The Greatest Enemy

by Douglas Reeman

  Burch came on to the bridge, a big ensign rolled up under his arm. To one of his signal ratings he said gruffly, ‘Not be needing this good one again for a while. Not till she ’ands in ’er notice.’

  No one answered.

  Standish stepped down from the gratings and a bosun’s mate said, ‘’Ere, sir. You dropped something.’

  ‘Thanks, Spinks.’ Standish took it and held it in the palm of his hand. It was a small handkerchief. She must have dropped it when she had broken down on the veranda. He stared at it for a long moment, hearing her voice, feeling her touch.

  It was something. He folded it carefully and put it inside his wallet.

  Irvine was watching him from beside the chartroom door, his eyes opaque as Standish returned to the fore gratings.

  Dalziel said, ‘Not sorry to get out of that place. Can’t abide inefficiency.’ But he seemed to lack his usual bounce, as if his mind was elsewhere.

  Standish raised his glasses again and looked at the town. But it was already gone, curtained off by the mist and shielded in the growing glare on the water.

  Three months. But now, when the ship paid off it would not be the end for him after all. He touched the wallet in his pocket and smiled. Life had only just begun.

  16 A Full Cargo

  IT HAD BEEN another hot day, and now that the sun had moved nearer to the western horizon the sea appeared to be steaming.

  Standish stood loosely on the port gratings and trained his glasses abeam, watching the sharp wake left by the Whizz-Kid’s twin motors as she cruised amongst the scattered fishing boats.

  Beneath him the ship heaved and rocked unsteadily, her engines stopped, her hull and upper works glowing tawny gold from the dying sunlight. The fishing boats were spread over a wide area, the nearest ones less than a cable away from the ship’s bows, but because of the low, clinging haze they seemed to lack body and outline, their motionless ribbed sails giving them a kind of tattered dignity. They reminded Standish of an old water-colour which had hung in his mother’s bedroom. Of brown autumn leaves drifting on a brook.

  The yeoman said wearily, ‘Nothin’ there, sir.’

  Standish did not bother to reply. It had been three weeks exactly since they had left the anchorage. In that time they had not set eyes on land, nor had they seen any vessel larger than fishing craft like these. Day after day, hour by hour, the Terrapin had pounded back and forth on her patrol. One hundred and twenty miles north to south and the same east to west. A giant, glittering box with little to break its monotonous sameness.

  The area was not even on the main cargo routes, and smaller vessels were careful to stay close to the shore now that the likelihood of sudden storms and squalls was more evident. Only the fishing communities of the countries which bordered the Gulf had no choice. They followed their trade regardless of weather or risk, relying on their carefully hoarded knowledge rather than on the stability of their flimsy boats.

  The log was full of such sightings as this one, and like all the rest Dalziel had carried out his orders to the letter. At first there had been some of the old excitement each time the Whizz-Kid had skudded rakishly between the boats, and Standish had told Wishart to change the boarding parties after each contact to help break the lethargy.

  He watched the Whizz-Kid shoving clear of a fishing boat and steer towards another one. He could see Wishart, naked but for a pair of khaki shorts and cap, sitting on the boat’s gunwale, a revolver at his hip, and could imagine his weariness with the whole affair. It was a thankless task for him. Climbing between stinking and overcrowded decks in search of something to warrant his intrusion, which the fishermen resented almost as much as the seamen detested being there.

  There was not even any of the usual anticipation at paying off. The ship seemed to be covered by a curtain of resentment. Resentment at this fruitless patrol which they saw as some sort of slur. At Dalziel, whom many now accepted as the main cause of their discomfort. And at each other.

  In the wardroom it was much the same, with a regular round of routine and little more. For Standish it meant something else. As he carried out his duties on the bridge or upper deck, or consumed the unvaried meals with his companions, he kept his mind busy with his new-found hope. He was even able to accept Dalziel’s brooding detachment as one day followed another with nothing to show for it.

  He heard a step on the gratings and heard Dalziel ask, ‘How is he getting on?’

  Dalziel had been in the chartroom for most of the watch and his reappearance was both noiseless and unexpected. Even he seemed to have lost interest in the sighting reports after the first signal from Wishart that all was well. He spent more of his time with the charts than anything else. Making alterations to the next course, or changing the search area at a moment’s notice, much to Irvine’s obvious irritation, as he was never consulted.

  Standish looked at him now and wondered if he had thought beyond the end of the ship’s commission.

  He said, ‘Nothing, sir.’

  Dalziel’s lips came together in a tight line. ‘Nothing yet, surely?’

  Pigott appeared on the bridge with a sheaf of papers. He coughed and then said, ‘The stores report that you asked for, sir.’

  Dalziel took them and flipped over the neatly tabulated lists.

  Standish watched him narrowly. The food was certainly poor. Lack of fresh vegetables or meat had meant Pigott’s department dipping further into the tinned stores, just as Quarrie’s fuel tanks were already low even at the economical cruising speed of ten knots. It was just as if the ship was intended to be run down to the final pint of oil, the last pot of jam when she was handed to the dockyard.

  Dalziel snapped, ‘There’s a mistake here!’ He held out the bundle of papers. ‘Quite wrong, Pigott. Even I can see you’ve made a bad miscalculation. Poor show, no wonder we’re living like paupers!’

  Pigott stepped forward, his face stubborn. ‘But, sir, you’ve turned over two pages there, not one.’

  Dalziel peered down and then ripped a paperclip from the corner of the top sheet before hurling it across the bridge.

  ‘Don’t you know you should never use paperclips?’ He glared at Pigott angrily. ‘I once knew a signals officer who used them just as you do. Two signals were clipped together and the lower one was overlooked. Result, a bloody cock-up of a shambles, which if it happened in wartime might have cost time and lives.’ Pigott was looking at him blankly, his glasses slipping down his nose. He said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Dalziel walked to the gratings and back again, his hands in his pockets as he added vehemently, ‘Remember the horseshoe nail, eh? Well, a paperclip could be the same, so be more damned attentive to your responsibilities in future.’

  Pigott swallowed hard. ‘Is that all, sir?’

  Dalziel nodded. ‘Carry on.’ To Standish he added irritably, ‘If the Pigotts of this planet thought more of the small details we might be able to cope with the more important ones.’ He stiffened and shot out his arm. ‘What’s Wishart doing?’

  Standish raised his glasses and saw the blue painted launch tied alongside one of the fishermen. Wishart had probably intended it to be invisible from Terrapin’s bridge, but the fishing boat had swung slightly on the swell so that the little tableau was only too clear. Either out of the goodness of his heart, or in an effort to stifle the resentment of his men, Wishart had allowed them to take a break from their search operations. It did not need binoculars to see the naked seamen splashing in the water while Wishart and the boat’s coxswain stood alone by the gunwale, obviously enjoying the spectacle.

  Dalziel shouted, ‘Of all the bloody idiots!’ He swung on Burch. ‘Recall the boat at once. I’ve had my fill of insubordination around here.’ He glared at Standish. ‘In future just try and keep my officers in order, eh?’

  Standish nodded and turned to watch the startled reaction from Wishart and his men as the light began to flash towards them.

  Quarrie had appeared on the bridge and said quietly, ‘He
ll, I could do with a paddle myself.’

  Dalziel said from the opposite side, ‘I will be in the chartroom. When Wishart gets the boat inboard let me know.’ The door slammed.

  Quarrie shrugged. ‘You can feel sorry for him.’

  Standish glanced at him with surprise. After Quarrie’s fury during the storm, his obvious anxiety over the shaft, his remark was all the more unexpected.

  Quarrie added, ‘She’s a good old ship. I’m finished with the Service after this. I’ll miss her like hell.’

  He said it so forcefully that Standish asked, ‘You’ve known her a long while, Chief?’

  Quarrie’s face was suddenly tired and older than his years. ‘I joined her as a rookie stoker when I was a lad of seventeen.’ He grimaced. ‘Can you imagine it? Seventeen and my first ship, and slap bang into the Western Approaches.’ He shook his head. ‘They call it the Battle of the Atlantic in the history books. But it weren’t no battle, except to survive. It was sheer bloody murder.’

  Quarrie smiled wryly as the Whizz-Kid started to turn towards the ship.

  ‘These youngsters today don’t know the half of it. Even now, when I’m down aft with my lads it keeps coming back. The storms, the explosions, and all the terrible dread of being scalded alive when that torpedo eventually found you. But it never did, and this ship taught me something. Not how to be without fear, but how to hide it, to control it before it shows on your face.’ He looked along the screen. ‘So in the end, I came back to her, just as I promised I would if I ever got the chance.’ He grinned sadly. ‘Never thought it’d be as Chief though.

  Standish asked, ‘Do you have a family?’

  He shook his head. ‘Wife was killed by a car.’ He glanced at Standish. ‘Like yours.’ He paused. ‘Except …’

  ‘Except that she was knocked down, eh?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. Still, I’ll just have to think about it. Plan some little job where I can keep my hand in.’ He sighed. ‘I’d not want to be too far from the sea.’

  ‘Boat’s alongside, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ Standish looked at his watch. ‘Pipe the hands to the tackles and have it hoisted inboard.’ He turned back to Quarrie. ‘I imagine you’ll soon get fixed up, Chief.’

  Quarrie was watching the drifting boats, his eyes distant. ‘Could do some fishing.’ He chuckled. ‘Like those poor bastards. What a helluva way to live.’

  Standish heard Wishart calling his men by name.

  Then Quarrie said, ‘That’s the only boat in the whole damn lot which has had a catch.’

  Standish stared at him. ‘Come again?’

  ‘When I was a boy before I joined I used to live outside Grimsby. My dad took me to watch the trawlers coming home every so often. He was able to estimate the catch almost before they got to the pier.’ He pointed at the fishing boat in question. ‘Look at her. A full two planks lower than the rest of them.’

  Wishart appeared at the top of the ladder, his face flushed and apprehensive. ‘You sent for me, Number One?’

  ‘The captain wants to see you, Sub.’ Standish looked past him at Quarrie.

  ‘The Chief just told me something.’ He pointed to the boat’s hazy outline. ‘Did you search her?’

  Wishart nodded. ‘Yes. I was just going to do the last one when I got the recall. The lads had earned a dip. I’ll take the responsibility.’

  Quarrie grinned. ‘You certainly will, my young hero!’

  But Standish did not smile. ‘What did you find in her?’

  Wishart looked at him uncertainly. ‘Nothing much. The usual stores, and two baskets of fish or thereabouts.’

  ‘Get down to your lads and stop them hoisting the boat, Sub.’ As Wishart hurried away he looked at Quarrie and said quietly, ‘I may be sticking my neck out, Chief, but I think I’ll risk it.’

  At that moment Dalziel appeared in the chartroom door. Without his sun glasses his eyes looked tired and red-rimmed.

  He asked, ‘What’s the delay now?’

  Standish said, ‘There’s a fishing boat on the port bow, sir. It’s been searched, but …’

  Dalziel was already on the gratings, his glasses trained on the boats.

  ‘But? But what?’

  Standish pointed over the screen. ‘She’s lower in the water than all the others. It would take quite a weight to do that, but her catch of fish is negligible.’

  He watched Dalziel’s profile, the nervous tick in his throat as he muttered, ‘That’s strange.’

  Quarrie said, ‘During the war, after we lost Singapore and Hong Kong, some of the Chinese used to smuggle supplies and food to our people who were left behind.’ He added slowly, ‘They converted some of their junks and fishing craft for the purpose.’

  Dalziel lowered the glasses and looked at Standish. His eyes were suddenly very clear, like a man coming out of a fever.

  ‘False bottoms! God, I must be mad not to have thought of it!’

  Standish asked, ‘Shall I go across?’

  Dalziel raised his glasses again. ‘Yes. Watch out for traps and surprises. Once aboard I’ll have the guns trained on you. Just to be sure, eh?’ He showed his teeth, ‘Jesus, Chief, you are a man of surprises!’

  He made as if to control his sudden elation. ‘Of course, it might be nothing.’ But he failed. ‘On the other hand …’ He broke off as the Whizz-Kid landed in the water and the armed seamen began to clamber down the ship’s side.

  Then he ran to the chartroom and came out seconds later carrying his sporting rifle. He saw Standish’s expression and grinned broadly.

  ‘If I see anyone molesting my executive officer I shall have no hesitation in making one large hole in his skull, right?’ He gestured with the muzzle. ‘Off you go then, and keep an eye on the light. It will be sunset in thirty minutes.’

  As he ran for the ladder Standish saw Dalziel fitting a telescopic sight to his rifle, his face entirely engrossed in the task.

  Quarrie was following him and added, ‘Should have kept my damn fool mouth shut!’ He slapped Standish’s shoulder. ‘But you see if I’m not right. My old dad knew a thing or two!’

  Standish leapt down amongst the crouching seamen and shouted, ‘Cast off! Start up the motors!’

  Wishart was beside him, his face a picture of confusion. ‘What are we doing?’

  Standish stood up in the vibrating hull as the motors sent it hurtling across the placid water.

  ‘About twenty knots, I should think!’ He looked down and added, ‘For God’s sake, that was supposed to be funny!’

  Wishart was still staring at him as if he had gone mad when they rounded the fishing boat’s gaunt transom and glided noisily alongside.

  There seemed to be about a dozen poorly clad fishermen in the crew, and as Standish hoisted himself over the bulwark they fell back towards a battered looking wheelhouse where another, dressed in a stained smock coat, was leaning negligently against the door.

  Wishart said, ‘He’s the skipper. I’ve already spoken to him.’ He stood aside as the armed seamen climbed up beside him. ‘He’s no English, but speaks French quite well.’

  Standish glanced around the untidy deck space. It was a heavy boat for its size, with two masts and one large hatch in the centre of the hull. Judging from the oily stains around the transom he guessed she also contained a fairly powerful engine.

  He said, ‘Tell him we’re going to search his boat again. His men will stay here on deck during the inspection.’ He darted a glance at the seamen by the bulwark and added calmly, ‘Unsling your weapons, but make it nice and easy.’ He was smiling as he said it, and saw the sudden change in their expressions as his warning went home.

  As Wishart strode to the wheelhouse Standish beckoned to a tall able seamen. ‘You come with me, Maine. I may need a bit of weight.’

  Below it was almost pitch dark in spite of one thick glass scuttle in the deckhead, and as they stumbled over crates and loose tackle Standish was very conscious of the appalling stink, and could forgive Wishar
t’s haste with his earlier inspection. There was less than five feet between decks, and he heard the seaman Maine cursing softly as his head collided with a cross beam.

  Standish called, ‘Bring your torch over here.’ For a moment he thought he was mistaken, a trick of the light, but as the bright beam cut through the gloom he saw a darker patch of dirt to one side of a great pile of old rope and fishing floats.

  He said, ‘We’ll have to shift that lot.’

  Maine spat on his hands and balanced the torch on an up-turned bucket. Between his teeth he replied, ‘If you say so, sir. But Christ Almighty, the stench is fair turnin’ me up.’

  Breathing as little as possible they worked in silence. Then as Maine hauled the last rotting bundle of cordage and fish fragments aside Standish knelt down and ran his fingers along the planking. There was a complete section, some ten feet by five, which was now recognizable as a well-disguised hatch covering. But even the carefully applied stains and trodden-in dirt could not hide the two parallel joins once the piles of rubbish had been removed.

  He said quietly, ‘Use your knife.’

  The seamen opened the marlin spike on his knife and very carefully inserted it into the nearest crack. As he pressed down he muttered, ‘We’ll look bloody silly if this is goin’ right through the bottom, sir!’

  The crack widened very slightly and both men dug in their fingers and heaved with all their strength. Once it started moving it was surprisingly easy. Surprising too, there was a wire loop on the deckhead to hold the planked cover clear of the opening, which Standish had not noticed before.

  He looked down at the black rectangle and beckoned for the torch. The air from the deep hiding place was very cool, even icy, and there was a different smell now which was very familiar.

  Maine said, ‘Hell, look at that lot!’

  The torch beam moved slowly across the shining black shapes, and Standish had to lie flat in order to see where the cargo ended. There must be over fifty drums of oil, he thought grimly. Each drum containing fifty gallons of brand new diesel. The drums were very neatly stowed, and no amount of rocking would shake them, or betray their presence with a sudden grate of metal.