Pride and the Anguish

by Douglas Reeman

  Keates of the Beaver had plucked at his grey beard. “What support are we getting, sir?”

  The admiral had wagged one finger. “Everything I can throw your way! You’ll have an anti-aircraft cruiser and her destroyer escort tracking you along the coast, and just to make everyone happy I’ve laid on some good air cover.” He had saved this part for the last. “Hurricanes! Fresh out from England and raring to hit the Japs where it hurts!”

  He had looked around their faces, suddenly solemn. “I only wish I could come with you, gentlemen. But unfortunately I have to stay and control the operation from here. And the way things are going it does look as if I shall be given the responsibility for both coastal sections until further notice.” He had shrugged, and brought out his old smile. “But now is not the time to think of oneself, what?”

  As they had finished writing their notes the admiral had added casually, “I have not had the opportunity to speak to all of you about the Porcupine’s little adventure at Talang.” His eyes had rested momentarily on Corbett. “It looked very nasty for a bit, but things came out quite well in the end.”

  That was all. No censure, not even an inquiry about the grounding report which Corbett had already delivered. The business of getting the ship ready for sea again had pushed this realisation to the back of Trewin’s mind. Even the shock with its aftermath of nightmares had lessened in the general air of purposeful preparation.

  But now, as the Porcupine steamed slowly along the southwest coast, Trewin found time to ponder over Fairfax-Loring’s apparent indifference.

  One thing was sure, it seemingly had a strange effect on Corbett. From the moment the gunboats had left Singapore he had been unable to restrain his irritation and impatience. It was as if he felt out of place on this new coastline, for as Hammond had remarked, Corbett had never been away from the east coast since he had taken command.

  For another three days the gunboats had steamed slowly back and forth along a set patrol area, the first tension of expectancy giving way to the usual air of anticlimax and uncertainty. It was true that the admiral’s prophecy about support was correct. They had seen the cruiser Canopus and her destroyers far out on the horizon, and regularly twice a day they had been alarmed and then cheered by the sight of low-flying Hurricanes as they flashed overhead following the coastline like birds of prey.

  Then on the third day as Trewin had climbed to the bridge to take over the First Watch the news had broken. He had been standing by the starboard screen, his glasses trained on a group of motionless fishing boats, when Corbett had hurried up from the radio room, his face stiff and apprehensive.

  “Just had a signal, Trewin. The Japs have bypassed the Army to the south of Malacca and have made a seaborne landing behind them!” He had pushed Mallory away from the chart table. “They’ve cut the coast road and are already in command of the hills there.” He had smacked his hand on the chart. “Damn them!”

  Trewin had asked, “And our orders, sir? Do we try a bombardment on the enemy positions?”

  Corbett had stared at him as if he were talking gibberish. “My orders are to enter the pocket between the two enemy-held areas. There is a fishing port of some sort and a whole brigade pinned down inside it.” He had controlled his voice with an effort. “We will evacuate the troops at first light and take them further down the coast to stabilise the line.” He had glared at Mallory’s grim features. “So get cracking, Pilot! I don’t want any mistakes this time!”

  The group had turned away from the coast, and when darkness fell Porcupine had led the little line of gunboats back towards the shore. Navigation for once was made easy in the early stages. The fishing village, such as it was, was lit repeatedly by shell bursts, and far away to port, lighting the night sky like an early dawn, was an unmoving pink glow.

  Mallory had said quietly, “That must be Malacca. It’ll be burning like hell to give a glow like that.”

  Now the glow was fainter, and Trewin was reminded of the hillside above the Talang Inlet as he and Hammond had waited for the dawn.

  Corbett sat restlessly on his chair, his glasses trained over the screen towards the flickering arrowhead of water which marked the entrance to the village. The approach was littered with sunken or drifting fishing boats, and more than once Trewin saw a corpse floating face down on the surface, seeming to come to life when caught by the gunboat’s wash.

  Corbett said, “Slow ahead!” He seemed unable to sit still. “Have you checked the bearing, Pilot?”

  Mallory’s face lit up momentarily in the glare of a bursting flare. He said curtly, “Oh four five, sir! But once past the breakwater it’ll be all guesswork.”

  Corbett snapped, “Don’t be impertinent, Pilot! Don’t you overstep the mark again!” He swung round as Trewin made to leave the bridge. “And where do you imagine you’re going?”

  Trewin flinched as the air shivered to a sudden barrage of gunfire. He replied, “Aft, sir. My action station is with…”

  Corbett banged his fist on the screen. “You stay here, Trewin! We’ll not be engaging any ships this time!” He peered towards the village. “Just get those soldiers aboard and then get out, that’s what I say!”

  Trewin lapsed into silence and turned to stare at the dancing patterns which lit up parts of the village and surrounding hills in bright, stark pictures, only to leave him blinded again as the fires died only to break out again elsewhere. He saw a line of small houses by the waterfont blazing from end to end, and thought he saw running figures flitting across the flames, like victims in hell.

  The low breakwater crept out to meet them, a black line across the flat, glittering sea. Then Corbett said sharply, “We’ll check this side of the breakwater first. Just to make sure there’s no obstructions for when we come out.”

  Trewin trained his glasses along the breakwater. It was surprisingly undamaged, and nothing moved along its length. It was a waste of time to carry out an inspection, he thought. It would hold up the other gunboats, too.

  Corbett said calmly, “Starboard fifteen.” He craned his head to watch the bows swinging round. “Midships! Steady!” Over his shoulder he added, “Signal Beaver to lead the way to the picking-up point, Trewin. No use in wasting time, eh?”

  The signal lamp stuttered briefly, and as Porcupine glided clear of the entrance Beaver’s pale shape crossed her wash and pushed on towards the village. Even as she passed the breakwater she was enveloped in drifting smoke, and Trewin could see the burning houses reflected in her bridge screen like individual pictures of despair and misery.

  Corbett was studying the breakwater with obvious interest. As the other two gunboats followed the Beaver through the entrance he said, “Very well, Trewin. Follow them in. It all seems clear enough on this side.” He slid from his chair and walked to the chart table. “Can you hold her yourself, Trewin?” He picked up the parallel rulers and dividers and made to lift the hood from the table. “Just long enough for me to do some checking.”

  Trewin stepped on to the centre grating. “I can, sir.” Corbett’s question had got under his skin. “Starboard twenty!” He watched the compass repeater glowing just below his chest. What the hell was the matter with Corbett? He seemed more concerned about handing the con to him than he was about the actual operation of evacuating the trapped soldiers.

  He snapped, “Midships! Steady!” He heard Unwin’s reply from the voice-pipe and concentrated his whole mind on the smoke-shrouded shape of the ship ahead. It was the Prawn, her boxlike superstructure ploughing through the smoke, her own funnel adding to the dense fog which covered the narrow inlet from end to end.

  Mallory stepped up beside him. Between his teeth he said harshly, “So we’re the last to go in. That means we’ll be the first out!” He looked down at Corbett’s shape above the chart table. “There was no need to hang back, Number One. You know it and I know it!”

  A drifting flare showed briefly through the smoke, and Trewin saw the pale upturned face of a swimmer almost alongside. It
might have been a boy or a young girl. He turned away, sickened as the swimmer kicked vainly away from the churning froth of the Porcupine’s propellers.

  He looked at Mallory and replied, “For God’s sake shut your mouth! I’m sick of your bellyaching, sick of it!”

  He ignored Mallory’s anger and leaned forward to watch the Prawn’s shape lengthen as she swung around a half-submerged cabin cruiser. “Port ten!” He wiped the stinging tears from his eyes. “Meet her!” Damn Mallory! His words still moved in his mind like barbs. It was as if he had read his own thoughts. Had said what he dared only to think.

  “Midships!” He lowered his head over the voice-pipe. “Head straight for that jetty, Swain! Can you see it?” He pictured Unwin at the wheel, leaning over the spokes to stare through the narrow slits in the armoured shutters.

  Unwin replied in his usual expressionless tone, “Aye, aye, sir! I can see it fine!”

  Masters, the yeoman, called, “Sky’s brightenin’, sir! The dawn’ll be up shortly.”

  Trewin glanced quickly across the opposite screen. It was true that the fires seemed paler and the smoke more plain to see against the hills beyond the village.

  The jetty was little more than a mud wall supported at intervals by thick wooden piles, and as Trewin brought the gunboat swinging round in a tight arc he heard Dancy yelling to his men on the forecastle and saw two seamen leaping over the rail to receive the mooring lines.

  The hull shuddered against the piles, and Trewin put the starboard engine astern to bring the stern closer to the jetty. “Stop engines!” He had to shout above the crackling fires, the confused stammer of machine-guns and the heavier bark of mortars. It was hard to believe that anyone could live in this inferno, let alone fight in it. What had happened to the Malay fishermen and their families? he wondered. Maybe like that solitary swimmer they had been driven into the sea like rats before a forest fire.

  Corbett was suddenly beside him. “Good.” He looked over the screen towards the Prawn which had somehow managed to tie herself to a waterlogged lighter while the other two ships were moored together just ahead of her. He said, “Now let’s get on with it!” He stood looking up at Trewin’s smoke-smeared face. “We’ve got about three hours. No more!”

  Trewin felt unable to move. Suppose it was all true what Mallory had said? That Corbett’s attempt to help the stranded refugee ship had been a gesture, just for the record? That he was even now thinking more of his own safety than that of the men who were depending on him? He felt the thoughts turning in his mind like panic. Men like Hammond and Dancy. Like himself.

  He said flatly, “I—I’ll make contact with the Army right away, sir.”

  As he turned to go Corbett caught his arm and in a quiet voice said, “Now hold on, Trewin. Just keep calm. Try and think of it as an exercise, eh?”

  His eyes seemed to glow in the reflected fires, and across his shoulder Trewin could see Mallory watching both of them, his face tense and angry.

  He ran down the bridge ladder, not trusting himself to say another word. Corbett must be mad. Had to be.

  Petty Officer Dancy called, “Sir! What’ll I do about those poor devils?” He pointed down at the jetty where a small group of Malays had appeared, as if conjured out of the fires at their backs. There were only about six of them and three small children. They neither waved nor called out, but stood in the drifting smoke like statues, staring up at the Porcupine’s bridge.

  Trewin shook his head. “Don’t do anything, Buffer. We must wait for the soldiers first.” He saw the agony on Dancy’s face, remembering suddenly that Corbett had told him it was this man who had made the model ship for his son. Curiously the memory seemed to steady him. He said, “Later perhaps. We’ll have to see.”

  Then he was running across the jetty between the flickering lines of burning huts which had once offered life and hope for people like those on the jetty. He almost collided with a helmeted army lieutenant who was squatting on a shooting stick, a pipe in his mouth, as he watched the distant shell bursts above the village.

  He took the pipe from his mouth and nodded, “Ah, the Navy, I presume?” He waved the pipe towards a crumbling wall at his side. “Don’t go past there, old son. You’re liable to get your head shot off.”

  In the grey dawn light his face took on shape and personality, and Trewin saw that he had a small jaunty moustache and about three days’ growth of stubble.

  Above the crackle of gunfire the soldier said, “You wouldn’t have any tobacco, I suppose? Left my pouch in Malacca.” He laughed, and Trewin saw the strain breaking through his mask of casual indifference like a raw wound.

  He handed him his own tobacco and asked, “I have to find your brigadier. We’ve only got three hours.”

  The lieutenant’s fingers paused above the pouch. Then he said quietly, “I’m in charge now, old boy. Me and Sergeant Hall, if he’s still alive.” He continued to press the tobacco into his pipe, but most of it fell on the ground between his legs. He handed his pipe to Trewin and asked shakily, “Would you do the honours, old son? I seem to have lost the knack.” He stood up and folded the shooting stick carefully. “Fact is, the brigadier, his staff and practically the whole bloody outfit is now in the bag!” He spoke slowly, as if to make sure he was putting his words in the right place. “Yesterday it was, I think.” He rubbed his face. “My lot got separated. We decided to make a fight of it.” He took the pipe and lit it slowly, the flame quivering as if in a wind. “Actually, I think I’m getting too old for this sort of thing.”

  He looked about the same age as Hammond. Trewin asked gently, “Can you bring them back? I’ll go and warn the ships you’re coming.”

  At that moment a tall, gangling sergeant ran round the wall and skidded to a halt beside them. His battledress was in tatters, but he looked very calm and competent.

  The lieutenant said briskly, “Ah, Sarnt Hall! The Navy has brought some ships for us!”

  The sergeant jammed a fresh clip into his rifle and said, “One ship would do for our lot, sir.” He showed his teeth. “I’ll start the ball rollin’ right away.” He blew two blasts on a whistle and added, “I’ve got the perimeter mined for the bastards. The rearguard know what to do.” To Trewin he said calmly, “You’ll have to leave them behind, sir. You’d never get out of the harbour otherwise.”

  As he strode away into the smoke the lieutenant called, “Goodbye, Sarnt. And thank you!”

  The sergeant paused and then saluted very formally.

  The lieutenant said in a small voice, “We drew lots for the rearguard. Sergeant Hall is one of them.” Then he started to cry, the pipe still clamped in his teeth.

  Trewin turned and walked slowly back towards the waiting ships.

  BEFORE THE SUN had fully cleared the range of hills behind the burning village the evacuation was completed. Then led by the Porcupine the gunboats picked their way seaward amongst the bobbing flotsam and past the deserted breakwater. A few stray shells whined overhead, but the dense pall of smoke from the gutted buildings made an effective screen for the final withdrawal, and as Porcupine’s telegraph rang down for full speed those on the upper bridge heard the ragged salvo of explosions and knew that the mines around the village had been detonated.

  The Beaver was the last to pass the breakwater, and as she turned in a flurry of white foam to follow her consorts her upperdeck was wreathed in her own gun smoke as she opened fire blindly and savagely towards the hidden enemy.

  Some thirty wounded soldiers were aboard the little Prawn, and the remainder, numbering less than seventy all told, were spread between Porcupine and Grayling. As they headed southeast, hugging the coastline in the strengthening sunlight, flights of Hurricanes roared overhead, and from far out on the horizon the A.A. cruiser Canopus could be seen steaming at full speed, her signal lamp flashing like a bright diamond across the lingering sea mist. But aboard the Porcupine there was neither interest nor satisfaction. Over the whole ship there was an air of stunned despair, as if
each man shared some private grief with the silent, exhausted soldiers who lay about the decks like dead men.

  By midday they had rounded the great elbow of jutting headland called Tohor Point, and right on time the four gunboats dropped their anchors in the clear water of a protected sandy bay. As the engines sighed into silence so the noises of the war intruded and stayed to remind them of what lay only ten miles behind them. The continuous murmur of artillery and the harsher explosions of bombs. High above in the washed-out blue sky they occasionally saw the entwined vapour trails of grappling fighters, the sounds of their death struggles lost in the general mixture of distant battle. Twice they saw anonymous aircraft fall like flies far out over the sea, and a single parachute drifting aimlessly towards the horizon. Trewin had watched it through his glasses for several minutes. It was like a child’s balloon. Lost, and already forgotten.

  Corbett had left him in charge of the bridge while he went to the radio room. The anti-aircraft guns were manned and ready, but on the gunboat’s decks there was some attempt to gain order and purpose, if only to break the tension of waiting for fresh instructions.

  He saw the cook and his assistants stepping over and around the listless soldiers, their arms laden with freshly cut sandwiches and great fannies of tea. The soldiers took what they were given, but their actions were automatic and without expression. Trewin turned away, unable to watch their faces. They still could not grasp the fact that they had survived.

  Petty Officer Masters said, “Prawn has just weighed, sir!” He closed his long telescope and exchanged it for a mug of tea. “She is takin’ the wounded out to the cruiser. They’ll get better looked after aboard ’er.” He pouted his piggy face and added, “Not that it matters much now. The show’s over as far as we’re concerned.”

  Phelps, the signalman, asked, “Won’t we be doin’ any more ’ere, Yeo?”