The Greatest Enemy

by Douglas Reeman

  Then he re-entered the other cabin and locked the door behind him. They were all staring at him, their eyes white, unmoving, watching his mouth like so many deaf mutes.

  He said, ‘Get Petty Officer Motts.’

  But it was the ship’s master who returned with the seaman. He was a big, craggy man, white-haired and built like a rock.

  He said thickly, ‘Thank God you found us!’

  Standish watched him, his mind still cringing, suddenly hating this man without knowing why.

  ‘If you had been more careful …’ Then he thought of the locked cabin behind him and added quietly, ‘Your wife is in there, Captain.’

  The other man licked his lips and then replied, ‘Thank you.’ He looked at the women and added, ‘I have released my other hands. I will return to my bridge until …’ His eyes moved to the locked door. Then he said harshly. ‘I will await your captain’s directions.’

  Standish held out the money belt. ‘It belongs to your chief officer.’

  ‘He’s dead, too.’ The words hung in the enclosed cabin. ‘They hacked him down as soon as your ship came back.’

  ‘He was a brave man.’ Standish looked away.

  ‘Aye.’ The master walked slowly to the passageway, his arms hanging at his sides like dead things. ‘I never realized it before. But he was indeed.’

  Motts passed the other man and looked at Standish questioningly. ‘Orders, sir?’ He nodded to the women. ‘Mornin’, ladies. Soon ‘ave you right as rain again.’ He became serious. ‘The lads ‘ave got ten of the bastards lined up on the foredeck, sir. All Chinks, an’ not one over the age of twenty by the looks of ’em.’

  ‘And their leader?’

  ‘Gawd knows, sir. One of them clobbered on the bridge, I should think.’

  From the end of the passageway a voice called excitedly, ‘The ship’s signalling, sir! Will you come?’

  Standish looked around him. ‘Yes.’ It was nearly over. ‘At once.’

  As he followed Motts into the growing daylight he thought of the girl, of what she must have been through.

  Above the boat deck, outlined against the shattered bridge windows he saw the ship’s master training his glasses on the approaching frigate. How could he bear to stand there, in that bloody shambles?

  Motts said quietly, ‘Looks fine, don’t she, sir?’

  Standish followed his stare and saw the Terrapin steaming slowly abeam on a parallel course. Even in the poor light it was possible to see the buckled plates on her forecastle, the torn guardrails and the broken remains of the whaler hanging from its davits in two equal halves.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Fine. She’ll do me.’

  Stranger still, he found that he meant it.

  * * *

  Dalziel lowered his glasses as one of the Cornwallis’s big lifeboats pushed off from the side and turned slowly towards her own ship.

  ‘Capital.’ He turned and looked at Standish, his head cocked on one side like an eager bird. ‘You feeling better?’

  Standish swilled the strong coffee round the bottom of the mug, tasting the liberal dose of rum which someone had added for him. ‘At the moment, sir.’ He still did not trust himself to speak more than few words at a time. Instead he looked above the screen at the washed-out blue sky, the dark line of the early horizon. It seemed almost impossible to believe that barely two hours before he had been fighting for his life. Killing.

  Dalziel was saying, ‘The motor boat coxswain and mechanic were killed in that first burst. We did manage to pick up the bowman, however.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘So that’s four dead and two wounded all told. Could have been worse. Much worse.’

  Standish shivered. He kept seeing that girl. The look of complete destruction on her face. The rest consisted only of vague pictures and confused sounds. Of Irvine greeting him on his return to the ship aboard one of the lifeboats. Irvine of all people, wringing his hand and yelling, ‘Well done, old lad! Bloody well done!’ And Wishart, eyes filling his face, watching him and staring, saying nothing. And all the others, showing relief, or surprise that he had lived.

  Caley clattered up the ladder and saluted.

  ‘All the women are in the wardroom, sir. I’ve put the wounded in the P.O.’s mess and prisoners under guard.’

  ‘Fine.’ Dalziel moved to his chair, humming to himself.

  Pigott appeared on the opposite ladder, his face unshaven and crumpled with fatigue. He saw Standish and grinned with obvious pleasure.

  Then he said, ‘Sir I do feel that the cook is being a bit hasty about the rations.’

  Dalziel eyed him calmly, ‘I gave the order for extra food today, Pigott. God, man, a good breakfast is just what we all need. If tinned pheasant is all you have, then give ’em that too, eh?’

  Pigott said stubbornly, ‘It’s all very well, sir, but my calculations do not allow for …’

  They all turned to stare at Standish who had burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

  Pigott removed his glasses and polished them vigorously against his shirt.

  ‘You can laugh, Number One. But a supply officer has to consider everything.’ He moved towards the ladder muttering, ‘No help from anybody, that’s the trouble. Always the same!’

  Dalziel slid from his chair and guided Standish to the chartroom. It was cool and dark after the open bridge.

  ‘All right?’ His eyes were concerned. ‘Would you like to go below?’

  Standish removed his cap and wiped his forehead with his fingers. The skin felt clammy and unreal, like his own voice and the laugh which he had been unable to control. It was strange that Dalziel was the only one to realize how close he had been to breaking dowm completely.

  Dalziel continued, ‘Poor old Pigott. Good chap at heart, but does go on a bit.’ He watched as Standish leaned against the chart table. ‘You did well. If your plan hadn’t worked you would have been in real trouble.’ He grimaced. ‘A right potmess, eh?’

  ‘What now, sir?’ Maybe the rum had done it. There was a roaring in his ears, like the moment when the grenade had exploded. He pushed his mind back on course, away from the grotesque remains splashed across the deckhead, from the mutilated corpse in the cabin. ‘Or don’t we know yet?’

  Dalziel squared his shoulders and stared reflectively at the open scuttle.

  ‘I have informed the squadron of our movements. Just the main details of course. We will give them a fuller account when we dock.’

  ‘Dock?’

  ‘Didn’t I say?’ Dalziel sounded very casual. ‘Received a signal to proceed forthwith to Singapore.’ The grin appeared, spreading from sideburn to sideburn as it if had been lurking there all the time. ‘I don’t think we shall have any more rude comments about our place in affairs, eh? Our worth has been proved for everyone to see.’

  Standish dropped his gaze. Proved. Proved by four British sailors and God knows how many others. And that girl who had no tears left.

  ‘A few days in dock’ll put the ship to rights.’ Dalziel seemed far away. ‘Not much damage, not to us that is.’ He walked back and forth across the chartroom. ‘Plot foiled, ship rescued, and a good handful of prisoners as visible evidence. Bloody good show.’

  Irvine looked into the doorway. ‘Ready to proceed, sir.’

  ‘Good. Bring her round on the new course and signal Cornwallis to take station astern.’ He glanced at Standish. ‘Her owners have apparently agreed to let her come with us.’ He frowned. ‘Bless my soul, they’re lucky to have a ship left if they go on like this.’

  Irvine watched them impassively. ‘And the radar’s broken down again, sir.’

  Dalziel glared at him, and then very slowly allowed the grin to return.

  ‘Well, we can’t have everything, can we, Pilot?’

  When Irvine had left Dalziel added warmly, ‘Do you know, Number One, I feel we are on the threshold of something big this time. Really big.’

  Standish looked down at his legs. There were patches of dried blood on his tro
users. Like the rust streaks on the freighter’s hull. He swallowed hard, feeling the nausea returning. Fighting it.

  He said, ‘We were lucky.’

  ‘There was some luck, certainly.’ Dalziel cocked his head as the telegraphs jangled in the wheelhouse and the deck began to tremble again. ‘But I prefer to rely on judgment.’ He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘Judgment, and something else which you don’t find by sitting on your arse ashore, eh?’

  He walked to the door. ‘You use my sea cabin. Have a wash and a lie down. After that and the biggest breakfast this ship has ever witnessed, you’ll feel all about again, right?’

  Standish nodded wearily. ‘Right.’ The door was tightly closed and he realized he must have been staring at it for several seconds after Dalziel had gone. He realized too that Dalziel had been freshly shaved and was wearing a clean shirt.

  While they had been rounding up the last of the Chinese attackers who had fled from the boiler room to escape the released stokers, and while the dead had been sorted into neat lines below the bridge, Dalziel had been acting in the only way he knew.

  Standish looked at his hands and steadied them against the table. Surely no man could be as confident, as remote from personal feelings as that?

  He sat down heavily on the top of a chart locker and leaned his back against the bulkhead. Through it he could feel the gentle, insistent tremors of the engines, as if, like Dalziel, the old ship was trying to revive him, to restore him to their world.

  When Dalziel returned to the chartroom ten minutes later he found Standish fast asleep, sprawled across the locker like a corpse.

  He smiled slightly and stepped back through the door.

  * * *

  The return to Singapore took the best part of four days. For apart from the necessity to maintain a painfully slow speed in order to remain in company with the Cornwallis, there were other, more unexpected delays.

  During the first day the Cornwallis had hove to, and while the Terrapin idled nearby on a gentle swell flags were lowered to half-mast and the officers and crew members who had been killed in the fighting took their last passage over the side into thirty fathoms of water.

  Dalziel had watched stern-faced from his own bridge while the pathetic little bundles had been slipped clear of the freighter’s rusty hull, and had remarked bitterly, ‘Pity we can’t do the honours for our own people. Damn pity.’

  The last bundle to fall had been the master’s wife. Standish had known this for he had seen the elderly captain in his glasses as he had thrown a crude wreath after her, his face like stone in the powerful lenses.

  Standish had also known the reason for Dalziel’s annoyance at being denied his own sea burials. A curt signal had ordered him to expect the arrival of two Malaysian patrol boats. The four dead ratings would be transferred ashore and be flown by helicopter to Singapore in company with the two wounded ones.

  And in due course the two boats had made contact, and after more frustrating delays while one of them had struggled to get alongside the business of transferring the dead had begun.

  Both the patrol boats were loaded with military police. In fact, there were more of them than sailors. One, a dapper little major with a black moustache had produced a warrant and informed Dalziel in impeccable English that the Chinese prisoners were also to be transferred to his custody forthwith.

  As the two boats had headed back towards the land Dalziel had said irritably, ‘Bloody lot of red tape! It’s suppose to be a Malaysian matter. Not considered prudent to allow us to take take the prisoners to Singapore. Damn load of rubbish, I call it. But for us they’d have had those jokers ashore right now blowing up their bloody police stations, I shouldn’t wonder!’

  And so, but for the battered plates along the forecastle and the loss of both boats, the Terrapin had little to show for her venture. Except for the women, who had remained throughout the voyage in the wardroom and in Dalziel’s own quarters.

  It was strange how unwilling they seemed to show themselves on deck. It was as if they were ashamed of their ordeal rather than grateful to be alive.

  But the strangest thing of all as far as the ship’s company was concerned was the total absence of news on the radio about their rescue of the Cornwallis from her attackers. Perhaps the powers, both civil and military, were awaiting Dalziel’s personal account before they gave their verdict to the outside world.

  Personally, Standish did not care much either way. There was plenty for him to do, for following the collision with the Cornwallis there seemed to be more defects and mechanical failures than ever, which under the circumstances was hardly surprising. For the whole four days he hardly left the upper deck except to sleep, and even that was little enough.

  He knew inwardly that he was trying to work himself to a standstill, to drive himself so hard he would forget all which had happened, and above all his own part in it. If Dalziel noticed what he was doing to himself he said nothing about it. He on the other hand seemed to become more affable and excited the nearer they got to Singapore, and once when he had seen some seamen splashing new paint on the forecastle he had shouted, ‘Leave it as it is! Let everyone see what it cost us!’

  Standish wished he could join in this strange air of unreal gaiety which seemed to cover the whole ship. He guessed that the obvious pride and pleasure in their achievement was more from relief than any earlier enthusiasm. As Corbin had remarked sadly, ‘Well, sir, I expect the old girl’ll be paid off now. At least she’s going out with a bang.’

  On the morning of the last day at sea, as the Terrapin steadied on a westerly course through the Singapore Strait, Dalziel came to the upper bridge, and after his usual cursory inspection of chart and compass, settled himself in his chair.

  He said, ‘I’ve received our docking orders, Number One.’ He looked up to watch the gulls as they twisted lazily above the motionless radar. ‘But we have to pick up a buoy first. I’ve told Pilot to lay it on.’ Then he glanced directly at Standish. ‘I want a smart entrance. Get our people properly dressed and fallen in well before time.’ He nodded as if to emphasize the importance of it. ‘We’ll show ’em, eh?’

  Standish lifted his glasses and watched a small fishing boat until it was well clear of the ship’s bows. ‘What about the passengers, sir?’

  ‘All taken care of.’ Dalziel was still watching him, his eyes shadowed by the oak-leaved peak of his cap. ‘The P.M.O. is arranging a launch and accommodation ashore. Seems to be running smoothly for once.’

  Standish replied, ‘I hope so.’

  Dalziel leaned back and thrust his hands into his pockets, his eyes dreamy. ‘I expect there’ll be quite a few visits to do. Press, interviews and so forth. The U.S.S. Sibuyan is already in harbour here, and I’ll have to see the admiral right away. You too of course. Just as well you were the boarding officer.’ He grinned widely. ‘I could have sent young Pigott, and just think what he might say to the admiral. Probably go rabbiting on about his precious stores, eh?’

  A signalman called, ‘Minesweeper on the starboard bow, sir.’

  It was a small coastal minesweeper, one of the hard-used maids of all work which did just about every local duty, except minesweeping.

  The signalman raised his glasses as a light started to stammer from the small ship’s bridge.

  ‘Rokesmore to Terrapin.’ The signalman’s lips moved in time with the lamp. ‘What hit you this time?’

  Dalziel stood up and stared across at the other ship which was already steaming past on an opposite course.

  ‘What’s the matter with the idiot?’ He was still grinning, but as he turned Standish could see the sudden anxiety in his eyes.

  Irvine, who had just climbed on to the bridge to take over the watch said flatly, ‘They haven’t heard. They don’t know a damn thing about it!’

  Burch snatched the lamp from his young signalman and rasped, ‘Permission to reply, sir?’

  He looked hurt, Standish thought. He could imagine the sort of retort Burc
h would send. Short and probably obscene.

  Dalziel said, ‘Tell them to read their newspapers.’ He returned to his chair and lapsed into silence.

  Irvine looked at Standish and shrugged. ‘What d’you make of that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Standish walked to the rear of the bridge as the forenoon watchkeepers clattered up both ladders to take their stations.

  Irvine rubbed his chin and added thoughtfully, ‘When I was at school we had a lower master.’ As Standish said nothing he continued, ‘We always knew when there was going to be trouble, or if someone was going to get a flogging, this chap never said a word. Not a single bloody word.’

  Dalziel called sharply, ‘Get your breakfast, Number One. I’ll want you with me as soon as we reach Changi Point, right?’

  Standish left the bridge and went straight to his cabin. Leading Steward Wills passed his door and then came back to peer at him.

  ‘Breakfast, sir?’

  ‘Bring it down to me.’ Standish pulled off his stained shirt and threw it on the bunk. ‘Just coffee will do.’

  Wills chuckled. ‘Not much else anyway. Be glad to draw some more grub when we berth, I can tell you. I’ll fetch it down right away, sir.’ He seemed to sense Standish’s tenseness and added, ‘I’ve just got to see to the last of the passengers.’

  Standish stared at himself in the mirror and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. Poor Wills, he had been a nurse and mother to the women since they had come aboard, but he seemed to have thrived on it.

  There was a step in the passageway and he saw the same severe woman in the dressing gown he had found in the freighter’s cabin. She was still wearing it, and carried a towel across one arm, like a schoolmistress in a second class hotel. She paused by the open door and looked at him.