Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Nothing. Not a bloody thing. He lifted the lens and searched around the sky, wincing as the sun probed into his eye. Where the hell were the Japs?

  ‘Down periscope.’ He straightened his back and glanced at Quinton. ‘Thirty metres. Continue patrol routine.’

  He crossed to the chart table as the pumps hissed into life and the hydrophone tell-tales began to move again.

  Suppose the admiral’s information was wrong? The Japanese ships might be anywhere. But it certainly looked promising enough. Some two hundred miles south-east of Singapore was Banka Island, an obvious stepping-stone on to the coast of Sumatra. Harbours, airfields, oil, it would be a prize indeed.

  They had not missed them, anyway. Even the intelligence department would have known about another invasion.

  ‘Thirty metres, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Tell the cook to rustle up some food.’

  Quinton joined him by the table. ‘Nothing yet, eh?’

  Ainslie shook his head. Every hour gave the convoy another breathing space, a few more miles.

  He said, ‘The Jap admiral will know all about us. He might think we’ve left the area, but just in case we’ve not, he’ll be taking no chances this time.’

  Quinton sighed, his eyes on the planesmen. ‘The Jap pilots probably took pictures of us in harbour. If not, there’ll be plenty ready to sell them some when the white flag goes up.’

  He spoke without bitterness, and Ainslie guessed he was thinking of the brief but heart-rending signal they had picked up during the night.

  All hostilities were to cease on Singapore Island on fifteenth February when resistance would end and the British troops would lay down their arms. Lieutenant-General Percival would put the fate of his army and every living soul there into the enemy’s hands from that moment.

  ‘If only we knew how many ships there are, and what class. But by the time we’re close enough to know that, they’ll be on us like a ton of bricks.’

  It was easy to share it with Quinton. It had always been like that.

  ‘If they’re coming, it will be this way.’ Quinton rasped his hand across his chin. ‘I’ll bet they send some ships nearer to Singapore to pick off any escapees and slam the gate on the rest of them.’ He leaned on the table, his armpits and spine making dark stains on his shirt. ‘We need six boats for this job, not just us!’

  ‘Could I suggest something, sir.’

  Ainslie turned and saw Christie looking at him. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘If you’re prepared to risk surfacing in broad daylight, I’ll have a go at spotting for you.’ He grinned. ‘It’s not so daft as it sounds, sir.’

  Quinton nodded. ‘Too damn right. It makes sense.’

  ‘Hold on, you two.’ Ainslie took time to examine the chart. Through the next group of islands. The water was deep enough, and the cover should be good. He felt the edge of excitement moving inside him, and said, ‘Grasping at straws. D’you realize what you’re asking?’

  Christie shuffled his feet. ‘I do, sir. She’s a big submarine, and on the surface you’d be a sitting duck.’

  ‘It’s you I’m talking about.’ Ainslie watched him gravely. ‘If I have to leave you, you’ll be all on your own. You will have to ditch; or land in the islands. Or you could go looking for the convoy until your petrol runs out.’

  Christie nodded. ‘I’ve thought about it. It’s worth a go, sir.’

  Forster said helpfully, ‘I’ll get you some good charts. Just in case. Jack.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Christie sounded so relieved that the others stared at him. ‘I’ll fetch my mate.’ He hesitated by the watertight door. ‘One thing, sir. I’ll not let the bloody Nips take me, alive that is.’

  Another hour passed while they moved closer to the next huddle of islands. Using both periscopes, they examined every angle and bearing without sighting even a gull.

  Ainslie had the feeling it would be now or never. He compared his notes with Forster’s calculations and checked the estimated position of the enemy force on the chart.

  Repeatedly he broke off to try and plot the convoy’s progress. Allowing for perfect conditions and no breakdowns they had still covered very little distance. He kept thinking of her face as he had held her against him. The thrusting, jostling throng by the jetty stairs had been a blurred background, somehow meaningless.

  As the minutes had passed the din had grown louder and more threatening. Several times the police and soldiers guarding the waterfront had been forced to drive the crowds back to avoid swamping the boats below.

  He had seen Natalie’s sister walking with some other women down the heavily guarded stairs to the boat which would take them out to an old freighter.

  She had paused and looked at them, seemingly oblivious to the crowds and the danger still ahead.

  ‘We’re still running. Commander Ainslie.’ She had nodded to her sister. ‘I hope it works out this time.’

  Then it had been time to go. A quick hug, a brief kiss, and he had seen her moving away from the jetty, almost hidden by waving arms as the refugees made a last contact with those being left behind.

  He could remember the child, too. Exactly. Like a photograph. Her eyes had seemed too large for her face as he had stooped on his knees and kissed her.

  ‘Take care,’ he had said. What empty words when he had needed to say so much to both of them.

  Ainslie took a towel and wiped his face again. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and did the same to his chest. As if he had to be clean, to be fresh.

  ‘Periscope depth again.’

  Ainslie glanced at the Asdic compartment, but there was no warning from the operators.

  He peered at the sea, the nearest island misty-green with a low necklace of surf on one side.

  ‘Sir!’ It was Forster on the other periscope. ‘Boat at red four-five!’

  Ainslie clenched his jaw and swung the periscope smoothly on the bearing, clicking it to full power as the boat edged across his sights.

  It was rolling heavily on the swell, tipping this way and that, as if trying to rid itself of its lolling passengers.

  He hear Forster whisper, ‘Oh, my God.’

  There were about a dozen in the boat, and but for their blistered faces and staring eyes could have been alive as they jerked and nodded to the motion.

  Tall splinters stood like quills from the hull, and he could see that the plane must have crossed and re-crossed the boat with its machine-guns until the pilot was satisfied.

  Two had been women, no more than girls. The rest were soldiers. God alone knew where they had been escaping from or to, but it had ended here.

  ‘Down periscope.’ He glanced at Quinton. ‘Diving stations. We’re going to get Christie airborne.’

  The klaxon squawked loudly, and Halliday stood over his panel and switchboard, hands on his hips like a schoolmaster.

  Ainslie thought of Christie, how they had gone over the plan, what there was of it. If he sighted nothing, it might mean it was really a false alarm. If he saw the enemy, it would give Soufrière room to manoeuvre.

  But he kept thinking of the drifting boat. The guilty people who had allowed it to happen should be made to see it, to take off the identity tags, to meet those staring, terrified eyes. One of the girls had been wearing an Australian bush hat. Someone had been trying to shade her from the glare when hell had burst in on them.

  It could have been Natalie.

  ‘Standing by, sir.’

  Ainslie tightened the strap of his binoculars and ran quickly up the ladder to loosen the upper locking wheel.

  ‘Surface!’

  The unchanging pattern. Grim faces, water sluicing out of the bridge, the scrabble of fingers and feet to reach the right place in a minimum of seconds.

  Strange how you expected the air to be cool. It was like an oven.

  The binoculars swung over the water, ignoring the distant boat, searching for danger.

  ‘Open the hangar. Stand by to fly off aircraft.’

  S
urfaced, hangar wide open. This was the most vulnerable moment.

  He heard the hiss of compressed air, the squeak of metal, and knew the catapult was being guided from the hangar.

  He had thought it before. A million times. Now or never.

  ‘Affirmative.’

  He wished he had said good luck to Christie. For us.

  With a snarling roar the little seaplane hurtled along the catapult, and after a hesitant dip towards the clear water lifted steeply and headed for the sun.

  ‘Secure hangar.’ Quick look at his watch. ‘Dive when ready, Number One.’

  As the seamen, followed by the yeoman of signals, scurried from the bridge, Ainslie took another slow look at the drifting boat. Like silent spectators. With all the time in the world.

  ‘Dive, dive, dive!’

  He slammed the hatch over his head.

  Christie peered through his goggles at the altimeter and then thumped it with his fist. It was jammed. But what the hell anyway? That was the trouble with this aircraft. Sealed in a damp hangar, thrown about diving and surfacing, shaken by depth-charges. The men who built it had known a thing or two.

  At least the compass was working. He settled more comfortably in his cockpit and pointed the propeller boss towards the nearest island.

  He had known that the others had thought him mad. Never volunteer for anything. That’s what they always said. But to get out, free of the constricting steel, had seemed like a reward.

  Christie twisted round to look at his observer. He was the same, he thought, glad to be in the air.

  He switched on his intercom. ‘More like it, eh Jonesy?’

  Jones bobbed his head and swung the stripped Lewis from side to side, like something from the Royal Flying Corps patrolling above the trenches.

  The island seemed to rise to meet them, and Christie saw the seaplane’s shadow flitting above the green scrub like a crucifix. He thought of the drifting boat, all the other dead and half-demented souls between here and Singapore.

  Jones said, ‘Two more islands up front, Jack. After them we might see something.’

  Christie nodded and groped for his binoculars. There were a few canoes, or prahus, lying on one tiny beach, and he wondered if they were being used by escaping troops, or natives too frightened to show themselves. He turned round in his cockpit, searching for the Soufrière, but she had dived, and was probably heading towards the channel between the islands.

  He smiled to himself, hearing Jones singing softly into the intercom. He always sang the same one, to the tune of Tipperary. ‘That’s the wrong way to tickle Mary, that’s the wrong way I know. . . .’

  He eased back the stick and pulled the nose up over a ridge-backed hill, the propeller blades making a silver circle in the glare.

  Jonesy was probably right. Over the next island and we’ll see for bloody miles. After that, we’ll be spectators. Nothing worse.

  The little seaplane growled through a patch of haze, and there below the wing was the sea again.

  Christie gasped as Jones punched his shoulder and yelled, ‘Bloody hell! Look at them!’

  It had all happened so suddenly. Nothing was ever as you expected it.

  Christie tilted the aircraft over, kicking the rudder hard round as he stared at the ships directly beneath him. He tried to keep his mind clear, to control the plane and to count those grey shapes.

  He swore to himself, twisting the seaplane from side to side. Here comes the bloody flak.

  Puff-balls of brown smoke drifted past, lazily, harmlessly, but the plane rocked and plunged, and Christie saw two jagged holes appear in the port wing.

  ‘I’m going down, Jonesy!’

  He put the plane into a steep dive, shutting his mind to bursting flak and the jarring slam of splinters. He had to get a closer look. So that Soufrière would know. Be ready.

  He heard Jones whooping like a lunatic, then the sharp stutter from his Lewis gun as he poured a burst towards the nearest warship, a destroyer, with her guns already tracking round to follow them.

  ‘That’s the stuff, Jonesy!’ He had caught the madness, too.

  A shoulder of hillside jutted out to shield him from the ships. As if they had never been. Christie thought frantically. Remembering, putting the pieces together.

  A big cruiser, and least three destroyers. And what looked like two camouflaged troopers, too. They must have paused to put men ashore to search the islands. He thought of the drifting boat and all the others he had seen.

  Another vessel swam across his vision, a smaller one, but firing without pause as the seaplane rose above the land again. Shells, tracer, the whole bloody shooting match this time.

  Christie continued to weave from side to side. A torpedo bomber, even an old ‘Stringbag’, would be better than this. Just to lob a tin-fish into that bastard. He heard Jones cursing as the gun jammed, then the click as he slammed on another magazine and opened fire once more.

  The submarine was probably in mid-channel now, and the Japanese ships would be right there, waiting for her, or anything else which had been set to delay them.

  He saw a pale crescent of beach on the next island, two hills he could fly between and then . . . The plane gave a tremendous jerk, and he felt a pain stab through his flying boot like a white-hot iron.

  ‘Christ, Jonesy! That was a bit close!’

  He looked round and saw the observer hanging half out of the cockpit, his arms spread and bouncing in the wind. He had been hit in the head and his goggles were filled with blood.

  Christie turned back towards the enemy, gasping as the pain lanced through him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jonesy! I really am!’

  What was he saying? He felt a sort of terror and peered down at his leg. There was blood everywhere, and he saw the sea speeding beneath him through the splinter holes, and realized that the starboard float had also been blasted away.

  He laughed weakly. ‘A plane with one bloody leg!’

  More bangs, and a smoke cloud which seemed to cling to the cockpit like gas.

  Christie croaked, ‘No good, Jonesy. We’re going into the drink. The skipper will never know in time. Not now, chum.’

  As if in agreement, the dead observer bobbed and swayed across his useless machine-gun.

  ‘Oh, God, the pain!’ The agony seemed to clear his mind like a scalpel. If he got through the hills and did a sharp turn to starboard to gain height, he might still be able to let Ainslie know. He opened the throttle wide. ‘Come on, old girl. I bloody taught you to understand English, didn’t I?’

  Shells exploded above and below him, for as the seaplane regained height and headed for the next island, it presented itself to every ship like a pheasant at a shoot.

  Pieces flew from the fuselage, and Christie gave a great cry as a splinter smashed into his side like an axe, numbing him, driving away his breath.

  Oh, dear God, help me. The words unspoken or yelled aloud went unheard as Christie nursed the controls and headed past the nearest hill. Up, come on, bit more. Oh, God, help me.

  More flak, bright balls of tracer, ripping at the battered aircraft, closing in like fiery claws.

  There was the sea again. Bright and clear-green.

  Christie leaned forward to look at it, his head touching the perspex shield. He saw oil spurting around the cowling, the first tails of smoke from the engine.

  The sea looked beautiful. Decent.

  A few shells pursued the seaplane, but most of the ships were once more hidden by the islands.

  ‘Just like Tahiti, Jonesy! You an’ I’ll set up there after this bloody lot’s over. I’ll teach you to fly . . . you see . . . Jonesy!’

  He tried to turn but the pain gripped him like a vice.

  The seaplane hit the sea and exploded, burning debris splashing down in a wide circle. Eventually there was nothing.

  17

  A Symbol

  EVERYONE HEARD THE roar as Christie’s seaplane exploded in the channel. It was more of a sensation than
a sound, and it murmured around in the Soufrière’s hull long after the remains had been scattered across the bottom.

  Ainslie stood back from the periscope as it hissed into its well. He did not see it or the pale-faced stoker with his switch, only that last lingering picture, made more terrible by the lens’s impartial silence.

  He had watched the seaplane lift desperately above the island, weaving and falling away like a stricken bird. Pursued all the while by shellbursts and tracer, its own smoke trail marking each painful yard of the way.

  When it had dived into the water and burst apart in one vivid flash, the sudden sound against the hull had seemed far worse. Like an intrusion.

  Even with their backs turned, the men in the control room were looking at him.

  Quinton asked, ‘Did he manage to make any signal, sir?’

  Ainslie nodded, hardly daring to speak. ‘Yes. The bravest signal I ever saw.’

  Almost to himself he added, ‘He could, have flown off, hidden, saved himself and Jones. He might have done anything. But he didn’t. We don’t know how many of the enemy there are, but by God, we know where they are now!’

  He picked up the microphone of the submarine’s intercom.

  ‘This is the captain. That explosion was our seaplane.’ He swallowed hard. ‘They’ve given us a chance to get one in first. Let me just say this. When things hot up, remember all those helpless people in the convoy. When the tubes are empty I want them reloaded and set quicker than ever before. And if it falls to a gun action, I shall expect the best.’ He felt his eyes sting like needles. ‘The best you can give. That’s all.’

  A murmur of approval ran around the control room, and Halliday said quietly to Lucas, ‘Quite a man, eh? I’m glad it’s him and not me.’

  Forster gripped the chart table to control his emotions. All the worries he had created and tried to disperse meant nothing now. He was going to be killed, but it didn’t seem to matter.

  The fat coxswain adjusted his buttocks on his steel seat and said gruffly, ‘I reckon we’ll stand a good chance, sir.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m all set for a shore job, y’see.’