instruction that he even remembered the French captain’s name. Capitaine de Frégate Michel Poulain. A good officer to all accounts, and no traitor. But a sailor first and foremost, unwilling to dest
roy his boat or hand her to another power without protest. If he had wished to do so he would have acted earlier.

  Critchley said, ‘I’m off ashore, Bob. Get things moving. The others had better be mustered tomorrow, just to be sure. The admiral has been informed, and he’s going to add his weight.’

  Ainslie gave a grim smile. The very mention of Winston Churchill’s interest in the operation could change higher minds than the admiral’s.

  When Critchley and Melrose had departed Quinton said, ‘I’m glad it’s started. It was getting on my bloody nerves.’ He grinned. ‘The old firm, eh?’

  Ainslie poured two glasses of whisky. There still seemed to be a plentiful supply out here. ‘Thank you for that.’ He looked at him. ‘You had a raw deal, and I’d not want you to think I’d blocked your command for selfish reasons.’

  Quinton thrust out his legs and stared up at the deckhead. ‘Fact is, you couldn’t manage without me.’ He laughed. ‘True?’

  Ainslie relaxed. ‘True.’

  Quinton was serious again. ‘I wonder how the old Tigress is managing. After the last battering we took from those Eye-tie depth-charges, I reckon she needed a longer refit than a month, poor old girl.’

  They lapsed into silence. Ainslie had often thought of the Tigress. A new company, her skipper with his first command. It was too much. They had all been very close in Tigress. They had endured attack from air and sea while they had fought to prevent enemy supplies crossing to North Africa.

  There were plenty of music-hall jokes about the Italian lack of zeal when it came to fighting, but it had been hard to raise a laugh when their depth-charges had come thundering around the submarine’s hull.

  Quinton remarked, ‘I think I’ll have a last run ashore. Make a real night of it.’ He chuckled. ‘Can you imagine all those stuffed shirts in the Long Bar at Raffles if I gave them a few verses of “Eskimo Nell”?’

  Ainslie smiled. ‘No chance, John. You’re staying put. There’s a security blanket on this one.’

  ‘Careless talk costs lives.’ Quinton sighed. ‘I know.’

  He raised another glass and nodded approvingly at it. ‘Watch out, guts, here comes the flood!’

  Ainslie watched him. It was one of Quinton’s favourite expressions. Nothing had changed.

  At the end of the week, true to his promise, the operations officer passed the word that everything was ready.

  The night that Ainslie and his party left Singapore was perfect, no moon, good weather and as black as a boot. As the commander of the destroyer which was to carry the prize crew to the rendezvous point had said, ‘If we lose this one, my head will be on the block!’

  It was a curious feeling, Ainslie thought. Watching his men hurrying up the destroyer’s brow like fugitives, to be guided below with a minimum of delay.

  Critchley came to see them off. With just a few minutes to go he said simply, ‘No more risk than necessary, Bob. You’ve done enough for ten men. Wish to God I was coming with you. I’ll have to sit here, waiting for the reports to come in.’

  A sub-lieutenant came out of the darkness. ‘Ready when you are, sir.’

  Critchley touched Ainslie’s arm. ‘They’ve probably picked up some news aboard the destroyer already.’ He sounded at a loss. ‘I’d like you to hear it from me.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Your old command, the Tigress. She’s done for. I just heard it at HQ. Bombed returning to base. No survivors.’

  Ainslie turned away. It happened every day. It was not even as if he knew her last company, and yet . . . Did submarines really have personality?

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad you told me. She was a good boat.’

  He could picture it. Returning to base, the lookouts relaxed after the patrol, probably their first in earnest. Then out of the clouds, no warning, no chance.

  Without thinking he said, ‘I’ll miss her.’

  Then with a quick glance at the lights of the base he strode up the brow of the ship.

  He met Quinton below the bridge and guessed that he also knew.

  ‘You heard?’

  The Australian nodded slowly. ‘Makes this job that bit more important, Bob.’ He nodded again. ‘Too right.’

  Like a grey ghost the destroyer backed clear of the jetty, her screws churning the darkness into white froth. In an hour she was out in the Strait, heading eastwards to the rendezvous.

  Ainslie stood on the destroyer’s bridge and watched the land sliding away into a deeper darkness. They were all committed now. The hunt had begun.

  2

  The Team

  LIEUTENANT (E) ANDREW HALLIDAY sat in a corner of the destroyer’s wardroom and glanced at the other officers near him. He tried not to listen to the ship’s pounding screws and the steady whirr of fans, to calculate and consider what her performance was like. It only made him feel more out of things, a passenger.

  Opposite him, leaning over a small table, his features set in a frown of concentration, was Lieutenant David Forster, who, if the operation proved to be successful, would be the submarine’s navigating officer. A typical Dartmouth product, Halliday thought. Usually ready with some witty comment at exactly the right moment, and nearly always right about something or other.

  Halliday looked down at his hands. They rested in his lap like extensions of his brain, his tools. Strong, bony fingers, with a few scars as souvenirs of his trade.

  He hated this kind of operation, although he kept his doubts to himself. It was not his sort of work. His was the world of machinery, he was used to it, as he was used to being depended upon. Unlike the debonair Forster, Halliday had come up through the ranks, the hard way. A Scot by birth, his home was in London, about ten minutes’ walk from Tower Bridge. He thought of the skipper, Robert Ainslie, how they had first met in the small, elite circle of submariners. Halliday had been the chief engineroom artificer of the little S-boat Seamist, and Ainslie, then a lieutenant, had been in command.

  North Sea patrols, dodging dive bombers and seaplanes, E-boats and anti-submarine trawlers, feeling their way as the war exploded across Europe and Scandinavia in an unstoppable onslaught.

  It had been rough going, relearning all the peacetime lessons, rewriting the rules and then breaking them, too. They had done well, better than several other boats which had failed to return from their patrol areas. He had learned to work closely with Ainslie, skipper and chief thinking as one. Halliday was the first to admit that he was a withdrawn, self-sufficient person, and his feelings for Ainslie had remained professional rather than personal. Until that day off the Norwegian coast. Despite the humid, oily warmth of the destroyer’s crowded wardroom he felt a shiver on his spine.

  They had been at sea for days, waiting and hoping for a chance to have a crack at a German heavy cruiser which had been reported nearby shelling a Norwegian town. The cruiser had not come, but two destroyers had arrived instead. For days they had played cat and mouse across the mouth of a fjord, twisting and turning to avoid a seemingly endless bombardment of depth-charges. Their sealed, dripping world had gone berserk around them. Lights shattered, the hull reeling to the thunder of explosions, each threatening to burst them open like a sardine tin. Sometimes they had been hard put to hold the boat at the right depth, other times she had gone mad as she had plunged through an outflow of fresh water from the great fjord.

  The destroyers eventually gave up and left. Gingerly Seamist had surfaced, examined her wounds and turned tail for home.

  In all those miles of sea, after all the hours of manoeuvring and changing course, they had hit a drifting mine. A small submarine and a tiny pinprick of a mine, somehow they had been drawn together. Halliday still could not remember much more. He had been going to the bridge to report to the skipper about leaks. It should have been safe enough. They had been well within range of fighter cover for the last miles. He could vaguely remember climbing through the conning tower, feeling the air pumping past him as the diesels sucked it down through the hatch. The unshaven lookou
ts, muffled to the eyes, their binoculars covering the grey sea. Ainslie turning towards the hatch to greet him even as a lookout yelled, ‘Mine, sir! Dead ahead!’ Then the bang, the excruciating pain in his ears as he had fallen half down the ladder. The boat going into a dive, men screaming, their cries smothered by the icy inrush of water.

  Then, what seemed a long, long time later, coming to, half choked by salt and oil, and realizing that Ainslie was supporting him in that bitter, bloody sea. There had been seven of them, gasping and cursing, trying to help one another, but losing to the grip of freezing water.

  Halliday had wanted to die, but Ainslie’s voice had refused him even that.

  Eventually, a hundred years later, an RAF rescue launch had found them. Two officers and two seamen. The others had died.

  After that, if Halliday felt anything for Ainslie it was as near to love as a man could feel for another.

  When Ainslie had picked up his half-stripe and been given the Tigress, Halliday had asked to go with him. Ainslie had given him that quiet, grave smile which he knew so well and had said, ‘No, Chief. The next time you come with me I want to see some gold lace on your sleeve.’ He had known that in the larger submarine Halliday would have been under an engineer officer. He was the sort of man who thought about things like that.

  Halliday looked down at his hands again. Well, he had two stripes now, and Ainslie had been promoted ahead of time, too. He smiled grimly. Two plants forced up by glass.

  He thought about the Soufrière. It would make a change working with the French officers. But just let them make a mess of it and he would show them.

  David Forster, the navigating officer, closed his notebook and leaned back in the chair. He was twenty-six years old, with all the confidence of youth honed by war. Forster had felt Halliday watching him and had made a point of not showing it. For despite his normal air of casual optimism, Forster was worried. On the face of it, and provided he could stay in one piece, he had the world at his feet. He came from a respected naval family with a pedigree which went back to the Armada. He was the oldest son, and heir to a considerable estate in Sussex, and he had already gained a DSC for bravery under fire.