Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  He saw Lieutenant Ridgway mopping his face as he spoke with some soldiers at the waterside, saw his relief as he looked up and called, ‘These men want to come with us, sir!’

  The wounded seemed to have disappeared into the submarine, and as far as he could tell the handful of soldiers with the torpedo officer were unmarked.

  One of them, a corporal, said gruffly, ‘It’s no use us stayin’ ’ere, sir.’ He looked at his companions and added desperately, ‘I know what you’re thinkin’, sir, but it’s not like that. What’s the point of it all?’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘We can’t get out of this, no chance! Bloody HQ’s on the run, and they expect us to stay an’ be killed!’

  Southby exclaimed, ‘It’s desertion, it’s – .’ He closed his mouth as he saw Ainslie’s eyes.

  Ainslie said quietly, ‘Back there, your colonel is doing his best for the rest of us.’ He watched his words go home, like nails in a coffin. ‘I know how you feel, but my officer is right. It would be desertion, and worse.’

  Another of the soldiers slung his rifle across his shoulder and said, ‘Forget it, Corp. Anyway, nobody lives forever.’

  In a slow, sad file the soldiers walked back towards the trees and the mounting crescendo of gunfire.

  Ridgway said, ‘I almost let ’em aboard, sir.’

  Ainslie was still staring after the little group of khaki figures.

  ‘Almost is the word which always gets in the way. But for it, the war would have ended at Dunkirk.’

  A mortar bomb exploded amongst the trees with a violent bang. Before the dust settled again Ainslie heard a man cry out, imagined him lying there amongst the trees, dying, written off.

  He said, ‘Take a party of men and see if there are any more wounded. If so, get them inboard double-quick.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re getting out.’ He saw their quick exchange of glances. ‘If we can.’

  Quinton was waiting below the conning tower, his holster unbuttoned as if to emphasize the closeness of danger.

  Ainslie said, ‘Get the dinghy, and take the yeoman with you. I want you to paddle to the end of the inlet, but keep under cover. The Army don’t care much what the Jap Navy is doing, they’ve got problems enough.’ He saw Quinton’s quick understanding and added, ‘But we do care!’

  He was amazed how clear his mind had become, the weariness gone from his body like the end of a drug.

  For a brief moment he looked along his command, realizing with a start how short a time it had been since Poulain had killed himself in his cabin.

  Now they were like one, and he knew that most of the company felt much as he did. No wonder Poulain had been determined to hold on to her, no matter whether his reasons were right or wrong. He had seen his world crumble, just as the corporal had recognized the approach of a crushing defeat back there on the jungle track.

  Farrant was in the control room, straight-backed and without any sign of strain on his narrow features.

  He reported crisply, ‘Wounded are all inboard, sir. Hunt says that a couple may die if they can’t get to hospital soon.’

  He followed Ainslie to the chart space where Forster was rubbing out pencilled calculations, his face tight with concentration.

  ‘By the way, sir. W/T decoded a signal just after you left the boat.’ Farrant flicked open his notebook, the one he used to write down comments and criticisms on his gun crews. ‘Petty Officer Vernon thought you would be interested, sir.’ His eyes fixed on the right page. ‘The submarine Psyche has been reported sunk in the Mediterranean. No survivors.’ His cold eyes rose and settled on Ainslie, seeking a reaction.

  Ainslie nodded slowly. All that was going on here, and just a mile or so up the road, and yet there was still that other world far away, the one he had so recently left behind.

  Petty Officer Telegraphist Vernon used his receiver like a lifeline perhaps. Shut in his steel box with his assistants he listened while the rest of them waited.

  He replied slowly, ‘I did my first dive in the Psyche, when I was a subbie at Dolphin.’

  Now she has gone, like Seamist and Tigress, and all the others which littered the bottom of the sea. Trust Vernon to remember. He had been a green telegraphist aboard her with him.

  Forster could scarcely breathe. It was just like being crushed beneath a great weight, or stifled by a massive blanket. Psyche had gone down, taking Daphne’s husband with her. God, he had never considered that might happen, even though the odds mounted each time a submarine put to sea.

  He had been thinking of Daphne, and more so of himself. Now she was alone, praying for a letter, for some strand of hope.

  Ainslie leaned over the chart. ‘We’ll go out surfaced, but by a more northerly course.’ He glanced at Forster. ‘Are you all right?’ Maybe he was still worrying about his mistake on the inward passage, brooding how it might affect his chances of promotion.

  Forster swallowed hard. ‘The Psyche, sir. I met her CO once. Nice chap.’

  Ainslie knew it was a lie, but not the reason for it.

  He said, ‘Well, let’s get on with this, Pilot, or we’ll be next in line!’

  Thirty feet away in the Soufrière’s wardroom some of the officers were drinking tea and munching the remainder of Sawle’s sandwiches.

  Halliday sat with his elbows on the table, a cup in his hands, as he listened to the muffled gunfire. One mortar bomb, let alone an artillery shell, was all it would take to cripple the submarine. He heard the murmur of a generator and knew his men were still checking everything.

  Across the table Sub-Lieutenant (E) Arthur Deacon, his assistant, sat like an untidy sack, his face streaked with oil as he stared unseeingly at the opposite bulkhead. A good engineer, but no imagination. He was probably thinking about his wife in Gosport, the house they were trying to buy.

  Halliday glanced at the two Frenchmen, Cottier and Lucas. Halliday had previously thought of all Frenchmen as being the same. Foreign. But whereas he had grown to like the slightly built Lucas, and had even been made to admit that he was a first-class engineer, Cottier was something else. He was always so pleased with himself, confident in a superior way which was equalled only by Farrant. The odd thing was that the two Frenchmen did not seem to like one another much either. Halliday had heard it was because Cottier was a Parisian, and in his eyes Lucas, a lowly Breton, was not worth bothering about.

  He wondered what had happened to all the Free French sailors who had helped to train and prepare them for the Soufrière’s capture. In other ships probably. Not sitting in a ruddy puddle waiting for a ton of HE to fall on them.

  Southby came in and said wearily, ‘I just saw the troops kill a sniper.’ He picked up the teapot but it was empty. ‘The captain says we’re pulling out.’

  Lieutenant Christie looked at Jones, his observer. ‘Good thing. If I’m to die, I want it from five thousand feet!’

  Cottier removed a cigarette from his lips and smiled. ‘It might have been better to have left Soufrière under her old flag, eh?’ He spread his hands, enjoying their frowns. ‘Then we would have been safe in England, whereas . . .’

  Lucas said quietly, ‘He does not mean it. He is like all his kind. More mouth than mind.’

  Cottier sprang to his feet, his good humour gone, but Halliday said, ‘When I was an ERA aboard an old H-boat we had a bloke go off his rocker.’ He made a movement with his finger across his forehead, leaving a greasy smear. ‘That means crazy, see?’

  Cottier regarded him coldly. ‘I am well aware of the English lack of respect for language!’

  Halliday did not smile. ‘Scottish, if you don’t mind. Anyway, I had to lay the bloke out with a wrench, and I’ll do it to you if you start a brawl, see?’

  Christie grinned. ‘Quite right, Chief. This is time for OLQs just now.’ He looked at Lucas’s mystified expression. ‘Officer-like-qualities, that means!’ His grin broadened. ‘I don’t have any myself, as it happens.’

  Cottier sat down again, arranging himself like a bird smoothing i
ts feathers.

  He said, ‘I would never have guessed.’

  Ridgway stood in the doorway, his shirt black with sweat.

  ‘Captain’s compliments, my friends, and we are getting under way in an hour.’ He looked at Southby. ‘You’re to mount an extra machine-gun up there.’

  ‘But how . . .?’

  Ridgway shrugged. ‘Your problem, not mine.’

  Forster pushed past him and walked to his locker at the far end of the wardroom. They all watched him, testing his reactions against their own apprehension.

  Cottier asked mildly, ‘Are you ready to steer us all to safety?’

  Forster looked at him searchingly. ‘What did you mean by that? I admit I made a mistake, but I don’t need you to tell me!’

  Cottier examined the tip of his cigarette. ‘But of course. I would be the same after I had been with a girl like that.’

  Forster seemed to explode. ‘Damn your bloody eyes! When we get ashore again, just you watch your step!’

  Cottier stood up and left the wardroom. As the curtain fell across the door he said, ‘If we get ashore again.’

  Forster sat down, his chest heaving. ‘Sorry, everyone.’ He tried to smile. ‘He got to me then.’

  Halliday leaned across and shook Deacon from his torpor. ‘Come on, Arthur, time to move.’ He looked at Lucas. ‘You too, my lad.’

  One by one the others left the wardroom to prepare themselves and their departments for the moment when they threw their camouflage aside.

  When only Christie and Forster were left, the flyer asked, ‘Anything I can do?’ He watched the signs, the resentment changing to something softer.

  Forster nodded. ‘Thanks. But I don’t know. There’s a girl in England. I had a letter.’

  Christie said bluntly, ‘In the family way, is she?’ He saw Forster nod, felt his anguish like something physical. ‘How d’you feel about her?’

  Forster shrugged helplessly. ‘That’s just it. I’m not sure now. Before, all I wanted was to get out of it.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘Psyche’s been sunk in the Med. Her husband was the skipper.’

  Christie winced. ‘Hell!’

  Forster walked slowly towards the door. ‘Anyway, keep it to yourself, Jack. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.’

  ‘Sure thing, Dave.’

  Christie stared around the empty wardroom. Just to be up in the clouds again, even taking those trippers for short flips over the sea and back, anything but here. Never mind, after the war he would start again. His own plane. There would be millions of them when this lot was over. He’d go somewhere away from it all. Tahiti, that was it.

  His observer peered in at him. ‘Just had a thought, Jack. Suppose we could scrounge an old Lewis gun or something? There’s a ring mounting of sorts on the plane.’ He grinned. ‘We’d be able to protect ourselves then.’

  Christie stood up and yawned. ‘With a bloody Lewis?’ But he nodded. Anything was better than brooding.

  Ainslie stood in the centre of the wardroom and looked at the faces around him. He could feel the submarine trembling slightly as the artificers tested and rechecked each section. There was an air of expectancy, of tension. It was all he could do to control his own feelings as he said, ‘Number One has come back with some bad news. He spotted two enemy patrol vessels outside this place, and the fact they are not being fired on shows that our local artillery must have been pulled out or been overrun.’

  He sensed their anxiety, the same he had felt when Quinton had told him.

  ‘But we’re leaving just the same. The Japs obviously don’t know about our presence here yet. Otherwise we’d have had half of their air force on our heads a long time ago. So we have surprise, speed and good armament.’

  He saw Farrant nod approvingly, as he had when he had explained what he intended.

  Ridgway said, ‘And the two patrol vessels are just sitting out there waiting, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ He knew what Ridgway meant. The enemy were so sure of themselves they were prepared to bide their time. He said, ‘Just think how much worse it must be for the soldiers who are being left here to cover the retreat.’

  There were several nods, and Halliday asked, ‘How long will it take us, sir?’

  The question was the only one which counted.

  Ainslie replied, ‘An hour. If we can cripple one of those ships and reach deep water, we stand a good chance.’

  He looked at Christie. He of all people would know that it would take half that time for the enemy aircraft to reach them.

  ‘That’s it, gentlemen. We’re on our own again.’

  Twenty minutes later Petty Officer Voysey and his line-handling party charged along the pier, ducking whenever an explosion hurled earth and timber into the air, or something metal whined dangerously overhead.

  The brows were dragged hastily aside, one falling into the water as Halliday’s men revved up the big diesels in readiness for getting under way.

  On the bridge, Ainslie, his cap tilted over his eyes, trained his binoculars above the jungle, searching for aircraft, but finding only dense clouds of drifting smoke, lit regularly by vivid red flashes.

  ‘All clear aft, sir!’

  ‘Stand by.’

  Ainslie saw some soldiers running, bent double, between the trees, their rifles catching in bushes as they vanished into the smoke. The din of automatic weapons was getting heavier, and he guessed the little colonel was engaging the attackers on the road now.

  ‘Let go forrard!’

  ‘Slow astern starboard.’

  The headrope splashed into the water and was hauled rapidly aboard, but as the remaining seaman on the pier made to leap on to the casing a mortar bomb exploded on the beach, and with a scream he fell headlong.

  Menzies muttered, ‘He’s still alive, poor devil.’

  Ainslie tore his eyes from the solitary white figure as the man tried to drag himself along the pier towards the slow-moving submarine.

  But the effort was too much and he rolled over on to his face, revealing the great red stain across his spine.

  ‘Slow astern port.’

  The acknowledgement echoed up a voice-pipe. ‘Both engines slow astern, sir. Wheel amidships.’

  Ainslie pushed past the machine-gunners and Southby to peer over the rear of the bridge as the Soufrièdre edged slowly into the shallows on the other side of the inlet.

  Far enough. ‘Stop both.’ Still he waited, listening to the boom of explosions, thinking of the dwindling defenders. The corporal who had said, What’s the point of it all?

  ‘Slow ahead port. Starboard engine half astern.’ He recrossed the bridge. ‘Hard astarboard.’

  He watched the dark jungle passing across the bows as Soufrière continued to revolve in the small space. Smoke, explosions, a terrible sense of helplessness. It was a wonder that every man-jack of those troops had not broken and run to demand to be taken aboard.

  The sea showed itself for the first time. Straight, hard blue like solid glass between the elbows of land.

  ‘Stop together.’

  His eyes watered as he scanned the sea through his glasses. A glance at the gyro repeater, and a quick search through his mind.

  ‘Slow ahead together. Steer zero-six-zero.’

  Something clattered against the hull, a spent bullet, a piece of shell splinter, he had no idea. It was like a last contact, a rebuke from those who were about to perish.

  A sand-bar slid abeam, an abandoned fishing boat with half its bows burned away pulled up with great care and then left. When he looked astern he could barely see the pier, or the track which led to the command post and the place where Critchley had died.

  ‘Half speed ahead together.’

  He felt the instant response and saw the bow waves rolling back to wash the little fishing boat aside like a piece of driftwood.

  He said, ‘Connect me with the turret, Yeo.’

  Menzies tested the little handset and handed it
to him.

  ‘We’ll be passing the headland in about five minutes, Guns.’ He pictured Farrant at the other end of the line. He was probably glad to release Southby to control the bridge machine-guns. In his own kingdom, all their lives in his hands.

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  Ainslie gave the instrument back to Menzies. Farrant was probably right. There was nothing more to say.

  Ainslie watched the land falling back from the port beam as Soufrière thrust her way towards the open sea.

  He lowered his eye to the gyro compass and took two rapid bearings before saying, ‘Alter course now. Steer zero-seven-zero.’

  He felt the sun beating through his shirt, rasping at his skin. The heat seemed to be contained inside the bridge, making it shimmer.

  If the two Japanese warships were still in the same area as Quinton had described, they should soon be in view. He heard the turret squeak on its mounting and saw it begin to train round very slowly. He knew Southby was staring at it, probably thinking how much safer it was behind that thick shell than up here, exposed to everything.

  The acknowledgement came up the voice-pipe. ‘Ship’s head is zero-seven-zero, sir.’

  Southby said, ‘There are a lot more fires at the top of the inlet, sir.’

  Ainslie did not lower his glasses, and said quietly, ‘Forget them, Sub. That’s behind us now. Watch the sea.’ He raised his voice for the lookouts’ benefit. ‘Keep to your sectors. Never mind the rest.’

  How blue the sea looked, empty and pure, safe enough for anything. It was hard to believe it was so shallow, so littered with treacherous sand-bars and worse.

  ‘Ship! Starboard bow!’ The lookout’s cry made them start.

  Ainslie snapped, ‘Increase to full revolutions!’

  The deck began to tremble as the engineroom responded to the order.

  Ainslie had to stop himself from wondering how she would look to the patrol vessel as she surged from cover like an enraged sea monster.

  ‘Open fire!’

  The right gun fired immediately, as if Farrant’s finger had been on the trigger before the order. The whole conning tower shook violently, and before it could recover the left gun recoiled on its springs, the crash of the shot echoing across the water like a thunder-clap.