He flicked open the folder and stared at it for several seconds.
‘Our role, or part of it, is to join forces with the Americans and local Malaysian patrols and keep an eye on any communist activity. Gun-running, smuggling saboteurs or even trained troops into the area; just as soon as our particular sector has been allotted to us and clearly defined.’
His finger moved slowly down a typewritten sheet within the folder.
‘But first things first. I’ve had a good look round the ship, and also made it my business to study her state of readiness.’ He seemed to be ticking off items in his mind. ‘Engine room is fine. Even in a new ship I never found better.’
Standish saw Quarrie’s shoulder move slightly, but his expression remained guarded, like that of a man about to rush to the defence of the thing he most loved.
‘Communications, well, they appear adequate for our purposes.’ Dalziel looked at Standish. ‘Who is the gunnery officer? No mention here at all.’
‘Well, sir, the main armament of twin four-inch guns is mothballed, and apart from humidity checks and so forth they don’t warrant much attention. Petty Officer Motts, the G.I., keeps an eye on them and the four Bofors guns.’
Dalziel regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Interesting.’ Then he swung round on his chair and jabbed a finger at Wishart. ‘And what exactly do you do, Sub, apart that is from carrying messages to the Officers’ Club?’
Wishart flushed. ‘Well, sir, that is, I deal with ship’s correspondence and, and …’
Hornby said, ‘He assists me with sport and entertainment, sir.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Dalziel leaned back and eyed the young officer calmly. ‘It all begins to drop into place. Now, Sub, if you can be released from the duties just described, you will become the gunnery officer.’
Wishart stared at him. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want those four-inch weapons stripped and brought to state one readiness. As soon as we get to sea I’ll expect to see a practice shoot, and it had better be good!’ He frowned. ‘Well, what’s the matter now?’
‘I have only done basic gunnery, when I was at Dartmouth, sir.’
‘So?’
‘I just meant that a more experienced officer might be better …’
His voice trailed away as Dalziel said smoothly, ‘Well, this will be experience, eh?’ His tone sharpened. ‘More than you’ll get by kicking a football or making yourself beautiful on a pair of damn water-skis!’
He shifted his gaze to Caley. ‘T.A.S. department appears in good shape. But some of the seamen I questioned seem a bit vague about what the Squid mortars are for?’ He fixed Caley with a grim stare. ‘I’ll want you to train two extra crews. I don’t just want those mortars to look good, I want ’em ready to use if necessary, see?’
Caley half rose. ‘I’ll speak to my P.O. about it, sir.’
‘You’ll do it yourself, unless you want to change places with him!’
Then Dalziel smiled and relaxed slightly.
‘That’s about it for now, gentlemen. I just wanted you to know my standards, which are quite high. We may be going to one more boring bit of patrol work. But if not, and there’s work to be done, work which we have all joined and trained for, then I need to be ready. And if there’s any fighting to be done, then I want this ship where that fighting is!’
Irvine said quietly, ‘I’d not think they’d use this ship, sir.’ He appeared to have regained his composure. ‘Her last commission was bad enough, but these past months have been just about pointless.’
Dalziel nodded. ‘Wasted is a better description, Pilot. Wasted and thrown away, with the result we now have a slack, disorganized ship.’ He smiled at Irvine. ‘But that’s all in the past. As I used to tell the lads in my last ship. Treat me squarely and I’ll be nice as pie. But call me pig and I can be pig right the way through, believe me.’
Irvine asked, ‘Which ship was that, sir?’
Dalziel rose to his feet. ‘I’ll not have time for that drink now, Number One. But I’d like to stand treat just the same.’ He picked up his cap and looked at each of them in turn. ‘Stations for leaving harbour at 1800, right?’
As the door closed behind him Irvine said savagely, ‘Then I’ll have a treble brandy if he’s paying for it.’
Pigott walked slowly to the bulkhead calendar and stared at it gloomily. Then he pulled a pencil from his shirt and drew a ring around the day’s date.
‘Dalziel plus one,’ he said dryly. ‘What a way to start August in this ship!’
Standish returned to his chair and picked up his glass. The interview had not gone well, but it had certainly made a deep impression. As the stewards returned to pour the drinks he could hear a buzz of questions and complaints all around him, as if twice the number of officers were present.
The chair beside him creaked and he turned to see Quarrie sipping meditatively at a large horse’s neck.
‘Well, Chief, how do you feel about things?’
Quarrie replied without hesitation. ‘Terrapin’s been waiting for a Dalziel for nearly twenty years. He’ll do me all right.’
Wishart was saying plaintively, ‘But I’ve never done a shoot with four-inch guns!’
Irvine snapped, ‘Shouldn’t have joined, Sub. At least you don’t have to share the bridge with him.’
All Caley said was, ‘Glasserbeer!’
Standish leaned back and let the gin explore the back of his tongue. Maybe Quarrie was right. Either way it looked as if they were all going to be very busy indeed.
* * *
Standish stood high on the gratings at the forepart of the upper bridge and watched the seamen moving about the forecastle in readiness for getting under way.
With all awnings removed and stowed there was little shelter from the sun, which in spite of the hour felt as hot as ever. He saw Wishart right forward in the eyes of the ship and wondered if he was attending to his men or still thinking about the twin guns which pointed straight towards him as a constant reminder of Dalziel’s expectations. Around the bridge voicepipes muttered and squeaked, and the usual business of preparing for sea continued unhurriedly and with little outward emotion.
Some seamen were already at the guardrails of the frigate alongside ready to release mooring wires, and beyond her on an even higher plane Standish could see a few idlers watching from the depot ship where only yesterday he had gone to greet his new captain.
A bosun’s mate said, ‘Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir.’
Dalziel looked impeccable in what appeared to be another new shirt, and had his cap tilted over his eyes against the fierce glare.
Standish saluted formally. ‘Ready to proceed, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘There’s a transport dropping anchor in the fairway, sir.’ He gestured astern. ‘We could wait a bit longer if you like.’
Dalziel glanced round the bridge, his dark eyes moving over the messengers and signalmen, the bosun’s mate with his ear to a telephone, and lastly to Irvine who was leaning on his elbows across the chart table.
‘Time, Pilot?’ His tone was quite calm.
‘1755, sir.’ Irvine did not look up.
‘Very well. Ring down stand by.’ Dalziel climbed on to the gratings and touched the glass screen with his fingers.
It was hard to tell what he was thinking. That this was the first time he had moved the ship himself, and already there was the added complication of the big transport astern. The Terrapin, like the supply ship, was pointing towards the causeway which linked Singapore Island to the mainland, and to get clear of the other vessels it was first necessary to move astern before making a slow turn into the centre of the channel. But his face was like a mask, and he could just have easily been making a mental note of the salt stains left on the screen from the last trip.
‘Take in breast ropes!’ Dalziel adjusted his glasses about his neck.
Beneath the scrubbed gratings the deck began to vibrate slightly as Quarrie released the power in readiness for the next command from the bridge
.
A diamond-bright light winked from the shore’s hazy outline and Petty Officer Burch, the yeoman, snapped, ‘Signal, sir. Proceed when ready.’
Standish glanced quickly at the masthead pendant. Moments before it had been hanging limply in the heat, now, as if gathering strength from an unknown source it lifted slightly and then flapped towards the other frigate.
The man at the telephone reported, ‘Breast ropes inboard, sir.’
Standish said suddenly, ‘The wind’s holding us against the other ship, sir.’
Dalziel glanced at him. ‘So I see.’ In a louder tone he added, ‘Let go aft!’
Standish crossed to the bridge wing and watched as the seamen on the narrow quarterdeck threw off lashings and tugged at the great greasy coils of wire which piled around them like so many eager snakes.
‘All gone aft, sir.’
Two officers had appeared on the other frigate’s bridge and Standish could see them peering down as the Terrapin sidled more heavily against the fenders.
Even without the telephone it was possible to hear Caley’s harsh voice from the quarterdeck. ‘All clear aft, sir!’
Held only by the spring and headrope the little frigate was yawing badly, and more seamen were being urged and pushed to manhandle the fenders along the flared forecastle where already there was some danger of the two vessels grinding together in close embrace.
Dalziel said in the same flat voice, ‘Slow ahead port engine!’
Corbin’s voice repeated the order from the wheelhouse. ‘Slow ahead port engine, sir.’ A pause. ‘Port engine slow ahead, wheel amidships, sir!’
Standish found himself gripping his hands together behind him as very slowly at first and then with added thrust the Terrapin began to nudge forward. The spring took the strain, tighter and tighter until it was stretched bar-taut, and more than one man was staring at it with obvious alarm.
‘Stop engine!’ Dalziel moved to the starboard wing and stared down at the gap between the two ships. It was already narrowing as once more the wind playfully eased the Terrapin back alongside the other vessel.
Standish looked away. Dalziel’s attempted manoeuvre was normal enough. To go slow ahead on the one wire which ran from the bows back to a point on the other frigate’s quarterdeck. It should have acted as a spring to swing the Terrapin’s stern clear so that Dalziel could reverse his engines and back clear. But the wind was too strong, as he should have realized.
Some of the seamen on the other ship were grinning broadly and an officer on her bridge raised a megaphone to enquire, ‘Forgotten something, old chap?’
Dalziel tossed him a casual wave, his mouth set in a wide grin, but standing by his side Standish could see the muscle jumping quickly in his throat, a small droplet of sweat below the peak of his cap.
He said quietly, ‘Sir, I think it would be better if …’
Dalziel looked at him. ‘Not to worry, Number One.’ Then he leaned over the screen and yelled, ‘Get ready to jump about, Sub!’ Over his shoulder he snapped, ‘Slow ahead port engine!’
Again the surge of white froth beneath the frigate’s counter and the responding thrust against the wire spring.
A man said thickly, ‘Gawd, it’ll snap and cut some bleeder’s ’ead off!’
Standish willed himself to stay quite still, feeling the ship snubbing harder and harder against the captive wire. The two officers were no longer grinning from the other bridge, and he could hear the shrill of a bosun’s pipe, the stampede of feet as the duty watch dashed on deck to assist.
At that very instant the wind dropped again, and with something like a prayer Standish saw the gap starting to open into an arrowhead of bright choppy water.
‘Stop engine. Let go spring.’ Dalziel had both hands in his pockets. ‘Tell those men to get a move on!’
‘All gone the spring!’ The voice was cracked with relief.
‘Good. Now let go forrard!’ Dalziel hardly paused to hear the shouted response before adding tersely, ‘Slow astern both engines!’
All at once they were gliding clear, the faces along the other ship’s side losing their individuality, the pale hull merging with that of the supply vessel.
The yeoman said, ‘That transport’s swinging badly, sir.’
Dalziel turned abruptly. ‘What? Where?’
Standish stared past him and saw the anchored ship, her tall sides rusted and streaked with red lead, angling from her anchor cable like a solid steel wall.
Dalziel snapped, ‘And why the hell did nobody report that?’ He gestured at a lookout. ‘What have you been doing all this time, eh?’
The luckless seaman muttered, ‘I was watchin’ the wire, sir. I thought it were goin’ to break.’
Dalziel shouted, ‘I don’t give a damn what you think! On lookout you keep your eyes on your sector and nothing more, do you understand?’
Irvine stood up from the chart table and said sharply, ‘My God, we’ll hit her!’
Dalziel seemed to realize that the ship was still churning remorselessly astern, her flapping ensign almost in direct line with the transport’s tall funnel.
‘Stop both engines!’ He grasped the voice pipe as if for support. ‘Slow ahead port, half astern starboard!’
Down in his gleaming world of machinery Quarrie must be staring at his dials and wondering just what the hell was happening on deck, Standish thought. The ship was still going astern, but the starboard screw fighting in opposition to the other one was dragging her round in a tighter arc. At best she might slide alongside the other ship, and at worst she could still smash her stern right through the transport’s plates.
Dalziel’s face was expressionless. ‘Half ahead port, full astern starboard!’
The ship was shuddering and vibrating like a mad thing, with every rivet and plate creaking as if to tear itself out of the bridge.
Standish said at length, ‘Pass the word for fenders along the starboard quarter!’
Dalziel snapped, ‘Belay that!’ In a calmer tone he added, ‘No need, Number One.’
The Terrapin’s shadow glided down the transport’s towering forecastle with less than twenty feet to clear.
Dalziel said sharply, ‘Stop both engines!’ He reached out for the voicepipe again. ‘Half ahead together. Starboard fifteen.’
As she moved ahead once more, her hull leaning to the rudder, Standish saw her bow wave rippling away on either beam, watched fascinated as the disturbed water broke across the transport’s anchor cable like a miniature millrace.
‘Midships.’ Dalziel crossed to the opposite side, turning his back on the transport. ‘Slow ahead both engines.’
The other ships moored nearby had so far remained silent, either too spellbound or too horrified to speak as the little Terrapin had surged astern towards the anchored transport, only to turn at the very last minute before swinging ahead to circle her bows like a terrier around an elephant.
But now the silence was broken and as lights flashed from every direction Burch, the yeoman, and his signalmen wrote busily and acknowledged the lights with hardly a pause for breath.
Dalziel said, ‘Take over, Number One. Fall the hands in for leaving harbour.’ As he glanced at the scribbled signals, most of which were either caustic or downright rude, he added absently, ‘She handles well, Number One, in spite of her years.’
Then he grinned, his teeth white in the shadow of his cap. ‘I’ll bet that shook some of those idle buggers, eh?’
And me too, Standish thought. ‘Yes, sir.’
While the frigate wended her way slowly past the rest of the anchored warships, the pipes shrilling their respects to their seniors and the hands standing in swaying lines on the quarterdeck and forecastle alike, Standish found himself wondering even more about Commander Hector Dalziel.
Had it really been a demonstration of reckless self-confidence, or just a man desperate to succeed no matter what the consequences? And those consequences were bad indeed. A collision would have meant court m
artial and the instant removal of Dalziel from command.
He turned from the voicepipe to watch the captain as he raised his glasses above the screen. He was studying the outthrust finger of Changi Point as it glided slowly past the starboard beam, its white houses still shimmering in the fading heat haze. He looked quite composed and relaxed, and when he lowered the glasses Standish could see the excitement in his eyes like a living thing.
He said, ‘I have a feeling that this is going to be a profitable experience, Number One.’
He did not explain what he meant for at that moment Irvine said, ‘Time to alter course, sir.’
Dalziel nodded and walked to the voicepipe. ‘Starboard ten. Midships.’ He lowered his eyes to the gyro repeater. ‘Steady. Steer one-one-zero.’
A shabby junk glided past the port beam rocking uneasily in the frigate’s wash, and the gulls which had followed the Terrapin clear of the harbour idled further and further astern, to wait perhaps for another source of food.
‘Fall out harbour stations.’ Dalziel glanced up at the masthead pendant, gold now in the last of the dying rays. ‘And tell Wishart well done. He moved quite quickly back there when the moment arrived.’
He paused with one foot still on the gratings. ‘Nothing like a little challenge to get the blood pumping, eh?’
When Dalziel had gone to his sea cabin Irvine said slowly, ‘Did you ever see anything quite like that?’
Standish looked past him, watching the pale smoke from a hill fire high above the nearest headland.
‘It’s your watch, isn’t it?’ He walked to the bridge wing and wiped his face with his handkerchief. ‘Just see that you do your part, fair enough?’
Irvine watched him calmly. ‘Aye, aye, sir!’
Darkness found the Terrapin steaming at ten knots north east up the Singapore Strait, her navigation lights burning like two bright, unmatched eyes and her slim hull lifting easily to the mounting swell from the South China Sea.
In her cabins and messdecks there was plenty of talk and rumour, and the story of Dalziel’s spectacular departure from the harbour would gain much in the telling.
The Greatest Enemy Page 4