Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He looked upon his appointment as navigation officer as the final stepping-stone to a command of his own. Then he would get out of submarines and use his experience and the considerable dash which being a submariner always gave to find something better. Forster planned well in advance and thought things out for himself. A good command, something which might offer him more chances of advancement ahead of the pack and with luck allow him some time for leisure. He was an all-round sportsman, as much at home on the rugger field as he was carrying a gun on the moors.

  But he had one flaw, a real weakness which had given him a frown to cloud his good looks. Forster, above all else, enjoyed the company of attractive women. Like the sports field, he went all out, as far as he could, then discarded them, being content to shelve them in memory like trophies.

  At the submarine base in Hampshire, while they had been preparing for this operation without any real hope that it might come off, Forster had met Daphne. He had known her at a distance for a year or so, the wife of another submariner. It had started after a party, perhaps too many drinks. In wartime you cut corners, made the prospect of death a ready excuse for almost anything.

  Forster had never gone to bed with a married woman before. It was not that he held any scruples on the matter, it was just that it had never happened. It had been like being reborn, driven mad in a frenzy of love so primitive that he could still not believe it. If only he had kept to his previous arrangements. If only Daphne’s husband had been at the base instead of the Mediterranean.

  But whatever else had happened, he knew Daphne was not a liar. And when she had told him she was pregnant, just hours before he had been ordered to leave for Singapore, he had been stunned. He had not even been able to tell her. The secret orders left nothing to chance. Perhaps even then he had expected the operation to be called off, another false alarm. They were common in wartime.

  He listened to the drumming engines, the swish of water along the destroyer’s hull. This was real enough. And she was back there, worried sick. She might do something stupid. He swallowed hard, wondering if he was thinking of her or himself. Maybe the job would soon be over. There was still time. He rubbed his chin desperately. So what? The problem was still there.

  He looked at Halliday, his face deep in thought. He would have no such troubles. Set in his ways, the ‘little woman’ back in Blighty knitting balaclavas for sailors. A picture of dad on the mantelpiece.

  Forster stood up, feeling sick. Christ.

  Halliday watched him leave and relaxed in the chair. Soon now. Those fine engines and electric motors were out there, waiting for him and his assistant engineer, Sub-Lieutenant Arthur Deacon. He smiled gravely. And the Frenchies, of course.

  Further along the hull, in the destroyer’s chief and petty officers’ mess, Bill Gosling, a submarine torpedo coxswain of long standing, sighed with relief as the tannoy called the company to action stations. It was no clamouring, mind-stopping klaxon, just a mild request to stand to. They’d have to act a bit livelier if they were in Western Approaches, he thought grimly.

  His friend and drinking partner, a yeoman of signals, Petty Officer Dugald Menzies, looked at him and said, ‘Good thing to get rid of that lot. Bit more room for us now.’

  The coxswain grinned. He was a large, battered looking man, running to overweight, and old for his years. He had been in the Service since he was a boy. It was his life, his reason for being.

  He replied, ‘Probably they’ll say the same about us, Jock.’

  The yeoman said, ‘Not like being at war, is it, Bill? Out here, I mean. D’you reckon the Japs will come in against us?’

  Gosling shrugged. ‘Can’t tell. Maybe they’ll stay out of it like the Yanks. To see who’s going to win.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘Went to Japan once. Lots of tiny little women.’

  The yeoman of signals waited for his friend to elaborate, but he did not. Poor old Bill Gosling was getting past it, he thought worriedly. The best coxswain in the submarine service, everyone knew that. But a surface ship or a nice little billet ashore handing out leave passes and ration cards to green hostilities-only seamen would be more like it.

  He asked, ‘Ever thought of putting in for a shore job?’ It just slipped out.

  Gosling had had two large tots of rum and was feeling ready for a nap. But the casual question stirred something all the same.

  ‘Me? A sodding barrack stanchion? When that happens I’ll really know I’m done for!’

  But he had thought about it. He had been in submarines since he had been a leading hand. It was demanding work, always with the nagging thought something might go wrong, even in peacetime. Like the poor Thetis, which had taken her crew to the bottom while on trials in sight of land. One error, that was all it needed. So why had he volunteered for the Soufrière job?

  Bob Ainslie, the skipper, had offered him the chance to get ashore and wait for something quieter. He smiled. Ainslie would. One of the best. Together they had made the Tigress a happy ship. Now she was on the bottom. Had someone forgotten the drill at the last moment? A lever pushed instead of pulled, a vent open instead of shut? Men under fire were never what you expected them to be. He glanced down at the brand new ribbon of the Distinguished Service Medal on his jacket. Ainslie had done that for him. He’d see the drafting officer in bloody hell before he quit on Ainslie. Now of all times.

  Then he fell asleep, his heavy frame rocking to the ship’s plunging motion in time with the drawn curtains on the tiered bunks where others of the raiding party were enjoying some rest.

  It was the same throughout the ship. While the destroyer’s company were at action stations for the last miles to the rendezvous the secretly gathered prize crew dozed, wrote letters or thought of the prospects of success. The bulk of the party were aboard, although others, like the RNVR pilot who was to take over the Soufrière’s seaplane, the cook and a few seamen were still back in Singapore waiting to see what would happen.

  Up on the destroyer’s open bridge, Ainslie stood beside the commanding officer and watched the sea changing colour as a low, filmy haze drifted to meet them. Strange how naked you felt up here, he thought. Too long in submarines probably. But the war seemed far away and only the trimmings were in view.

  The destroyer’s CO turned and said, ‘Pilot’s told me that we should make contact in two hours, sir. My people know what to do. One peep on the old freighter’s morse and we’ll drop a shell over her bows.’ He walked across the well-scrubbed gratings and looked down at the iron deck where the motor boat was already swung out on the davits. ‘My chaps have a machine-gun mounted in the boat. Should be all right.’

  Ainslie put on his dark glasses. ‘Good.’ He thinks we’re all potty, round the bend. Either that or he believes the job should be his instead of a lot of roughnecks from Britain.

  He heard footsteps and knew it was Quinton.

  The Australian said, ‘I’ve done my rounds. The lads seem okay. Glad to get on with it, I expect.’

  ‘D’you want to talk about it, John?’

  Quinton shook his head. ‘I think if I try to remember any more I’ll forget everything!’ He grinned. ‘First we get aboard.’ He ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘The crew will probably be native, so we’ll put ’em below under guard. Up to the bridge, tell the master we’re on to him and order him to proceed.’

  Ainslie nodded, only his lips showing any expression below the dark glasses.

  ‘If he makes trouble, shoot him.’ How easily it came out. But it was not so strange when you thought about Norway and Holland, Greece and Crete. Not strange at all.

  He added, ‘The remainder will come across immediately so that the destroyer can push off.’

  ‘The rest? You’ll be with them surely?’ Quinton sounded anxious. ‘That was the way it was planned.’

  Ainslie clapped him on the shoulder, feeling the strength of the man. ‘If I make a mess of it, John, so be it. If you do, I’ll not forgive myself. I want you to have a command of your own
, right?’ He walked to the bridge ladder. ‘I’m going to have an hour’s shut-eye.’

  The destroyer’s commanding officer crossed the gratings. ‘He’s a cool customer.’

  Quinton nodded. ‘Sure. A real beaut.’

  ‘I’d not be able to sleep until it was all over!’

  Quinton smiled to himself. And neither will he. It’s an act, all of it. For our sakes, and for his own. God, have you got some lessons to learn, chum. But aloud he said, ‘He’s had plenty of practice.’ He saw the shutters drop behind the other man’s eyes and added calmly, ‘Sir.’

  Two hours later, almost to the minute, Ainslie was called to the bridge. The other ship was in sight. Phase two was about to start.

  He nodded to the destroyer’s commanding officer and trained his binoculars over the screen. At first he imagined the old tramp steamer was painted bright red and orange, but as she hardened in the lens, hull down in the lingering haze, he saw she was covered with rust and daubs of red lead from stem to stern.

  She was really old, with a long trail of black smoke hanging motionless above her small wake.

  The destroyer seemed to come alive as the orders rattled through voice-pipes like pebbles.

  ‘Yeoman, make a signal to her now: This is a British warship. Stop instantly. Do not use your wireless.’

  Ainslie kept his glasses levelled, hearing the clatter of the signal lamp’s shutter, the impatient movement of feet on the bridge gratings.

  He could just make out her name on the rounded, dented stern. Kalistra. If she ever turned up in a convoy her slow speed and dense smoke trail would drive the escort commander mad, he thought.

  He stiffened. Someone had appeared on the Kalistra’s outdated bridge.

  A rating said tersely, ‘She’s not transmitting, sir.’

  Another said cheerfully, ‘Don’t look like she’s got a bloody thing to transmit with, mate!’

  Then the commanding officer’s voice. ‘Silence on the bridge!’

  Ainslie glanced over, sorry for him. He was afraid he was going to make a hash of it. A lot of people, important ones, were now involved. The accuracy of the intelligence reports and the punctuality of this ancient tramp steamer proved that.

  He said, ‘She’s stopping.’

  Then he turned as he felt someone fastening a webbing belt around his waist. It was Forster; he too was wearing a belt and heavy pistol.

  He said, ‘All right, sir? Just in case.’

  Ainslie nodded, smiling. He liked Forster, in spite of his energetic appetites. He did his job well, even to remembering to help the gunnery officer issue side-arms.

  Quinton would be down with the first boarding party, each man keyed up, raring to go.

  Two of the destroyer’s guns had trained to starboard, following the other ship, as if they were sniffing at her. Even the voices below the bridge were hushed.

  ‘Slow ahead together.’ The destroyer’s commander crossed and re-crossed his bridge. ‘Stand by to drop the motor boat.’

  Men were already climbing into the boat while a hoarse voice bellowed, ‘Turns for lowering!’ And as the commander waved his hand. ‘Lower away!’

  Ainslie nodded to his opposite number and touched his cap. ‘Thanks for the lift. I’ll be off.’

  It seemed like only seconds when he was bundled up with the others in the motor boat and bouncing across the small wavelets towards the motionless ship.

  He removed his cap and laid it on the deck. To Quinton’s curious glance he said, ‘If they see a brass hat coming aboard they’ll know there’s more than a routine check-up afoot. They could still give us a bad time if they wanted to. The destroyer wouldn’t like to blaze away with us halfway up the side!’

  Some of the armed seamen near him chuckled, as if it were all a huge joke.

  Ainslie watched the Kalistra’s worn-out hull looming towards him, marvelling at the way men could laugh and joke at times like these.

  A crude rope ladder had been lowered, and Quinton said, ‘I’ll go first, sir.’ He met Ainslie’s gaze firmly. ‘This time.’

  As he reached out for the ladder he said, ‘Sawle, bring the skipper’s cap! Remember who we are!’

  There were more laughs in the boat, and Ainslie thanked the fates which had brought him and Quinton together.

  As the boarding party clambered over the bulwark, and a frightened-looking Javanese seaman pointed towards the bridge to show the way, the motor boat swung away to collect the next party. It would have been far quicker to lay the destroyer alongside, no matter what the contact did to her paintwork, but if there was an unseen watcher nearby this would appear more natural.

  Ainslie looked at the sea. Bright blue. Like silk. Another scorcher.

  Sawle, the torpedoman cum wardroom messman, hurried beside him, and as Quinton ran up the bridge ladder and into the wheelhouse he handed Ainslie his cap with something like reverence.

  ‘Just like old times, sir.’

  Hardly that, Ainslie thought.

  He joined Quinton in the wheelhouse, taking in the disorder, the flaking paintwork, the ragged, half-naked helmsman made more pathetic by his seamen with their levelled weapons.

  The ship’s master was Dutch, probably a half-caste, and as dirty as his ship.

  Ainslie took out his pipe and filled it very slowly, the action giving him time and his men an opportunity to cover the most vital parts of the deck and engineroom.

  ‘I am ordered to take control of your ship, Captain. By the authority entrusted in me I intend to proceed with her to . . .’ He watched the man’s features, the way his mouth was hanging half open. Poor devil. He looked terrified. ‘. . . to her destination, Datuk Besar.’

  The man stammered, ‘I poor man, Kapitein. I know nothing of war.’

  Quinton said quietly, ‘Holland is overrun. It is forbidden, nevertheless, for her old colonies to aid the enemy.’

  More feet clattered on the bridge ladder and Petty Officer Voysey, second coxswain, shouted, ‘It’s ’ere, right enough, sir. Enough oil for a bloody fleet!’

  The ship’s master dropped his head. ‘I only do what I am told, Kapitein.’

  Ainslie put a match to his pipe. ‘Good. Then we will get along very well.’

  He looked across at the destroyer. The motor boat was coming back, but this time she was towing the whaler, equally loaded down with men and weapons.

  ‘Signal Arielle and tell her all’s well.’

  Quinton looked at him for a moment. ‘Arielle? I never even saw her name!’

  Ainslie trained his glasses on the two boats. Halliday was with this lot. Just as well, he thought. Otherwise the old tub might never make it to Datuk Besar.

  Half an hour later, with her signal lamp flashing like a diamond-bright eye, the destroyer swung away in a steep turn.

  Petty Officer Menzies said, ‘From Arielle, sir. Good hunting.’ He looked round the dirty bridge with obvious distaste. ‘Och, what a potmess!’

  Ainslie smiled. ‘Thank you, Yeo. I hope you’ll not have to put up with it for long.’

  Forster was in the small chartroom, his hands spread on the stained chart.

  ‘Just as well we took over, sir.’ He jabbed his dividers on the chart. ‘This joker had a course laid through the outer reef!’

  Ainslie looked at the wheelhouse as the telegraph clanged and the old screw started to thrash at the sea again. It was a joke to Forster, to most of them. They were used to seeing pain and suffering, and had been made to shield themselves against it.

  He watched the Kalistra’s master as he stood near the wheel. Beaten, one more bit of wartime flotsam paying the price.

  It was no joke to him.

  Ainslie felt someone shaking his shoulder and was instantly awake.

  ‘Dawn’s coming up, sir.’ It was Forster, looking surprisingly wide awake.

  Ainslie eased himself from the battered wicker chair which had been brought to the freighter’s bridge for him, and stretched. Then he walked out on to the starboard
wing and peered ahead. The dawn came up quickly here, and there was already a definite glow along the horizon’s edge. Not long now. He yawned and stretched his arms, mentally comparing the shabby, makeshift surroundings with his more usual mechanical world.

  Quinton came out of the gloom, like a ghost against the wooden screens.

  ‘I’ve called the rest of the hands, sir, and sent the native crew below. Also I told the Chief to keep a weather eye on the engineroom people.’ He walked to the rail and gripped it with both hands, sucking in several deep breaths.

  Ainslie said, ‘The master still persists that there is no recognition signal for the delivery of his cargo. I’m not sure if I trust him or not. We’ll head straight into the lagoon and anchor, that’s apparently the drill. Then we’ll take it from there. If we get no co-operation from the local people I shall try to explain the advantages of helping us.’ He hesitated. ‘At worst, we’ll have to blow up the submarine.’

  Quinton was watching him intently. ‘Suppose the Japs are there already?’

  ‘Unlikely, John. But if they are I’ll have to speak with them. After all, we’ve no quarrel with them. Yet.’

  A shaft of light spilled over the horizon like pale gold liquid. It was broken in one place by a shadow, a long hump of land.

  Forster said, ‘There it is, sir. Our little island. Right on the button.’

  ‘Fetch the gunnery officer.’ He thought he heard Quinton groan, and added, ‘His part is pretty important, John.’

  They fell silent, watching the land rising in the warm glow like a surfacing whale.

  Ainslie knew that Quinton did not like the gunnery officer very much, and that seemed to go for almost everyone else. Lieutenant Peter Farrant had been in submarines at the very start of his service but had transferred to general service at his own request. He was everyone’s conception of the stiff-backed, efficient gunnery officer, the product of Whale Island, but aboard a submarine he would stand out like a cactus in a rose garden.