Mackie, the medical assistant, climbed through the tangle of torn steel and paused long enough to touch Standish’s arm and give a brief shake of the head. Then he went on, calling out names as he ran.
Standish took the hand in his and held it gently, his heart aching as he watched the bandage moving around that one small slit. The two stretcher bearers stood like swaying statues while Standish lowered his ear to the bandage, one with a face like stone, the other sobbing helplessly as the tears cut bright passages down his smoke-stained cheeks.
‘I’m here, Sub.’ He felt the fingers move slightly. ‘Take it easy. You’ll be fine.’
The voice seemed to come from a great distance. Or like a man whispering in an empty room. ‘Sorry—about—the—guns.’ The hand twitched again. ‘Had—no—proper—training—you—see.’
Standish heard more cries from above, the shrill of a whistle and Motts yelling his name. He had to go. Had to move.
He said quietly, ‘You were bloody good.’
But there was no response, and when he released the hand it dropped against the stretcher and did not move again. Nor would it.
Mackie came back and stood watching him. Then he said, ‘All right, you two. Put him down and go for another one.’ As they tipped their burden on to the deck he said brokenly, ‘My God, I think I’ve had it. I don’t reckon I can take much more.’
Standish looked at him and replied, ‘I think you can.’ He took another glance at Wishart’s body. ‘Just a bit longer.’
Then he forced himself to walk back into the daylight, and when he looked up through the drifting smoke he saw that the cloud was breaking to allow a few rays of sunshine to reach them.
He had been away from the bridge for fifteen minutes, yet it seemed like an hour. When he reached it again he saw Dalziel was sitting on his chair, hunched forward to peer through the cracked screen, his cap once more in place and tilted across his eyes.
Standish said, ‘The pumps are holding, sir. It’s hard to tell how many holes we have in the hull, but we can still keep it under control.’ He realized with surprise that Pigott was also on the bridge, some binoculars around his neck as he stood grim faced beside the wheelhouse voicepipe. Irvine was rubbing his eyes with a filthy handkerchief and seemed unable to time his movements to those of the ship, so that he swayed back and forth like a drunken man.
Dalziel nodded. ‘I’ve been hearing the reports. We’ve lost nearly thirty dead and wounded.’ He shifted painfully to look at Standish. ‘And young Wishart. I’m sorry about him. You and he were friends, eh?’
Standish gripped the rail below the screen and tried to control his emotions.
‘Yes.’
Dalziel grimaced. ‘That bloody submarine has got to the inlet by now. Still, he’ll be back here again very shortly. It won’t be dark for another four hours.’ He met Standish’s eyes. ‘You know what that means, don’t you? The starboard shaft is overheating again, so we cannot even run away.’ He smiled bitterly. ‘Not that I would.’
Standish looked at the green, undulating water and the criss-cross of eddies around an isolated reef.
‘And he can’t reach the deep channel by any other route.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘So that’s it.’
Dalziel settled back in his chair. ‘Ironic really. To think after all those years she’s got to end her days fighting a submarine again.’ He frowned and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. ‘Poor old girl.’ He touched the stained steel with his fingers. ‘Poor, misunderstood old girl.’
Caley appeared at the top of the ladder. ‘My T.A.S. department is kaput, sir. All the circuits are done in.’ He looked at the bodies which had been covered with coats and torn flags. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do nothing with Hornby. I think he’s, well …’
Dalziel turned and looked at him. Then he grinned. ‘Split his stack, eh?’ He waited until the astonishment had given way to the shadow of a smile on Caley’s rough features and added, ‘Never mind. We have the Bofors, and we have a good company. Many have fought with less.’
As Caley clumped away he said sadly, ‘Can’t have him depressed. I expect he feels it badly, you know. His precious depth-charges out of action just when we might have been able to use them, although it was most unlikely.’ The grin was coming back again. ‘But perhaps he’s still brooding over his bloody daughter, eh? That’s almost worse in its way!’
Standish asked, ‘How is the wound, sir?’
‘If I said I felt fine you’d not believe it. So I’ll tell you. I feel like screaming hell. Nevertheless, I think I can rise to the occasion.’
A lookout yelled, ‘Submarine fine on the port bow, sir!’
It was more like an extension of the rocky outcrop which guarded the inlet, but as it lengthened and hardened Standish knew it was almost time. He thought of Suzane, and saw her very clearly, and wanted to take out his wallet just one more. As if by touching the handkerchief he would make some last contact.
He thought too of Wishart. As he recalled the hand in his he felt the slow return of the same madness which had almost overcome him before. It was unreal yet consuming, like Dalziel’s grin, or the way this clapped-out ship kept going in spite of the destruction and punishment she had taken.
He looked at Pigott. ‘Warn all guns to stand by.’ He saw the bespectacled supply officer run to the handset, brushing against Irvine, who merely stared at him, his face quite empty of reaction or understanding.
Dalziel groped for the red telephone and then said, ‘Chief? Captain speaking. Maximum revs when I ask for them, right?’
He paused and looked at the punctured deck by his feet. ‘I know you will. It won’t be long now, I’m afraid.’
Standish said, ‘I put Motts on the wheel. You need a level head for this sort of thing.’
Dalziel seemed to be speaking to himself, or perhaps the Terrapin. ‘Corbin dead, too. Lot of good men gone today. But by God, we gave ’em a run for it.’
The lookout reported, ‘She’s turning towards us, sir.’
Standish looked up at the sky and tried to think of a prayer. But nothing came. No thoughts and no more hopes.
He said vaguely, ‘Christ, I’m thirsty.’
Then the submarine fired another rocket. At a range of nearly two miles it seemed to take an eternity to reach its target.
It struck Terrapin halfway along the port side, some four feet above her waterline, the explosion blasting inwards and then up through the steel deck like a fireball. The ship gave one great convulsion, and as Standish fell headlong he saw the lattice mast start to topple. With the billowing smoke all around it seemed to move very slowly, but as the ship gave another shudder it gathered speed to pitch over the side, dragging with it a clattering tangle of rigging and radar gear.
Standish struggled upright and ran to the bridge wing. For a moment longer he could see nothing beyond the smoke, and as he coughed helplessly and dashed his hand across his streaming eyes he imagined the ship had broken her back. When the smoked swirled clear the sight revealed was not much better. There was a great crater which stretched across the side deck and down almost to the waterline, and when he leaned over the rail he could see the full extent of the destruction below. Tangled frames and plates buckled and twisted like cardboard, dangling wires, and somewhere through the smoke the menacing gleam of water.
He heard Dalziel yelling behind him, ‘Tell the Bofors to open fire!’
Standish dragged himself back across the tilting deck. ‘No use! Knocked out!’ His mind was still cringing from that last explosion, yet he was able to contemplate the bareness of his words. Knocked out. Did that really describe the horror he had just witnessed ? One gun mounting wiped clean away, the other lying on its side, its muzzle twisted like a piece of piping. Beside it, one of its crew lay gaping at the sky, his clothing gone, his naked body gleaming like flayed meat. Knocked out.
Dalziel stared at him, his eyes wild. The deck had stayed at the same angle. She was not coming back.
>
He shouted hoarsely, ‘The pumps can’t take it! God damn them, they won’t hold it!’
Pigott was gripping a telephone, his face black with smoke while he pressed his sleeve against one eye. The blast had shattered his spectacles, and there was blood on his fingers.
He called, ‘Engine room reports water gaining on remaining pumps, sir. It’s already in the boiler room.’
Dalziel looked away, his shoulders hunched in the chair like an old man.
The bosun’s mate ran to the broken gratings and yelled, ‘Submarine’s increased speed again! ’E’s turning!’
Standish shook his head. That last rocket had swung the frigate off course, like someone kicking a toy boat. The submarine was still heading for the deep channel, her wash mounting as she gathered speed across the bows of her listing victim.
Dalziel said, ‘She’s getting away.’
Leading Seaman Neal had come to the bridge a few minutes earlier to help carry away the wounded. He was pointing up and away beyond the sea and the smoke, to a tiny sliver of silver which gleamed in the hazed sunlight like a star.
Standish nodded dully. An aircraft. Probably a Boeing en route for Saigon. It was unnerving to realize that over there, high up beyond sight and sound of their destruction, people were sitting comfortably, sipping drinks, maybe watching a movie. The submarine’s commander must have seen it too, or had contacted it with his radar. He would take no chances now, but would make straight for deep water and dive. Like an assassin. A butcher.
Dalziel dragged his eyes from the submarine and said slowly, ‘Better tell the Chief to get his people on deck.’ He seemed hardly able to get the words out. ‘She’s taking it badly. Maybe you were right after all. Too old for this sort of thing.’
The submarine turned slightly, her arrowed bow wave streaming away across the reef, as if to dismiss them all, to show contempt for their puny challenge.
Dalziel said, ‘Go yourself, Number One, and get our people ready. See what you can do for them.’
He tensed in his chair as something tore adrift deep in the hull and crashed heavily against a bulkhead.
Standish looked round. At Pigott with his one good eye fixed on the submarine. At Irvine, who was holding his hands locked together in front of him like a priest in prayer. At Neal and the others who still stood together on the shattered bridge, legs splayed to take the ship’s deep list, their feet touching the sprawled corpses which had once been their friends.
He ran down the ladder, pausing to glance into the wheelhouse where Motts was leaning on the spokes smoking a cigarette while a seaman tied a bandage around his leg.
On down the main deck, past tangled steel and sightless bodies. Here and there a grimy figure stood up to watch him pass, and he saw Hornby sitting on a winch, his head in his hands, oblivious to a mechanic who was trying to fix a lifejacket around his fat shoulders.
He found Rideout in the wardroom tending to his wounded, his shirt and legs splattered with blood as he moved steadily amongst them. Sunlight dappled the bulkhead in a dozen bright stars, and Standish saw the holes where splinters had punctured the plating like embers through butter. His foot kicked something, and when he glanced down he saw it was Pigott’s calendar, each date marked with a pencilled circle. He felt the deck tremble and heard some of the wounded sobbing quietly, lost in their own drugged world of fear and loneliness.
The calendar had been intended as a joke. It was nearly over now. The sixty-five days of Commander Dalziel. It made a good epitaph.
The phone buzzed on its hook and he stared at it for several seconds as more pictures probed his reeling mind.
Of Wishart answering it after speaking up for Dalziel against the others. Of Wills, the steward, who had dreamed of his pub. Standish had passed his body on his way here, sprawled across his broken cups. He had died as he had lived. Quietly.
He took the handset. ‘Yes?’
It was Dalziel’s voice, and for an instant Standish imagined something else had happened to the ship. That she was going down now, and fast.
‘The submarine’s turned again, Number One. She was going to dive, but …’ In the background he heard Pigott’s voice. Then Dalziel said, ‘One of young Wishart’s shells must have been a near miss. I don’t think they can close their rocket mounting!’
Standish stared at the handset. ‘I’ll come up!’ As he ran for the door he shouted, ‘The Chief’s sending some of his men to help you with the wounded, Doc. You may have to bale out in a hurry!’
He reached the bridge and seized Pigott’s glasses.
There was more of a haze across the wider channel between the reef now, but in the powerful lenses he could see the small knot of figures on the submarine’s casing, and several others climbing down from her conning tower.
He felt himself stagger, and when he looked round realized that the deck had come upright again.
Dalziel said, ‘Another compartment flooded.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Strange all the same. Just as if she was bracing herself.’
Standish stared at him. He could feel his body shaking, his whole being quivering so badly that it was difficult to speak.
He said, ‘Why don’t we, sir?’ He staggered across the broken glass, his feet slipping in blood. ‘Why not have a go?’
Dalziel met his eyes, his mouth drawn back against the pain of his wound. Then, still watching Standish, he picked up the red handset.
‘Are all your people out, Chief?’ He nodded. ‘Good. Send them to clear the wounded from the wardroom right away.’ He swallowed hard. ‘There is about a mile between us and that submarine, Chief. She can’t dive yet, and we can’t shoot.’ He paused and closed his eyes as something broke clear of the hull and fell alongside with a heavy splash. ‘The sea’s getting a hold down there, is it?’ His tone sharpened. ‘Tell me, Chief. I’ll not have you fried alive for our benefit.’ He smiled. ‘Right then. Give me everything.’ He looked across at Pigott. ‘Everything!’
Almost immediately the ship began to increase speed, the water surging dangerously close to the gaping crater in her side, spray lancing over the hull to make steam spurt from the smouldering wreckage left by the submarine’s last missile.
Dalziel returned to his chair and looked at the blood on his legs without comment. To Standish he snapped, ‘Take the con. I want to watch from here.’
The revolutions were still mounting, and astern across the creaming wake Standish saw the trail of greasy smoke mingling with that of the ship’s wounds. How could she do it? What the hell was holding her afloat? He saw the wounded being laid right aft by Caley’s impotent mortars, their bandages white against the smoke and glittering water. Other men stood around like spectators, some too shocked to realize what was happening.
But aboard the submarine someone had at last understood. He heard Neal bark a warning and turned to watch a lazy arc of tracer as it climbed from the rear of the conning tower before pitching down to rake the forecastle and lower bridge like a bandsaw.
Through the voicepipe he heard Motts yelling crazily, ‘Shoot away, you bastards! Throw all you’ve bloody got!’
His wildness had an immediate effect, and below the bridge Standish heard more men yelling and cheering, their voices cracked but strangely defiant above the desperate roar of fans and the beat of Quarrie’s racing engines.
He felt it for himself. So that he wanted to cheer and cry with the rest of them. As more tracer slashed at the bridge he heard himself mutter, ‘You can’t hurt us any more.’ Who did he mean? The men or the ship? He thought of the blackened guns, of Wishart’s crew blasted to fragments, and of the dead seamen who still lay by the empty hawsepipes. Nothing could reach them now.
Dalziel was leaning right forward, his face inches from the screen. Through his teeth he said, ‘Get ready to clear the ship. All available rafts and anything which will float.’ He turned and said sharply, ‘Port a bit. She’s turned slightly.’
Standish lowered his eye to the gyro. ‘Port ten.’ He hel
d his breath, watching the submarine’s black outline as it edged across the splintered jackstaff. ‘Midships. Steady as you go.’
Up the voicepipe he heard Motts reply and then add, ‘She’s movin’ now all right, sir!’
The whole bridge structure was jerking and vibrating as if to tear itself from the ship, and Standish saw the sea boiling back from the stem in two great banks of white foam which looked almost solid in the sunlight.
When he lifted his eyes again he saw the submarine was less than four cables away, and that he could even see the slime and scars on her hull without his glasses. The machine gun had fallen silent, and several small figures were climbing back to the conning tower which was swaying steeply on the current from the reef.
Dalziel gripped the screen and pointed with his hand. ‘Look! They’re turning again!’
Standish did not speak. He watched the sudden frothing commotion around the submarine’s saddle tanks, the sluice of water at her stern as slowly at first, then with gathering momentum she began to turn.
He snatched the red telephone. ‘Chief? The sub’s altering course again. I think she intends to use another rocket on us!’
It sounded like a sigh. ‘I’ll do what I can.’ The phone went dead.
Loose gear fell unheeded in the chartroom, and a corpse beside the broken whaler vibrated on the deck as if returning to life.
Faster, faster. Standish could almost feel the ship’s desperate efforts like his own heartbeats. Even when she had done her first trials in that other living world she had never reached nineteen knots. Now she was already doing seventeen, in spite of her wounds, and he guessed that Quarrie’s gauges had long since passed the red warning mark.
A wire stay parted abaft the bridge and the buckled funnel tilted to an even more grotesque angle. He saw the radar mechanic, Vine, clinging to the bridge ladder, shading his eyes against the glare as he watched the approaching enemy. He was probably remembering how he had first seen it on his outdated set, Standish thought. How he had stayed alive when the rear of the bridge had been savaged was anyone’s guess.
The Greatest Enemy Page 34