Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘Fire Nine. Fire Ten.’

  ‘Down ’scope. Group up, full ahead. Thirty metres.’

  ‘Both torpedoes running, sir.’

  Ainslie watched the gyro and the depth recorder, and felt a nervous jump in his neck as a torpedo exploded with a violent crash. More tearing sounds. A ship going down.

  It went on for another three hours. Twisting and turning, rising and diving deep whenever the depth allowed it. The destroyer attacked again and again, but without her powerful consort, and hampered by the two slower patrol vessels, she was losing ground.

  For the submariners, let alone their passengers, it was like an endless bombardment, with the hull rocking and plunging, equipment coming apart, loose gear tearing from racks and hooks while the depth-charges rained down.

  But one surface vessel was no match for an experienced submariner. The destroyer lost precious minutes after each attack while she charged past the target, losing the echo on her sonar in the roar of her own screws. With another ship in company it would have been easier. One listening, while the other attacked, so that the echo and the bearing were never lost.

  Ridgway mopped his face and exclaimed, ‘The buggers knew nothing about a submarine in these waters, sir!’

  Quinton said harshly, ‘Hell, George, they bloody well know now!’

  Ainslie looked at each of them in turn. There had not been a depth-charge for five minutes. The enemy might be calling up other ships, and aircraft, too.

  It was time to go.

  He said, ‘I think we’re out of it. Another ten minutes and we’ll go up for a quick look round.’ They all stared at him. Drained, breathing shakily like old men.

  Quinton spoke to the boatswain’s mate and then said, ‘No serious damage, sir. No casualties.’

  Forster said dully, ‘Course to steer is one-three-zero, sir. Revolutions for seven knots.’

  When they eventually rose to periscope depth the sea was empty once more. Far astern there was still a pall of drifting smoke, merging with heat haze to make the sun waver like reflected fire.

  Ainslie turned the periscope slowly, his ears still throbbing from the explosions, his eye picturing the dead soldier floating in the oil. He had probably done more to save them than anybody.

  With a start he realized he had held the periscope up too long, and felt the sweat trickling on his skin like ice as he signnalled for it to be lowered.

  Vigilance at all times, no matter what. God, he had drummed it into others enough times. Vigilance or sudden death.

  He said sharply, ‘Forty metres, Number One. We’ll surface at dusk. Then we’ll return to base.’

  A troopship and a destroyer sunk without loss to himself. He should be proud, well satisfied.

  He heard Ridgway whispering fiercely on a telephone and knew it was Hunt calling him from the sick-bay. He would want a signature on a form. Just to make the dead soldier’s disappearance neat and tidy. That was Hunt all over.

  ‘Open up the boat. Tell the cook to prepare a meal as quickly as possible. Fall out diving stations when you’re satisfied, Number One.’

  Quinton watched him, hiding his anxiety. One more like that and the skipper would be over the top.

  Not if I can help it.

  He said, ‘You did a great job, sir. I was a bit bothered back there, once or twice.’

  Ainslie took the offering like a lifeline. ‘It will get harder. It always does.’

  8

  Drink Up, and Forget

  REAR-ADMIRAL GRANGER rested his hands, palms down, on his big desk and regarded Ainslie gravely.

  ‘You look done in, Commander. It can’t have been a picnic for any of you.’

  Ainslie felt his resistance going, his eyelids drooping. He had barely brought the submarine alongside the same old depot ship when he had been called to Granger’s office.

  He had waited to see the wounded put ashore into the waiting ambulances, but when he went to ask the two British women if he could be of any help, he discovered that Rear-Admiral Granger’s flag-lieutenant had already whisked them away.

  The soldiers, ragged and silent, had looked smaller on the jetty, and the scene had been made worse by a sudden downpour of heavy, persistent rain. He could hear it now, flogging the neat lawn into a bog, battering the corrugated roofs like ball bearings.

  It made the air heavier, not cooler, and the slowly revolving fans overhead seemed to have no effect.

  ‘I’ve told the C in C about your success with the troopship. You did very well.’ He tried to smile. ‘As I knew you would.’

  Ainslie looked past him at the wall map. The yellow tape was almost taut now, and ran diagonally across the whole peninsula, cutting the west coast at Penang.

  Granger followed his glance and said heavily, ‘Yes. They’ve split the country in two. Occupied Penang yesterday.’

  So it was all wasted. The troopship, the destroyer, the dead soldier, everything.

  Ainslie said at length, ‘It seems that nothing can hold them, sir.’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re wrong. The enemy need every man, just as we do. Your risks were not in vain.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of the risks.’ The incessant rain was making his head ache. ‘I was remembering all the bluff and bluster I got when I arrived here. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so sick and tired of it.’

  Granger watched him worriedly. ‘I’m not laughing either. Believe me, you and your Soufrière are needed now, and I don’t think anyone would disagree.’

  There was a tap at the door and the flag-lieutenant peered into the office.

  ‘Sorry to butt in, sir.’

  Granger frowned. ‘It’s nothing new, Flags.’

  ‘I thought you should know that I put the two young women into the Royal Hotel, as you suggested.’ He glanced at Ainslie and withdrew.

  Ainslie watched the admiral’s stubby fingers ramming tobacco into his pipe.

  ‘You know them, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I had them taken off your boat without waiting to pay respects, so to speak. I guessed there might be some tension. Better to let things cool down. I knew all of them quite well. Michael Holmes was a mining engineer employed by the government. Bright young chap. Lots of prospects. His wife Shelly used to be full of life.’ He shook his head. ‘Rotten business.’

  Ainslie asked quietly. ‘The other one, Natalie, her sister, what about her?’

  ‘Very nice girl. I didn’t see her before she went up country. I expect she’ll tell me when she feels like it.’

  Ainslie could hear her voice as if she were here, now. Granger’s remarks had brought it all back. I was alone, and I needed someone to talk to.

  Granger was saying, ‘I read your report. Damned clear and concise, though God knows how you found the time to write it.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Brings me to another matter.’

  Ainslie tried to stay calm. Here we go. The next mission.

  Granger looked up suddenly. ‘You were unable to take off the rest of the soldiers from that village because of the shallows, and the fact the Japs were closing in on two sides, not one as we believed?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He knew he sounded defensive and it angered him. ‘It would have been suicide.’

  ‘I know.’

  Granger stood up and walked to his map. From the back, in his gleaming shirt and shorts, he looked like a white egg.

  ‘Fact is, Ainslie, we need to get supplies to another coastal strongpoint. It’s not in immediate danger of being outflanked, but it’s virtually impossible for us to get the supplies overland at present.’

  His finger rested on a small inlet.

  ‘How deep, sir?’

  ‘Nothing much, even at high water. You’d have to go in on the surface. Even then you’d need to keep your eyes peeled.’ He hesitated, watching Ainslie’s face. ‘You would do it at night, of course. The Japs have two airfields now, and there was word of a carrier in the Gulf of Siam two days ago.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, what do you think?’

/>   ‘What would I be carrying, sir?’

  ‘Ammunition mostly, but rations and medical supplies as well for the troops.’

  Ainslie joined him by the map. A proper chart would show the margin of safety. Or the lack of it. But on the surface Soufrière had already shown what she could do, twenty knots and a couple more to spare. In and out overnight, find deep water before daylight when the planes came looking for them.

  Ammunition mostly. If Soufrière became stranded on a sandbar she would herself be a giant bomb.

  ‘I think it could be done, sir.’

  The admiral frowned as the door opened a few inches and the chief of staff glanced through the gap.

  ‘Oh, thought you were finished, sir.’

  ‘Come in, Philip, no sense in hanging about.’

  Captain Armytage entered the room and asked, ‘What does Commander Ainslie think, sir?’ He did not look at him.

  ‘He agrees in principle.’ Granger glared. ‘But there may be snags. Tides, that kind of thing.’

  Then, Armytage did look at Ainslie. ‘Oh, yes. Like the fishing village. Rotten luck about that. Still, I suppose you knew what to expect.’

  Ainslie eyed him calmly. ‘I knew.’

  The captain gave a wry smile. ‘Still, you did rescue those poor soldiers, and some civilians, about thirty all told, wasn’t it?’

  Granger snapped, ‘That’s quite enough, Philip! Commander Ainslie used his experience and his discretion. The troopship had to come first anyway.’

  Ainslie looked at each man in turn. They simply did not under stand. They probably believed that war was made up of dashing, miraculous incidents, all linked together under some godlike authority.

  He said abruptly, ‘It was hopeless. If you ask me, I believe the army should fall right back and try to re-group right now. Shorten the line. Double the strength.’

  Armytage snapped, ‘I went to staff college, too, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Ainslie stood up, feeling the floor rise to meet him like a ship’s deck. ‘I am just saying what I think.’

  Granger looked at his pipe. It had gone out again. ‘Go and get some rest. My people will see to your supplies and fuel. The maintenance commander will make arrangements for the cargo.’

  ‘How long, sir?’

  Granger looked uncomfortable. ‘Day after tomorrow. At the latest. Things are moving pretty fast.’ As Ainslie picked up his cap and started for the door he added, ‘I would suggest you land all your torpedoes. Lessen the load. You’re not going to fight this time.’

  It made good sense, but Ainslie felt a twinge of uneasiness at the prospect of losing his attacking power, if only for a short while.

  In the outer office, where a writer was hammering away on a typewriter, Ainslie paused as he heard Granger say, ‘Why the hell do you have to criticize everything, Philip?’

  Ainslie saw the writer staring at him over his typing paper and knew he ought not to stay and listen. Then he heard Armytage reply stubbornly, ‘I can’t stand his sort, sir. Have a bit of luck and glory, win a few medals, they forget the rest of us who have to do the work!’

  Ainslie was surprised that it did not anger him. He felt almost relieved.

  With a nod to the typist he walked out into the rain and was soaked to the skin in two strides.

  He found Quinton waiting for him in Soufrière’s control room. He had showered and changed and looked his old self once more.

  ‘Cabin, Number One.’

  As they walked through the narrow passageway Ainslie marvelled at the speed with which things could appear normal again. Where the wounded had waited to be treated and the dead to be buried, it was spick and span, the steel and brass shining like new. The control room looked strange without the tense, unshaven men at the controls, and felt at peace.

  He busied himself with bottle and glasses while Quinton lounged in a chair Watching him.

  ‘Day after tomorrow, John. We’re to run ammunition and supplies to another outpost. Surface job. In and out under cover of darkness.’ He held out a glass. ‘Suit you?’

  ‘The drink or the job?’

  ‘Both.’

  Quinton drank very slowly, without even his customary warning to his stomach.

  ‘No option, I suppose. They’ll keep up some sort of pretence to the end.’

  ‘Pretence?’ Ainslie refilled the glasses.

  Overhead he heard Petty Officer Voysey’s muffled voice as he called the hands out of shelter to get on with cleaning up the submarine. The rain must have stopped.

  ‘Yeh. I’ve been talking with the blokes in the base while I was waiting for you to come back. There are refugees by the bloody thousand streaming down from Malaya. The military police say some of ’em may be Indian deserters. Went completely nuts when the Japs arrived. Poor sods had never seen anything like it. Armour and artillery, planes and support ships. Must have seemed like a bit of H. G. Wells!’

  Feet scraped in the passageway and Commander Critchley pushed the curtain aside. He was carrying a small grip.

  ‘I shall be coming with you again, gentlemen. If you can stand it.’ He smiled sadly as Ainslie reached for a third glass. ‘After that I’m ordered home. Back to dear old London, bless it.’ He took the whisky. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’

  Ainslie asked, ‘What are they up to?’

  ‘You mean, the brass?’ Critchley swilled the drink round the glass. ‘They want a report from me, that’s all I know.’

  Quinton gave a short laugh. ‘So that they’ll know what to do when it happens again!’

  ‘You sound bitter, Number One.’

  ‘I am.’ Quinton stared at the curved side. ‘I hated it. All those poor Aussie bastards getting killed for nothing. I’ll not forget.’

  There was a discreet tap on the door, and Sub-Lieutenant Southby, wearing a heavy revolver on his hip, said, ‘The cox’n wishes to know about leave, sir?’

  ‘Out of the question, Sub. Libertymen will be allowed only inside the perimeter, the fleet canteen and so forth. We’re under orders.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ It was obvious he did not.

  When Southby had gone Quinton asked, ‘What about us, sir?’ He spread his hands. ‘I seem to recall there was talk of a party?’

  Critchley smiled. ‘The yacht Lady Jane is still officially at your disposal, Bob. What about it? A forget-it-all party!’

  Ainslie said, ‘Good idea. See to it, Number One. Get Lieutenant Christie to help you. He seems a bit of a goer.’

  ‘He’ll want to bring his bloody seaplane.’

  ‘What about guests?’ Critchley spoke casually but was watching Ainslie’s face very carefully.

  ‘Oh, you know. Nurses, the people from the dockyard who helped us, but not too many. The yacht’s a bit ancient and might capsize.’

  Critchley asked, ‘How about the two sisters?’

  ‘This is the last place they’ll want to come, man.’

  He looked away. But the one called Natalie might. If only to get away from her sister’s grief. It could not have been easy for either of them. He remembered the other girl screaming at him, cursing him, labelling him a coward. Run, run, run.

  Quinton said, ‘David Forster’s got to go ashore for some charts. He could sound things out. We might all pretend it’s peacetime. The people round here seem to do that quite well!’

  Ainslie made a sudden decision. ‘No, I’ll go myself. I’ve things to do anyway.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘Skipper’s privilege.’

  As the door closed behind them he looked round the cabin, wondering if he was doing the right thing. If he stayed here he would either sleep or be pestered by questions and demands which Quinton could handle just as easily.

  Ainslie studied himself in the mirror, at the lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. He was being dishonest with himself. He wanted to see her again, needed to explain, or just to talk.

  Then back through the control room, wondering what he was going to say. Perhaps she had already left the hote
l. Or would refuse to see him.

  Quinton, and Southby as OOD, waited on the casing to see him over the side.

  The sun was very bright and the rain-water was changing to steam, as if the hull was about to explode.

  He would miss Critchley. He paused to look along his command. Pipes and power lines trailing like snakes, fuel hoses being winched down from the depot ship. Bare-backed sailors everywhere, faces he now knew better than when they had all started on the plan to capture the ‘largest submarine in the world’.

  Some men were scraping the saddle tanks before applying fresh paint to cover the scars left by one of the depth-charges. It had been as close as that.

  The hangar was open, and he saw Christie, naked but for a pair of filthy shorts, busy with a spanner under the engine of the seaplane.

  Soufrière had become real, personal.

  Then he touched his cap to the saluting side party and stepped ashore from the brow.

  Ainslie took a taxi only part of the way to the hotel. He was not quite sure why. Perhaps it was to give him time to change his mind if his nerve failed. The Sikh taxi-driver shot him a curious stare as he got out. The Royal Navy officer who had paid to be dropped nowhere.

  As he walked through the drifting groups of servicemen, civilians and native traders, Ainslie kept his eye open for signs of military preparedness. Apart from a few of the more expensive shops and bazaars where sticky paper had been pasted across windows in case of bomb-blast, there was little out of the ordinary. By a government office he saw two sandbagged sentry posts, an armoured car parked in the shade of some palm trees. Perhaps Quinton was right. It was all a great pretence, a bluff to keep up morale.

  He paused and glanced up at the Royal Hotel. It was much the same style as Raffles, which was close by, but smaller and more intimate.

  He walked through the white-walled entrance and stood looking at the rectangles of lawn, the bright flowers and gently moving trees. The hotel was only two stories high, with a stuccoed veranda running right round the upper floor, on to which the suites and rooms opened. Beneath the veranda was an arcade, shadowed and cool, with blue and yellow blinds reaching out towards the gardens, where there were little chairs and tables dotted about for the guests.