Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Ainslie barely heard him. He was watching the spreading glow in the sky and remembering all those who were not here to see it. And he thought, too, of Natalie and the child, somewhere over there in the shadows, waiting for the order to embark. He had even seen the old yacht Lady Jane standing ready to make her most dangerous voyage ever. And ironically, almost alongside, Torrance’s brand-new launches.

  He must see her again before she left. It might be the last time. He tried to shut it from his mind, the effort making his head throb. To be parted, after all this, was worse than dying. She had given him a purpose, the one thing he had not realized he had lacked.

  Ainslie thought of the boat resting beneath his feet. He would have to watch and examine every move he made. He had heard of captains being caught off guard when their skill and vigilance were at a premium. A home bombed, an unfaithful wife, a sick child. The pitfalls which could blunt a man’s ability. Could kill all who relied on it.

  Menzies crossed the gratings, his binoculars hanging around his neck.

  ‘Proper Brock’s Benefit, isn’t it, sir? I’ll no be sorry to leave here.’

  Ainslie looked at the yeoman’s sturdy profile. So confident. No note of doubt.

  Below the conning tower, sealed in their tiny hangar, Christie and his observer, Sub-Lieutenant Jones, crawled under and around the little seaplane. In spite of the battering which Soufrière had received, nothing on the aircraft had been damaged which they had been unable to repair. By bribery, theft and Christie’s hard-won ability to make do they had got the seaplane in full running order.

  Jones stared at the stripped Lewis gun which he had fixed to his cockpit and said, ‘Now we’ll be able to look after ourselves, eh, Jack?’

  Christie grinned. Jones was a simple soul, and if he still believed in miracles it could do no harm.

  He said, ‘I just want to get out of here.’ He drew a great breath and stared at the riveted steel around the folded wings. ‘To breathe again.’

  Jones was not sure if he meant the hangar or Singapore. They had survived this far. He could see no reason why they should not go all the way.

  Lieutenant Farrant was also busy. In a crisp white boiler suit and carrying a hand-lamp, he was exploring his turret with slow, infinite care, followed at a discreet distance by Sub-Lieutenant Southby and his senior gunnery rating. Farrant did not really need the lamp, for the whole turret was ablaze with light, the white painted top and sides adding to an appearance of precision and sterility. The two big guns, elevated slightly so that their shining breeches glittered like gold, the loading trays, the snaking cables and wires, the protective guard above the ammunition hoist, it was Farrant’s world.

  Farrant looked aft, at the two seats where he and Southby would control and fire the guns. He bent over and picked up a scrap of cotton waste and handed it to the gunlayer. Then he wrote a few notes in his little book and continued on his way.

  Southby followed, sweating. Another one for the high jump. How dare he soil Farrant’s turret? He felt the urge to laugh, or burst out crying. He had been ashore in charge of a working party and had seen the tragedy of Singapore at close quarters. After an air attack, the bodies smouldering where they had fallen, people scurrying past with barely a glance. The stench and the flies. People weeping, others too drunk to know or care what was happening.

  He collided with Farrant before he realized the lieutenant had stopped and was peering at him.

  Farrant rasped, ‘We are going to fight, Sub. Have no doubt about that.’ His face thrust forward until it was almost touching his. ‘So get a grip on yourself! It’s what you trained to do, right?’

  ‘Yes. I – I mean, yes, sir.’

  Southby saw the gunlayer watching sympathetically, but was more aware of Farrant’s mood. He was looking forward to it. The new paint had been his idea, too. The seaman who had been disembowelled right here on the upper ladders of the turret had turned the place into a bloody nightmare.

  All Farrant had said afterwards was, ‘They had far worse to put up with at the Nile and Trafalgar, I should imagine! So let’s get it cleaned up!’

  He was mad, or nearly so. Perhaps that was why he was so good at it. You could never fault Farrant on anything.

  Outside on the casing Quinton stooped to peer at the water lapping along the saddle tank. He was checking the moorings, stretching his legs, breaking the tension in his own way.

  He had heard the click of machinery from within the turret. The way he went on about his guns, it was a wonder Farrant didn’t request to have his bunk in there as well.

  A louder bang than usual echoed across the water, and he guessed that the sappers were demolishing a bombed building for some reason. He saw a red glow spread momentarily over the harbour, revealing the scattered wrecks and the vessels which still waited for sailing orders.

  He thought of the explosion at the hotel, and could still feel it ringing in his eardrums whenever he bent over. The picture of the enraged drunkard swaying about the room, the girl’s face, beautiful in defiance, the child taking his hand after they had staggered from the collapsed room.

  Another explosion rolled out of the darkness. The poor devils out there must be terrified.

  And after this, what then? Would the Japs reach Australia? He clenched his jaw, making himself face the possibility.

  Right in the bows the sentry was leaning on the safety rail, his hands in his pockets as he watched the city.

  Quinton stood beside him.

  ‘All quiet, Evans?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ As Quinton turned to go he asked, ‘We goin’ to be all right, sir?’

  Quinton looked at the conning tower’s silhouette. The skipper was up there, hoping and praying like the rest of them. Just one more time, they always said in the past.

  ‘I bloody hope so. I can’t take much more Pommie beer!’ He strolled aft, knowing the seaman was grinning, relieved. It was that easy.

  A mile or so from the submarine, Rear-Admiral Granger sat in his office, smoking his pipe and drinking coffee with barely a break. Typewriters clattered busily in the adjoining room and dust filtered down occasionally from the ceiling. Distant gunfire, bombs or the Royal Engineers and their detonations, he neither knew nor cared. He looked at the watch on his fat wrist.

  Half past four in the morning. He smiled grimly towards the typewriters. A few weeks back and you’d not get anyone to work in the afternoon, let alone at this ungodly hour.

  Doors banged and feet shuffled in the corridor, then the admiral strode into Granger’s office and said, ‘’Morning, Arnold. Sorry to burst in like this. How’s the convoy coming along?’

  Granger removed the pipe from his mouth. He had been biting it so hard his jaw ached.

  ‘Fair, sir. A few days yet.’

  The admiral, as neat and tidy as if he had just come from divisions, said, ‘You’ll have to get them to sea tomorrow, Arnold. The enemy is breaking through already.’ He shrugged. ‘So you had better get started now. I’ve instructed the maintenance commander to give you all the aid he can.’ He hesitated. ‘Sorry, but there it is.’

  Granger stared at him, unable to grasp it. ‘We’re pulling out, sir?’

  The admiral’s austere features did not alter. ‘There is talk of a parley with Yamashita, the Japanese field commander.’

  Granger sat down heavily. Surrender already. It was incredible. Overwhelming.

  ‘However, Arnold, you’ll do what you must. The point is, we’ve received an intelligence report about another naval force heading down from Cam-Ranh Bay. It’s under the command of Vice-Admiral Ozawa, a very efficient officer. I met him once at a review. This force is destined for Sumatra, I’m told, so you see why I’m concerned.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Granger needed no map or chart now. The enemy warships would be passing through the same area as his convoy. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good.’ The admiral turned to go. ‘So I’m sending the Soufrière.’

  Granger stared at the closed door
. I’m glad I didn’t have to make that decision. Then he thought of the crowded buildings along the waterfront, the fleet of small and unsuitable vessels he had under his command and the people who were depending on him to get them away.

  He picked up the telephone. ‘Get me the duty signals officer.’

  16

  Now or Never

  ‘WARN THE MOTOR room to obey telegraphs.’

  Ainslie pulled his oilskin more tightly about his throat and craned over the side of the bridge. The rain squall would be short but was without any kind of relief. Beneath the oilskin his body felt as wet as if he were naked.

  It was as if the rain had come as a curtain for their final departure, and to hide the island’s own misery from outsiders.

  ‘Standing by, sir.’ Ridgway and Southby were with him on the bridge, subdued like the rest of the men who were preparing to get under way.

  He saw Southby’s wet face shine suddenly in another explosion from the shore. It had been like this all day. Rumours, bombings, gunfire, sudden death.

  Under his shoes he felt the big submarine quivering, the beast scenting the prey, getting excited. He checked himself. It was like a madness, an end of everything. Just when you thought there was hope. A chance.

  Ainslie recalled the faces of his officers when he had told them of their orders. To attack and delay an enemy naval force. Not a couple of ships, but a whole bloody squadron. He could feel for them now as he had then when he had listened to his own voice, unreal in the confined space of the wardroom.

  If the Frenchmen had second thoughts about their decisions to remain with him they had concealed them well.

  He could have suggested that the intelligence reports might be wrong, they often were. But if they were all going to die, they should be told the reason. Ainslie had shown them on the chart the huge span of the South China Sea, the enemy’s destination, sweeping beneath Singapore and on to Sumatra. The final seal on the trap.

  Quinton had said softly, ‘At least we know the Nips don’t have a carrier! We saw to that!’ But nobody had been able to smile.

  If only there was some hope. The orders had touched on the other naval forces in this vast area. Even the old cruiser Exeter, the darling of the River Plate battle with the German Graf Spee, was somewhere out here. Had some high authority put in more ships and planes earlier things would have been very different.

  Ainslie thought about it again while he watched Voysey’s shaded torch moving along the casing as he checked the last mooring wires. But would they have been so different? The Japanese seemed to have planned every move to the last bullet.

  He had seen his men lining the Soufrière’s casing and upper deck that same afternoon as Granger’s convoy had got under way. If they felt resentment and dismay at their orders, they must have understood the desperate need for them. Vessel after vessel had headed out from the harbour, most of them too small even to send a wash as far as the moored submarine.

  Along the waterfront a crowd had also watched. Husbands, friends, or merely those who had hung on to a hope of getting away. Now the other fighting would begin, the bribery and the spent morals of betrayal, that was the only description for it.

  Guided by a small patrol boat, like a sheepdog with its flock, the convoy had wended its way amongst the wrecks and shoals, until the craft were strung out for several miles. Some fighters had circled overhead, and to seaward three destroyers had waited to act as escort. Ainslie had never seen anything like it in his life, not anywhere. It was pathetic, and moving, hopeless, but as brave a sight as ever painted on canvas.

  ‘Out starboard engine clutch.’

  It took real effort to concentrate, to ensure that each order was repeated and executed. He would have to go astern from the quay before making his exit. There was a wrecked freighter leaning against the piles, and an upturned hull of some kind right behind. It was a wonder Soufrière had not joined them.

  The starboard engine stopped to be replaced instantly by the electric motor. The diesels were not fitted with reversing gear and the electric motors were used for all complicated manoeuvring. He would need to be quick about it. To drain the batteries would earn him little praise from Halliday and his men.

  ‘Let go.’

  ‘All gone aft! All gone forrard, sir!’

  ‘Half astern starboard. Port thirty.’

  Ainslie felt the responding quiver of the screw, the sudden surge of foam sweeping along the saddle tank as the boat began to go astern.

  The quay was already fading into the gloom, and he thought he saw someone running along the top of it, waving, but he could not be certain.

  ‘Stop starboard. Group up. Half ahead port.’

  He felt Soufrière slowing down, the sudden rustle of noise as the watch on deck removed their oilskins. No more rain. Just a big, oily swell. Dull and unbroken.

  Ainslie walked to the rear of the bridge, brushing past lookouts and gun crews. Men. Flesh and blood like himself. He ground his teeth together. Stop it.

  Far enough now. ‘In starboard engine clutch.’

  A quick look round again. There was the little boat to lead them through the wrecks, a tiny blue sternlight rocking on the swell.

  ‘Starboard thirty. Half ahead both engines.’

  He stripped off the oilskin and took the towel from around his neck, rubbing his face and throat until it stung.

  ‘Midships. Steady.’ Ainslie peered at the gyro, seeing the blue sternlight over the screen like a moth. ‘Steer one-three-zero.’

  Again and again he heard the sullen boom of artillery, the deeper thuds of exploding shells. Ainslie thought of the convoy, pushing along through the darkness now at an average speed of seven knots. If Granger had had more time he could have split the craft into groups, but with so little left, and not enough escorts at his disposal, he had been forced to revert to the old rule. The speed of the convoy shall be that of the slowest ship in it.

  The yacht Lady Jane had not been so unusual after all, Ainslie thought. He had seen every sort of vessel, including a coal-fired river gunboat which must have been launched before the Great War.

  Ridgway lowered his night glasses. ‘Coming to starboard, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Starboard ten. Steady.’

  The strangest coincidence had been the destroyer in charge of the escort. She had been the Arielle, the same ship which had taken from on the first leg of their attempt to seize the Soufrière from her French owners.

  Quinton had been watching the destroyer wheeling round to count and check the line of escorted vessels and had said, ‘Well, her skipper knows what it’s all about now, right enough.’

  ‘Ship’s head one-three-five, sir.’

  Farrant’s head and shoulders appeared above the side of the bridge. ‘All wires stowed and secured, sir. Permission to dismiss the casing party?’

  ‘Carry on, Guns.’

  They were clear of the worst part now, unless the lookouts sighted an unreported wreck across their path.

  ‘Take over the con.’

  He saw Ridgway step up into his place and then moved to the port side to watch the flickering fires on the land, the brilliant diamonds of drifting flares.

  The convoy and its small escort was not much, but it was better than remaining in Singapore.

  He wiped his face again, remembering her eyes, her struggle to appear unafraid.

  If she had known about Soufrière’s orders . . .

  A sixth sense jarred through his thoughts. ‘Watch that piece to starboard. The swell seems to be breaking just there. Probably a submerged wreck or remains of one.’ He waited until Ridgway had brought the submarine out and then hack on course again.

  Natalie. Up there somewhere, heading for the shelter of the islands.

  Southby said, ‘Sawle wants permission to come up with some cocoa, sir.’ He sounded nervous.

  Ainslie nodded. Trust Sawle. First things first. He would be making sandwiches at the gates of hell if asked.

  ‘Laun
ch is signalling, sir!’ Menzies read the stabbing light slowly. ‘Must be squaddies to send so badly!’ Then he said, ‘They say, give them one for us, sir.’

  Ainslie took a mug of cocoa and stared at it blindly. For us. That was every mother’s son being left behind.

  ‘Make, it will be an honour, Yeo.’

  He watched the little blue light begin to fall away as the boat curved round to allow Soufrière to pass.

  Soon it was gone altogether, and drifting smoke had merged the distant fires and explosions into one angry glare.

  To Ridgway he said, ‘Have you got the feel of her?’

  Ridgway bared his teeth. ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Then I’m going below to look at the plot. Call me instantly if . . .’ He let it drop. The torpedo officer knew. They all did now.

  Southby stepped up beside the lieutenant as Ainslie vanished through the hatch.

  ‘I’ll never forget it. I don’t expect I’ll ever see Singapore again.’

  Ridgway trained his glasses above the screen. You probably won’t see any land again, he thought sadly.

  Aloud he snapped, ‘Smart look out all round, lads. We’ll be in open water soon.’

  At the foot of the conning tower ladder Ainslie paused, his fingers still locked around the rungs like claws. He controlled his breathing and swallowed hard. When he turned and strode under the deckhead lights there was nothing on his face to betray his ache, his despair. He was the captain again.

  ‘Periscope depth, sir.’

  Ainslie nodded to the stoker and crouched down to seize the grips.

  It was noon. All the previous night and this morning they had worked their way south-east, altering course occasionally to investigate a sound, an echo, or a patch of smoke on the horizon. Somewhere to the west of their position Granger’s convoy would be crawling southwards, keeping close to or amongst the many islands off the Malacca Strait, ready to disperse and hide if they were sighted and attacked. A snail’s pace.

  Ainslie blinked rapidly as the periscope gingerly broke surface. The sea’s face had changed yet again. Greener now, with a dull blue edge to the horizon. A very pale sky, almost colourless, and the same unending swell. It was hard to prevent the lens from being covered and then laid bare with alarming suddenness.