Detmers stared at her long and hard, as if trying to gauge the intensity of her returned gaze, before giving a single, silent nod and reaching for the ships intercom once more.
“Bridge to engineering,” he began in German, eying off the distant beach and docks that lay perhaps a mile off the ship’s bow. “Damage report please, Horst…”
“Engineering here, captain,” the crackling reply came back in an instant. “No damage to engineering at this point: all engines operating at full capacity.”
“Very good, Horst… maintain flank speed please… bridge out…”
Switching channels to one covering the entire ship once more, he raised the microphone to his lips again and took a long, deep breath before continuing.
“All hands, all hands: this is your captain… The ship has been hit and is sinking… there is no possibility of repairing the damage in our current situation. It is my intention to beach the ship so that we may hopefully save her long enough to carry out those repairs. All hands brace for impact… captain out…”
“You think this will work?” Donelson asked, nerves showing in her tone as she too stared out at the beach in the distance.
“What option do we have?” He pointed out darkly with a shrug. “Warn your men also… the impact will be heavy when it comes – they need to secure themselves…”
Kormoran ran aground a few minutes later on a small, curved section of beach half a mile north-east of the Tan Tui barracks area. She was already so far down by the bows that water was washing directly over her deck forward, yet Detmers kept her going all the same. She hit the beach at a steady twelve knots – all she was able to manage with several thousand tons of seawater filling her holds – but it was enough to at least bring the vessel’s bow back out of the bay and up onto the sand. The torn bow reared up in a spray of muddy water, the torrent pouring back out of the savage rents in her hull now that it was exposed to the open air.
The grinding impact threw everything violently forward, creating havoc throughout the ship, but the crew had been forewarned and there were few casualties save for one or two broken bones and a few sprains or twisted joints. The majority of the bombers had been beaten off by that stage, and as Eileen and the rest of them stepped out onto the bridge deck, they were able to watch the last of the remaining Japanese attackers fleeing back to the north at high speed, chased all the way by a handful of surviving RAAF fighters.
For Detmers, the situation was bittersweet at best. He’d saved his ship from sinking – after a fashion – but the fact remained that she was now run aground and unlikely to be moved or repaired anytime soon. It was a small consolation that fire-fighters both on board and from shore were now at least able to gain control of the first still burning at her bow. The reality was that Kormoran was done for: she would never sail again.
None of them for a moment even considered the possibility that that situation was exactly what the attacking Japanese pilots had wanted; that their objective had been to either sink or at least disable the raider to the point that she could not be moved. The last of the departing Japanese pilots had seen her run aground and had reported as much back to base, that information in turn forwarded on to the invasion force currently steaming toward Ambon from the north at best possible speed.
It was another hour before warning of that approaching fleet reached Ambon.
No one was particularly surprised.
Base Hospital, RAF Sembawang
His Majesty’s Naval Base Singapore
Often referred to simply as HMS Sembawang, the British naval base at Singapore was currently the largest facility of its kind in existence within the Empire and Commonwealth nations. More than twenty square miles of sprawling docks, offices, barracks, workshops, warehouses and everything else that comprised the operation of a modern military facility, it was the very cornerstone of British naval power within the Indian Ocean and South-East Asian regions.
Conceived from the outset as a counter to the growing expansion and ambition of the Japanese, the base had been completed in 1939 with an unprecedented cost of sixty million pounds (over 2.5 billion pounds in equivalent Realtime, 21st Century terms). It housed the world’s largest dry dock of its time, the third-largest floating dock, and enough fuel tankage to supply the entire Royal Navy for six months.
Both Mountbattens were standing at his bedside as Thorne opened his eyes, wincing at the sudden brightness of the officers’ hospital ward. His head ached terribly, and he found it difficult to focus on the pair of officers standing before him. A saline drip hung from a metal stand by his bedside, feeding straight into a vein in his arm via a small needle taped securely to his bare skin.
“Well, it appears I’m still kicking, so that’s a good thing, I guess,” he managed, wincing as his own words caused discomfort inside his head.
“Things were dicey for a few moments there, but you’ve pulled through all right,” the older Mountbatten observed with a thin smile. “Your heart stopped just for bit while you were aboard Wallace, but the ship’s doctor managed to sort you out.”
“Feels like I’ve been run over by a tank,” he groaned, trying rather unsuccessfully to find sufficient energy to change position on the bed.
“Nothing more than a concussion, apparently,” Mountbatten advised with a shrug. “Although admittedly the worst case anyone had seen for quite a while. To be honest, none of the doctors here are quite sure what all the fuss was about: on the face of it, the injuries you’ve suffered didn’t warrant anywhere near the almost fatal shutdown your body went through…”
“So, I’m basically a bloody great sook…?” Thorne suggested, managing a wry smile as he reached shakily across to a bedside table and grasped for a glass of water sitting there.
“Not at all… the opposite, if anything. They’re concerned that there may be some other underlying problem they’ve not been able to detect.” Mountbatten grimaced. “You have been unconscious for the better part of two days, you realise?”
“Two days…?” Thorne blurted, almost spraying water over himself in shock. “Jesus Christ, the whole bloody world might’ve – ow, fuck…!” That last profanity was in reaction to the sudden, piercing pain that ripped through the back of his head as he attempted to sit up too quickly. “Two days…” he repeated far more calmly the moment his agony had subsided. “The invasion…! What’s happened? What have I missed?”
“Calm yourself, Max,” Mountbatten assured, raising a hand as a signal he should rest. “The landings at Kota Bharu were repulsed and we’re holding them on the peninsula at Songkhla for the moment. Their air force has been giving us some curry, but we’re holding our own so far. They’ve also hit Borneo and a few other bases in the region, but so far no more invasion forces heading our way.”
“Prince of Wales…?”
“No…” Mountbatten shook his head sadly. “But we managed to save most of our men.”
“What of Captain Donelson and the Kormoran…?” Thorne snapped sharply, suddenly recalling someone far more important.
“Safe for the moment…”
“‘…For the moment…?’ And that means…?” he repeated with suspicion.
“It means ‘for the moment’,” the admiral replied, unfazed. “They are currently secure on Ambon Island, in the care of Dutch and Australian ground forces. Intelligence suggests there may – may – be an enemy invasion force headed for the island, but that is completely unconfirmed. In any case, Darwin has despatched a vessel from Timor to evacuate your friends and the device they’ve secured on Kormoran, and return them to Australia immediately. We’ve got little information beyond that, but we know that much at least.”
“I need to get back there… to Ambon… or to Darwin, at least; somewhere closer to the action.”
“Not advisable at this point,” Mountbatten pointed out thoughtfully, “although all the information we’ve had so far from Melbourne suggests you’re not likely to listen to advice of that nature. Orders from General Blamey
are that you remain where you are for the moment, receive treatment and take the time required to recover. They’re sending two officers to assist and to assess the situation.”
“Yeah, I know who that will be,” Thorne growled sourly, thinking back on Blamey’s recommendation that his actions be overseen by a pair of officers from Canberra operating under the authority of the War Department. “Admiral, I must get out of here… I can’t do anything stuck here in bloody Singapore…” he paused as another, far darker thought occurred to him. “And if that invasion force you mentioned is headed for Ambon, it’s even more imperative that I make it back to somewhere from which I can do something to help. You know when I come from, sir… there are some very bad things that happened on that island, and we need to get Captain Donelson out of there as quickly as possible.”
“Fortunately, Max, it appears we have others in high places who think along similar lines,” Mountbatten smiled, almost giving a sly wink. “In a personal message to Phillip, received last night, Her Royal Highness, The Princess, has advised that her father expects us to extend every courtesy and give any assistance you require…”
“The Princess was quite specific that this information was to remain quite personal,” Phillip explained, not resisting the urge to wink in this case.
“It appears you have some friends in rather high places, Max,” Mountbatten observed with a smile of his own. “And family is family. We anticipated your desire to leave for Darwin and have a long-range bomber standing by at the airfield for that very reason. As soon as you’re well enough, we’ll have you out of here… with a navy medic in attendance during the flight to keep an eye on you…” he added quickly, before Thorne could react to the news.
“I can’t thank you enough, gentlemen,” Thorne admitted humbly, making a slower, more careful and far more successful attempt to sit up and turn, sliding his feet out from beneath the covers and down onto the cold, tiled floor.
“On the contrary, Max,” Mountbatten replied with a nod of gracious acknowledgement, “without the knowledge you and Hindsight have given us, we might have lost Singapore within a matter of weeks. We’ve suffered heavy casualties, it’s true, but we’re holding the Japanese so far, and with the supplies and ammunition we’ve stockpiled here over the last few years, we’ll be able to keep holding them for the foreseeable future. As long as Singapore stands, we also stand a fighting chance of holding the oilfields of the Dutch East Indies and keeping them out of enemy hands. It’s we who owe you, and the palace understands that as well as anyone.”
“Take your time getting ready, sir,” Phillip advised cheerfully. “That plane’s not going to leave without you. We’ll have you back in Darwin this afternoon.”
13.In Harm’s Way
Tipperary Station
Northern Territory, Australia
10 December, 1942
Thursday
Fenton Airfield was a relatively new facility, having only been opened six months earlier. Named for a serving RAAF officer who prior to the war had been the founder of the Northern Territory Aerial Medical Service, it lay amid the huge Tipperary Station; half a million acres of cattle grazing land roughly eighty miles south-east of Darwin. The airfield was currently the home of several RAAF and USAAF bomber squadrons along with their attendant ancillary units.
Thorne almost welcomed the evening heat as he climbed down from the RAF Liberator with his medic in tow and made his way slowly across the tarmac to the main administration buildings at that end of the runway. Compared to the crippling humidity he’d been experiencing in Singapore, the sharp dryness of the air was almost as much relief as a cool evening breeze… almost.
Dozens of RAAF Liberators similar to the one he’d arrived in surrounded the strip, parked on hardstands and in earthen revetments here and there, and in the fading twilight he was also able to pick out at least a dozen B-17s of the US Army Air Force. The B-24 Liberator was a fine workhorse of an aircraft, Thorne knew well enough from his own recall of history, with a reputation for exceptional long range and versatility, although it never earned the same reputation for hardiness and defensive firepower as its main competitor, the almost ubiquitous B-17 Flying Fortress.
Ground crew all around were working to fuel and arm every visible aircraft, although without any current news or intelligence to work with, he could only guess at their possible targets other than the obvious one of maritime reconnaissance. The war was only two days old in the Pacific and South-East Asia, and there was little likelihood of any major targets yet that could be effectively reached from bases in mainland Australia.
Thorne grimaced as he considered that fact, one that had changed very quickly during the Realtime course of the Second World War. So far at least, Allied forces were holding the Japanese on the Malay Peninsula, and Singapore remained a dangerous thorn in the Empire’s side on their western flank. He knew better than most that what they were fighting would ultimately become a huge war of attrition in terms of strategic raw materials: with Allied naval and air forces still able to operate effectively out of Singapore, the Japanese could not risk any major moves against Java or the oilfields of the Dutch East Indies, and every day with that precious oil kept out of enemy hands brought the Allies one day closer to victory.
None of that concerned Max Thorne right at that moment however. All he was thinking about was Eileen’s safety and coming up with some kind of effective plan to evacuate her from Ambon as soon as was humanly possible. He’d been out of communication basically with everyone for the better part of three days now, either due to hospitalisation or travelling, and both his nerves and his patience were wearing thin, a situation that was exacerbated dramatically by the after-effects of the concussion from which he was still recovering.
Thorne’s heart sank as he looked up from his inner dialogue and caught sight of a small group of army officers standing at the doorway to the nearest of those admin buildings. There was only one he recognised, however the fact that that officer was Lieutenant-General Bennett was enough to cause him some dismay and significant frustration, as that fact made it all too likely he could guess at the identities of the others accompanying him.
Well, that fucks that up nicely… the voice in his head observed sourly, echoing his own thoughts on the matter.
“You don’t say?” He growled back under his breath. “How the bloody hell did they know I was coming? Somebody’s been telling tales out of school.”
No shit...
“General Bennett,” he ventured with all the false cheer he could manage under the circumstances. “What a pleasant surprise! To what do I own this unexpected pleasure?”
“Don’t ever become a politician, air vice-marshal,” Bennett observed severely, taking note of the complete and utter lack of sincerity in his expression and tone. “I suspect you’re not cut out for it.”
“Sorry, sir: your presence was unexpected, that’s all,” Thorne offered by way of explanation, mostly managing not to give the shrug of disinterest his body had wanted to provide along with those words.
“Not surprised, considering you departed Singapore in direct contravention to standing orders and somehow managed to secure a seat on a flight back here without authorisation. We’ll be looking into that another time, but for the moment: do you understand English clearly, Thorne…? Normally, I’d have thought that to be a rhetoric question, but in your case I’m not so certain.” The general’s tone was laced with sarcasm at that point – the type of sarcasm that staff officers excelled the world over when berating their subordinates. “…For unless there was some breakdown in basic communication between Canberra and Singapore, I’m at a loss to explain your presence back in Australia. Is it possible there was some failure to communication on our part, or is this simply another clear display of wilful disobedience on yours…?
“No, don’t bother,” he continued, raising a hand as Thorne opened his mouth to speak, ire already rising quickly. “I know you well enough by now to know which is more likel
y.” He shook his head in exasperation as he took a step forward. “What are you doing here, Max? You’ve been injured, for God’s sake – you need time to recover.”
“With all due respect, sir, it was nothing more than concussion – something utterly insignificant compared to the injuries many of the survivors of Repulse or Prince of Wales have suffered. I felt the dire situation at hand was such that such a minor affliction wasn’t worth worrying about.”
“You think the war will leave you behind?” Bennett almost grinned then, not happy about the situation but at least understanding where he was coming from. “I doubt that very much, considering you were mixed right up in the opening shots of it! The Prime Minister personally made it clear to General Blamey that you were not to be placed in any further danger. His Majesty has also expressed similar sentiments.” He gave a wry smile. “Honestly, man; you’re too bloody well-known to be carrying on like some pig-headed corporal that doesn’t want to be on sick parade!”
Thorne almost smiled at that also. He actually quite liked the nuggetty commander and generally got along with him quite well. Had it been Realtime, Henry Gordon Bennett (as a major-general) would’ve been commanding the Australian Eighth Division at Johore, on the Malay Peninsula, and at the outbreak of war with the Japanese would be one of the few to evade capture and make it back to Australia, that journey being a story in its own right if Thorne remembered correctly.
“Anyway,” Bennett sighed, deciding to change the subject for the time being. “Let’s get you a meal and a bit of rest. Sergeant,” he added, directing that remark to the medic standing behind Thorne who’d been spending the entire time trying to look like he wasn’t taking any notice. “Report to the duty officer over at Building Two for debriefing; that’s one down from this one on the left… He’ll assign you a bed and point you in the direction of the sergeant’s mess…”
The Dead Alone (Empires Lost Book 3) Page 66