He switched to full power and studied the rise of land to the right of his lens. The twin hills.
‘Village and hills in sight. Pilot. Dead ahead. Range about three miles.’
He tensed and moved the periscope swiftly to port, just in time to see a bright green light drifting above the land like a drip of molten emerald.
‘Flare of some sort. Miles inland.’
He could feel the silence around him, oppressive, concentrated. They were thinking of his brief reports, each man measuring them against a past experience. Somewhere out there, beyond the impartial periscope, were men, probably stalking each other in thick jungle, or lying wounded and alone, waiting to be captured or killed.
Ainslie shivered in spite of his reserve which he kept for such moments. Not for me. Here, we are together. We live or die as one.
‘Down periscope.’ He straightened his back and looked at Critchley. ‘It’s like a grave. Everything will depend on the first signal we get from base. After that it’s up to us.’
Critchley smiled wryly. To you, you mean. Rear-Admiral Granger had allowed for almost everything. If Soufrière was unable to reach this point on the chart in time he would make another signal tomorrow at the same time, and so on. Except, of course, his strip of yellow tape had probably moved another few inches by now.
He said, ‘If you sight aircraft, what then?’
‘I’ll head out to sea at a rate of knots.’ Ainslie smiled. ‘I think we’ll have some benefit of surprise though. After their successful attack on Force Z, I should imagine the Japs will be preoccupied with their land advances. They think that the C in C is rushing a million reinforcements to drive ’em into the sea.’
Quinton said softly, ‘No fear of that.’
Ainslie wiped his palms on his trousers. ‘Tell the gunnery officer to man his turret. When the klaxon sounds he can load with HE. Not before. I don’t want the ready-use racks crammed with shells in the middle of a depth-charge attack.’
Gosling gave a throaty chuckle, and the second coxswain remarked, ‘Expensive coffin, sir!’
Ainslie heard all and none of it as he checked his mental calculations, whittling and honing, setting his ideas against that unbroken shadow of land. Have to be careful. The sun would be up soon and right astern.
He said, ‘Periscope.’ He wiped his hands again. They were wet with sweat. ‘Stop.’
He peered in every direction, blinking as the shallow swell rose above the periscope, blinding him.
Still quiet. He smiled, thinking of a patriotic film he had seen in London. The officer in a dugout, his voice clipped as he said, ‘It’s quiet. Too damn quiet.’ They always said that. He blinked as another flare exploded on almost the same bearing. Patrol activity, or an enemy signal for a dawn attack.
Aloud he said, ‘We’ll surface now. Hold her down on the planes as long as you can, Number One.’ He glanced at the ladder beneath the conning tower. They were all assembled. Machine-gunners, lookouts, everyone. They were wearing dark glasses so that the poor light above might seem brighter. In the dull glow they looked like a collection of blind men. He said, ‘Open the lower hatch. Tell W/T to stand by.’
He heard his orders murmuring away through the complex of voice-pipes and wires, and pictured the men receiving them in each curved compartment. Torpedo tubes loaded, magazine and shell lifts manned and ready, and aft in the engine and motor rooms the stokers and ERAs would be poised to give power and speed at seconds’ notice.
Ainslie slung his glasses round his neck and walked to the ladder. Menzies, the yeoman of signals, followed him up the smooth ladder, waiting to grip Ainslie’s legs as he opened the upper hatch. It had been known for a commander to be blown bodily out of a conning tower by upbuilt pressure. It must be a comical sight. A cork from a bottle.
He shouted, ‘Surface!’ Then he was already swinging the upper locking wheel and knocking off the clips as the klaxon gave a loud squawk and the air began to thunder into the saddle tanks, the immediate buoyancy fighting the planesmen as they held the bows down until the last moment.
Then, as Ainslie thrust through the hatch, his face and shoulders drenched with spray and sluicing water inside the bridge, the Soufrière surged up to the surface, the sea parting across her broad spine in two hissing banks of foam.
While Menzies opened the cocks on the voice-pipes, and the seamen panted and cursed to get their heavy machine-guns mounted on either side, Ainslie raised his glasses, astonished at the speed with which they had all moved.
‘Tell the control room, all clear.’
A hatch scraped open and Ainslie saw a pale figure leave the gun turret and return almost immediately with the two tampions from the muzzles. The turret gave a slight squeak and moved smoothly to starboard, then back again. Ainslie watched it. It was like something entirely independent from the rest of the boat, from them.
‘Another flare, sir. Port bow.’ The lookout moved his powerful glasses carefully. ‘I think there’s a lot of smoke about, too. Too dark for mist.’
Ainslie nodded. ‘Thanks. Keep looking.’
He trained his glasses on the two hills. They would soon be plain to see. So will we, he thought.
‘Ask Number One what the depth is.’
Menzies came back. ‘Twelve fathoms, sir.’ He pouted. ‘Same for another mile.’
The messenger called, ‘First lieutenant for you, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Signal, sir. Right on time. The enemy are still in same position, but our people are down to the last few rounds.’
‘I see.’
He turned his head as the turret began to move again. It made a soft whirring sound, and he could see the raised humps at the rear and where Farrant and his sub-lieutenant were searching for the target through their range-finders.
He picked up the small handset which Menzies had just plugged to the side of the bridge.
‘This is the captain. Are you ready, Guns?’
He almost expected to see the big turret nod. Instead he heard Farrant say, ‘Ready, sir. Loaded with HE. Training on bearing green one-oh. Range oh-four-two. That should deal with the dip between the hills.’ He did not elaborate. Like the man or not, he knew his stuff and had memorized every known details of the hills, the narrow road, everything.
Ainslie said, ‘They’re still holding out, but time’s short. So do what you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He sounded indifferent to everything but the target.
Ainslie looked at Menzies. ‘Ear-plugs, everybody. Tell the control room to stand by.’
He looked thoughtfully at the distant land. It was getting much easier to see. It was strange to think that the troops in the village could speak with their HQ but not to the submarine.
He stood back from the cold metal and raised his glasses. ‘Open fire.’
The turret gave a tiny click, and then as a distorted voice came through the handset, ‘Right gun! Shoot!’, the day seemed to explode in a great searing flash. Seconds later the left gun hurled itself backwards on its springs, and as Ainslie gritted his teeth against the pain of the explosions he saw two vivid flashes erupt from the hillside.
The left gun drooped slightly as Farrant corrected the range. A gong clanged tinnily inside the turret and again the guns roared out, the sound waves tearing across the gently lifting swell like a pair of express trains.
Ainslie watched the fall of shot, both almost together this time. Each shell weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds, and being high explosive would punch holes into hillsides and jungle alike far worse than any military artillery could offer.
Once through his ringing ears he heard Menzies bark, ‘Watch your front, man!’ He guessed that a lookout’s eyes had left their proper sector to watch the bombardment.
When Ainslie lowered his glasses to wipe them free of moisture he saw that the men around him were recognizable again. The sun was breaking over the horizon, opening up the colour chart for another day.
The messenger s
aid shakily, ‘Control room say they will have to alter course in six minutes, sir.’
‘Very well.’
Ainslie winced as the guns fired, the smoke from one of them rising above the surfaced submarine in a giant ring.
He could see the action plot in his mind, the crude parallelogram around which they could move without fear of grounding, or being caught in too shallow water to dive.
Above his head he could see the two periscopes twisting on the standards as Quinton and Forster made repeated checks to fix their position.
It was bad enough up here. What the gunfire was doing to the men inside the hull was not to be contemplated.
A lookout said, ‘Hillside is alight, sir: I can see small-arms fire to the right of the village.’
‘Yes.’
Ainslie looked on the same bearing and saw the dense pall of smoke edged with flames, some from the trees, others from automatic weapons. The village was already burned out. Buildings and upended fishing boats scattered about in all directions.
‘Tell the gunnery officer that he will cease firing after the next two salvoes.’
It was impossible to gauge the effect of the bombardment on the enemy positions, but the surprise of their attack might have been far more important to the beleaguered troops.
His head was aching badly, and he felt completely drained by the rasping crash of gunfire.
He saw the turret swing round for the last shots as the hull beneath it altered course on the next leg. The air seemed to be full of gritty smoke which drifted downwind like a screen.
Ainslie bent over the voice-pipe. ‘Number One?’
‘Sir.’
‘Secure the turret. We’re getting out.’
He turned away as Quinton rapped out a stream of orders. Obediently, the turret swung round to point fore and aft once more, the muzzles still smoking from their unexpected exercise.
There had not been a single shot fired at them in return. Not even a bullet. It was incredible.
‘Turret secured for diving, sir.’
Ainslie watched the flames and smoke through his glasses. ‘Very well. Tell the first lieutenant to bring her round on course.’ They would all be glad to be out of it, he thought. Sailors hated being near land.
‘Sir!’ The lookout’s voice made him start. ‘Boat on the starboard bow!’
He heard Quinton call, ‘Small boat, sir! Green four-five!’ He must have seen it through the periscope as he gave the order to alter course.
The bridge machine-guns swung towards it, their muzzles depressed, following the dark shape as it edged nearer and nearer. It appeared to be swinging round the submarine towards the starboard beam, but the illusion was made by the Soufrière’s own turn.
‘Got it!’ The starboard machine-gun steadied, the long belts of ammunition shivering as the deck tilted to screws and rudder.
‘Hold your fire!’ Ainslie held the boat in his glasses. Dear God. Look at them. Where were they going? What chance did they think they had? It was an old motor launch. A relic.
He watched the faces in the lenses. Pale, dirty, bandaged and bloody. Soldiers, Malays, even a few children.
He said quietly, ‘Muster the second cox’n and his deck party. Fast as you like. Tell the first lieutenant to open the fore-hatch.’
He heard Menzies passing his orders and then the same lookout who had sighted the listing boat say, ‘They’re stopping, sir. Or turning away.’ He sounded confused.
Of course. That was it. ‘Yeoman! Run up the ensign!’
And so, as the light strengthened and probed through the drifting layers of smoke the old motor launch came alongside, secured to the saddle tank by a grapnel and heaving line.
It was a dangerous and foolhardy thing to do. On the surface with the big fore-hatch open, unable to dive, and with all hell liable to break loose at any second.
Ainslie watched them being passed or carried along a line of seamen on the casing and through the hatch. Only two soldiers remained in the launch as it was cut free, and they would never know about it.
Petty Officer Voysey crossed his hands above his head and then he, too, vanished through the hatch. The deck was empty again, with only the drifting boat and its two dead soldiers to prove it was not imaginary.
Ainslie stared at the hatch as it clanged shut. He could no more have dived and left them helpless than fly.
‘Clear the bridge.’ The men rushed to the hatch. ‘Dive, dive, dive!’ He jabbed the klaxon button twice, looking once more at the drifting boat before he jumped down on to the ladder and slammed the hatch over his head.
He strode to the centre of the control room, knowing they were watching him. ‘Periscope depth, Number One.’ He looked at Critchley. ‘All done.’
Critchley saw the strain; the dullness in his eyes. ‘And a bit more, if you ask me.’
‘Fourteen metres, sir. Ship’s head zero-seven-zero.’
Ainslie turned the periscope astern and stared at the smoke for several seconds. Then he signalled the stoker to lower it and walked to the chart table.
‘Twenty metres. Revolutions for ten knots.’
He stared down at the vibrating chart between his hands. If he did not hold on to something he knew he would start shaking.
‘Take over, Number One. I’m going forrard to see our passengers.’
Quinton looked at him, ‘I’ll go, if you like, sir.’ But Ainslie had already left the control room.
Critchley crossed to join him and said quietly, ‘I’ve not seen him like this before.’
Quinton stared past him, straight through the curved side at another sea. ‘Oh, I have, sir. Believe me, I have.’
Critchley said nothing, wanting to hear more but afraid to break the spell.
Then Quinton said bluntly. ‘Ask the Chief, or the cox’n, any of the lads who’ve been with him before. They might tell you, sir. What it’s like to watch a man doing all he can to stop you getting killed, and killing himself in the process! But please don’t ask me. To me it’s private. Special.’ He turned away, suddenly angry.
‘Watch it, Packer, you’re all over the bloody place! Like an Aussie barman on a Saturday night, for Chrissake!’
Critchley walked quietly away. It was Quinton’s way of ending it.
Unlike conventional submarines, Soufrière boasted a sick-bay which was almost as large as a destroyer’s.
As Ainslie made his way through the boat he saw the survivors from the motor launch propped in the passageway or lying on blankets waiting to receive attention.
Petty Officer Hunt, the Soufrière’s sick-berth attendant, in his clean white coat, stood out against the pain and the despair like some sort of angel.
Some seamen were doing their best to make their unexpected passengers comfortable, and Ainslie heard someone cry out in pain, and a voice say, ‘Easy, mate. Take it easy.’
They fell silent as he stepped carefully amongst them, his eyes moving across their faces, his ears still recording the sounds he had left behind in the control room. He trusted Quinton with his life, but so far from his place of command he felt vulnerable and helpless.
Hunt looked up from bandaging a soldier’s head. ‘Thirty-five, sir.’
Ainslie nodded. Thirty-five in that small boat. It did not seem possible. The soldier was Australian, his uniform filthy and almost torn from his back. He was about twenty but looked fifty.
Another wounded soldier tried to stand but sank against the steel plating with a grunt of pain. He was a sergeant, and looked as if he had been wounded several times.
He said, ‘Thought we was a goner. Bloody boat was crook from the start. Kept breaking down. We were ordered to make a break for it. The Japs was almost on top of us, the bastards!’ He fell back, his eyes closed, as Hunt started to cut through a stained dressing on his shoulder. But he went on, ‘Then we saw you. Right there. An’ I thought, Jesus Christ, they’ve done for us after all.’
A soldier, lying on his back by Ainslie’s feet, said, ‘You
was goin’ to start shootin’, right, Sarge?’
The sergeant looked down at him with something like affection. ‘Yeh, Tom. Reckon I was at that.’
Ainslie turned, startled, as a woman’s voice said quietly, ‘Then we saw the flag. A miracle. I still can’t believe it.’
Ainslie stared at her. She was dressed in khaki shirt and trousers, her dark hair tied back to the nape of her neck with a piece of bandage. She was as filthy as her companions, but Ainslie could not understand how he had failed to see her.
She saw his confusion and said, ‘I should like to meet your captain.’
She reached out and put her arm around someone’s shoulders, and Ainslie realized it was another young woman, equally dishevelled and soaked in water, and stained from head to toe with smoke and dirt.
‘She’s passed out. It was too much for her.’ As a seaman took the second girl and began to carry her into the sick-bay she got to her feet and said, ‘My name is Natalie Torrance.’
She smiled, and in those brief seconds Ainslie saw what it had cost her to keep up her pretence.
She added, ‘What a way to meet someone.’
Ainslie took her hand. ‘I’m Robert Ainslie.’
She did not release her grip. ‘You are the captain, aren’t you? I can tell. It would have to be somebody like you.’
Ainslie said to Hunt, ‘I’ll send you some more hands.’ He saw the SBA give him a short, prissy nod. He was that sort of man, but far better at his job than many a naval surgeon.
She did not resist as he led her to his cabin. It seemed a mile away, and he was conscious of her dazed uncertainty as she swayed against him or groped at a wire cable or some piece of equipment for support.
She said, ‘That girl is my sister, Shelly. I had gone up country from Singapore to visit her and her husband. I was alone, and I needed someone to talk to.’ She swung round and gripped his arm until her nails broke his skin. ‘Oh God, is was terrible. The planes, the buildings all on fire, people in a panic, blood on my dress, screaming.’ She stared at her hands around his arm and said huskily, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not like this really.’ She looked at the cabin as he opened the door for her. ‘It’s not real. I knew it.’
Strike from the Sea (1978) Page 10