‘Yessir. Call from the bridge. The chartroom lights have blown and the captain’s yellin’ blue murder.’ Wills grinned. ‘Bit rough up top, sir.’ He watched Hornby reel wretchedly through the door. Bloody officers, he thought. Always in trouble of one sort or another.
* * *
Dalziel prowled restlessly from one side of the wheelhouse to the other as under reduced speed the Terrapin crept slowly beneath the blurred outline of the nearest headland. The atmosphere in the sealed wheelhouse was like a Turkish bath, with the sides running in condensation, the air damp and heavy, and made worse by the press of figures and wet clothing.
Standish raised his glasses and held them against a clearview screen to look at the headland. How different from the other visit, he thought. Now it was just a dull hump which changed size and shape in each fast moving eddy of rain. But the rain seemed less heavy, and almost before they had reached the first outflung spur of land the motion had been reduced to a steep offshore swell.
Dalziel muttered, ‘Better tell Wishart to prepare a second anchor in case it gets any worse. These storms usually dissipate themselves once they reach land, but you can never be certain.’ He turned his head. ‘Port ten.’ Then he crossed to the other side again. ‘Midships. Steady.’
Corbin was on the wheel, his heavy face glowing in the lighted compass repeater. On either side of him the telegraphs-men and bosun’s mates stood like statues, their eyes shining faintly in the reflected glare from the scuttles. Through an open door at the rear came the almost continuous murmur of morse and static, accompanied by a monotonous bleep from the echo sounder, as like a blind man with a stick the ship felt her way towards the deepest part of the inlet.
Standish could see the anchor party already on the forecastle, their oilskins shining in the grey light, their bodies hunched against the pounding rain. The rest of the inlet was hidden in the downpour, the water seething under the onslaught as if boiling from some submarine furnace.
‘Down two turns.’ Dalziel wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Keep her steady now, Cox’n.’
The revolution counter tinkled noisily, and Standish imagined Quarrie on his footplate, watching the dials, feeling the power all around his private domain.
Further and further along the wedge of headland and the vague slope of the first hill beyond, with Dalziel passing his orders and the acknowledgments coming back regularly to mark every part of the final approach.
Dalziel said, ‘From the sound of the signals it seems as if every damn ship has run for shelter. God help the native craft caught out at times like these.’
Irvine said, ‘Half a cable, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Dalziel looked at Standish. ‘Go down and see Wishart, will you. He’s probably bothered by all this.’
Standish pulled on a dripping oilskin and groped through the door and down the ladder to the deck. As he squinted up against the rain he noticed that the bridge and funnel were shining like grey glass, while the dark clouds seemed to be skimming just a few inches above the masthead. The illusion added to the sensation of being enclosed, pressed down by the weight of the weather.
He found Wishart gripping the guardrail, his eyes slitted as he peered aft at the bridge. The men in his anchor party stood around like strangers, their faces sore and wet while they waited in miserable silence.
‘Not long now, Sub.’ He had to shout. ‘Get the second hook ready to drop in case we start dragging.’
Wishart nodded and turned as his leading seaman looked up at him, the telephone handset cradled beneath his oilskin.
‘Stand by, sir.’
The deck trembled as the engines churned briefly astern.
‘Let go!’
Standish watched the cable jerking and banging through the hawsepipe, the chipped paint and rust clinging to ship and men as if from a spray.
The leading seaman looked at his telephone and wrinkled his nose.
Wishart saw him, in spite of watching the outgoing cable. ‘What’s wrong, Neal?’
The man grinned. ‘Thought the wire was burnin’, sir. But it’s all right.’ He sniffed again and added uncertainly, ‘But I’m sure I smelt somethin’.’
Half hidden by the rain the nearest land appeared to swing slightly towards them, as with her screws halted the ship took her first pull on the cable.
Wishart hung over the stemhead and peered down at the heavy links and the small tiderace of water which surged around them.
‘Inform the bridge, Neal.’ Then he stiffened and shouted, ‘My God, I saw flames!’
Standish looked across his pointing arm and watched in silence as a freak gap in the rain laid bare part of the inlet for just a few moments. At the far end he could see great shooting tongues of flame, falling and rising in spite of the rain, while all around them the land seemed to be steaming like a cauldron, so that the inland hills were completely hidden.
He snapped, ‘Stay here and keep watch, Sub. I’m going to the bridge.’
When he reached the ladder he saw Dalziel already climbing back to the upper bridge, his shirt and legs soaked through, his glasses banging against the ladder as he hauled himself to the top.
As Standish arrived on the gratings he said, ‘Saw it too, did you? The whole of that bloody village must be ablaze.’ He lowered his glasses and added, ‘The rain’s blotted it out again.’ He stood looking at the deserted bridge and then said, ‘There don’t seem to be any of Jerram’s M.L.’s here, or any other damn ship for that matter.’
Standish waited. He could see the emotions crossing Dalziel’s face like the pages in a book. He just needed to get his appraisal sorted out and things would start happening.
Dalziel nodded. ‘Chance to test the new boat. Have the buffer sway her out now. Take an armed party and the doctor with you and find out just what in hell’s name is going on.’ He walked ahead of Standish to the chartroom, his shoes squeaking on the wet plates. ‘Pity we haven’t had time to fit up the machine gun, still, it can’t be helped.’
They found Irvine shaking drips from a chart, and Dalziel snapped, ‘Tell the W/T office to find out if any other vessels of the squadron are in the vicinity. No panic, just a routine check.’ He rubbed his chin impatiently as Standish telephoned his orders to the lowering party. Then he continued, ‘No fire would spread like that by accident. Not in this downpour.’ He looked at Standish and said slowly, ‘Trouble. That’s what it means.’
Petty Officer Motts waited beside the break in the guardrail as Standish hurried down the side deck towards him. The sight of him brought back several stark pictures all at once. The towering side of the freighter’s hull, the patches of rust, and the outflung leg of a dead seaman. And the girl. She was always there to remind him.
He said, ‘Boat in the water?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Motts handed him a pistol belt. ‘The engine room have provided a good mechanic to keep an eye on those flamin’ outboards. Don’t fancy swimmin’ back to the ship in this lot.’
Standish looked down at the pitching hull alongside. He had almost forgotten about it, and now seeing the bright paintwork and daintily varnished thwarts he was conscious of the grim unreality of the whole situation.
He said, ‘Better than the other motor boat, Motts.’ He jerked his thumb to the tired looking hull hanging dejectedly in its davits. ‘With that you’d probably have to swim both ways.’
He swung his leg over the side, his mind fighting the clogging battering of rain across his head and shoulders.
In the boat his small party were waiting for him. There were no smiles this time, no jokes either. They gripped their Stirlings and peered towards the land, their faces set and grim.
He called, ‘Be ready, lads. No shooting unless I pass the word. It may be nothing at all …’ He swung round as Rideout fell down beside him, his medical satchel dangling from one shoulder.
‘And about time!’ He thrust the doctor into the crowded cockpit. ‘Start up!’ He saw the mechanic was Petty Officer Barrett,
one of Quarrie’s most valued and experienced men. The realisation that Quarrie cared that much steaded him and he said, ‘We’ll see what this fancy Whizz-Kid can do!’
Even the mechanic was surprised at the startling speed with which they thrust away from the frigate’s side. There was more vibration than noise, and several of the seamen almost fell into the bottom of the boat as the bows lifted steeply to the twin motors.
Rideout shouted, ‘What do you expect to find?’
Standish straddled his legs and tried to see beyond the rain. ‘Not the Planters’ Bar, that’s for sure, Doc!’
Rideout clutched his satchel against his chest and gasped. ‘God, I wish I felt as calm as you look.’
Standish grinned down at him, tasting the salt and rain in his teeth. You don’t know the half of it, my friend. Aloud he shouted, ‘Well, you must admit it’s better than a V.D. clinic!’
Motts, who was crouching in the bows like a shining gargoyle, turned his head and yelled, ‘Hard astarboard! Quick, for Christ’s sake!’
Barrett threw his weight on the tiller and the hull slewed round with the violent ease of a skimming dish.
As the spray lifted and dashed against the crouching men Standish saw what looked like a tall beacon swaying down the port side, a great arrowhead of shining, blackened wood. Barrett yelled hoarsely, ‘It’s the forepart of a boat, sir!’
Standish nodded. ‘Go round it again, slower this time.’
As they circled the swaying shape once more Standish had no doubt where he had seen it before. There was even half of a number still showing on the scorched and charred planking.
Rideout seized his arm, his face white as he watched the drifting wreck. ‘What is it?’
Standish gestured to the mechanic to continue towards the shore before replying.
‘One of Captain Jerram’s patrol boats, or part of it.’
He saw the young signalman who had been detailed for the landing party staring up at him. The walkie-talkie on his back beneath his oilskin made him grotesque and bowed, but he tried to smile as Standish said, ‘Call up the ship, Bunts. Tell them what we’ve just seen.’
The boy hesitated and Standish added, ‘In your own words. You might be making a bit of history today, so don’t stammer, eh?’
Motts looked at him above the signalman’s back and nodded. ‘Get ’is name in the Sunday papers!’
As they pounded nearer to the village they could see the darting flames more clearly and almost without a break. Fanned by the wind and occasionally controlled by rain they leapt and reeled in several directions at once. There was a stench of burned wood and smoke, and mingled with the downpour’s noise they could hear the hissing roar of the fire itself.
The signalman looked up suddenly. ‘Message, sir. The captain is lowering the whaler and sending some more hands to help.’
Standish unbuttoned the top of his pistol holster and touched the metal inside. It felt warm. As if it had already been fired.
‘It’ll be some time before they can pull a boat across here.’ He watched the paler outline of the jetty sweeping towards him through the rain. ‘So watch out and be ready to take cover.’
Then he clambered along the boat and stood beside Motts, his eyes on the jetty.
A seaman cursed. ‘Hell, there’s no bleedin’ boathook, sir!’
Motts swung on him. ‘Then use yer teeth!’
He sounded unusually edgy, Standish thought. But then, like himself, Motts was probably wondering what was waiting for them, or what they were all doing here anyway.
The boat lurched against the rough jetty and Standish jumped bodily on to a sagging beam of timber below the top edge.
Somewhere in the village a building must have collapsed, for as he pulled himself over the wet stonework he saw a great cloud of orange sparks being whirled up into the rain.
Beside him Motts said harshly, ‘Gawd, it’s like Belfast on a Saturday night!’
Then for the first time Standish heard firing, vague and indistinct above the other sounds, but there was no mistaking the sharp rattle of small arms.
He said, ‘Let’s get it over with.’ Then as the others stared up at him he got to his feet and began to walk along the deserted jetty.
12 At the Captain’s Discretion
AT THE END of the jetty Standish paused to get his bearings while the rest of his party took cover against the remaining wall of what had once been a storeshed. Most of the building had been burned to the ground, the charred beams shining in the dull light like great black teeth. Beyond the one stone wall the nearby huts were still steaming under the rain, and he guessed that this part of the village had been attacked first. Some had been so thoroughly burned that they were little more than dark rectangles of wet ashes spaced out along the roadway.
Motts said, ‘The fishin’ boats ’ave been gutted too, sir.’ He raised his Stirling sharply and peered towards the far end of the village where the flames still showed as strongly as before. ‘More shootin’. Who the blazes is doing it?’
Standish looked round at his men. Apart from Motts it seemed unlikely that any had had experience of land fighting. To take them blindly into an unknown place where they might at any minute be attacked by guerillas or bandits would be sheer murder. And yet the very sound of gunfire told him he must do something, and quickly.
He beckoned to the signalman. ‘Call up the ship again. Tell them we’re going to move along the waterfront. Explain that we have heard shooting.’ He saw the boy nod and then added quietly to Motts, ‘I imagine the villagers have hidden in the jungle.’
He waited until the signalman had finished his message and then walked slowly down the slope and on to the road, which by now was little better than a yellow bog. He found time to wonder why the Japs had not brought their fine inland road right down here to the jetty. Perhaps the war had ended too soon.
Motts hissed, ‘In that ’ut, sir! Look!’
But Standish had already seen it. A quick flash and nothing more. Like that moment on the Cornwallis’s bridge when he had seen someone calmly lighting a cigarette. He could feel the hair rising on his neck as he said, ‘Spread the lads down the other side of the road.’ He wanted to shout to make himself heard above the drumming rain. ‘I’ll take a closer look.’
Motts looked at him calmly, his face streaked with mud from the track. ‘I’ll do it, sir. I’ve ’ad some of this before, when I was in Korea.’ He grinned. ‘You can do the explainin’ if I gets me ’ead shot off.’ He did not wait for an argument but cocked his Stirling and walked almost casually towards the hut.
The roof had gone, and the door was hanging from its hinges, charred and pitted with holes. Another store hut, Standish thought. It had been a well planned raid right enough.
Outside the hut Motts stooped to pick up a large piece of stone which had fallen from the wall, and after a second’s hesitation lobbed it over the roof to fall into the burned-out shell on the opposite side. Even as Standish heard a gasp of surprise he saw Motts leap forward, smashing down the door with his boot while he hurled himself bodily through the opening, the Stirling level with his stomach.
But there was no firing, nor did Motts fall back into the mud.
After a moment he called, ‘It’s okay, sir.’
Standish pushed two seamen towards the opposite end of the hut. ‘Cover the road.’ Then he ran through the blackened doorway and saw Motts kneeling beside a massive figure who was propped against the opposite wall, his clothes filthy from wet ashes and mud, his eyes fixed on Motts as if he could no longer trust his senses.
He was fat and quite bald, and when he spoke Standish guessed him to be Australian.
‘Jesus! I nearly died just then, mates!’
Motts said, ‘’E’s been shot in the leg.’
‘Get the doctor.’ Standish knelt beside the big man and asked quietly, ‘We’re off a ship anchored below the headland. What happened here?’ He saw the strain and stubborn resistance starting to give way to shock an
d added, ‘Everything you know. There’s not much time.’
‘Happened this morning. I’m an engineer from the Salik mining village, ’bout twenty miles inland from here.’ He swallowed hard as Rideout entered the hut and began to open his bag. ‘We were expecting a storeship to come, so I brought a convoy of trucks good an’ early because of the bloody rain. You can get bogged down in seconds, mate, if you’re caught out in it.’ He gritted his teeth as Rideout started to slit open his torn trousers. He continued heavily, ‘The bastards ambushed us from behind. Blew the one good bridge, an’ when we high-tailed it for this village they were waiting for us in strength.’
Standish asked, ‘Didn’t you have any escorts?’
‘Sure. A troop of Malay police. But nobody was bothered. There’s an ambush every day out here. Anyway, we all knew there was a patrol boat anchored off the village. It was to keep an eye on the unloading when our supplies arrived.’
He gasped, and Rideout murmured, ‘Sorry, old chap, but it’s necessary.’
Standish saw the sweat pouring through the grime on the man’s face and added quickly, ‘And then?’
‘Then?’ He lay back against the wall and closed his eyes. ‘There was one bloody great bang. For a moment I thought the boat’s magazine had gone up, or maybe some joker had landed a mortar bomb on her. But I was in the army in the last lot. I’ve heard more mortars than most blokes have had hot dinners. It was sharper and louder, and the boat just blew apart.’ He sighed. ‘I dunno what happened much after that. My truck was on fire and so was the village. Two Malay troopers got me in here and they went off somewhere. I’ve just been sitting and waiting. Had my last cigarette, or was about to when that rock nearly smashed my brains in.’
Rideout said, ‘I’ve given him a shot to make him sleep. I can’t remove the bullet amongst all this filth.’
The Australian eyed him dully and grinned. ‘Gawd help you if you’d been in the infantry, mate!’
Standish stood up and looked at Motts. ‘Any suggestions?’
The petty officer kicked at the slush around his boots. ‘Well planned again, sir. But I think the ambush was an accident.’
The Greatest Enemy Page 21