"Sure," said Randall gloomily, "after showing us just how good he still thinks he is. Y'know something? We might've killed the old bloke."
"I doubt it," Bentley answered in a forcedly light tone - Randall's words could be uncomfortably close to reality. "He's had his time, but he's still cautious, remember. He'll make out all right."
"I hope to God you're right! Look here - I could go a whisky."
There was no argument. Bentley pressed the teat.
Unaware of, uninterested in this local conflict of opinions and characters, the great Fleet went about its business. Ships sailed, ships returned, and some stayed out under that vast cover of blue. The Japanese Fleet was not sighted visually, but reports kept coming in to the Admiral from Intelligence services and coast-watchers operating behind the enemy lines. What had been a mess-deck buzz was now accepted fact - the Japs were out, and sooner or later they would make their move against an Allied island or landing, and then this mass of ready ships would sail to meet them. It was simply a matter of time.
Wind Rode was returned to her former cleanliness, and her men to their customary fretting at being kept in a harbour to which, a day after sailing, they would give everything to return. Their whingeing had crystallised into a barbed point of invective against the real cause of their incarceration so far from home ports - the Japs. The Sons of Nippon became the object of, some quite brilliant improvisation in the field of cursing, in which reflections on their legitimate parentage formed only a minor key in the overall pattern of abuse.
This was a healthy state of affairs. It removed that other prime object, the Navy, from the list of their targets, and it ensured that they would fight with vigour when they met their enemy. There was no `if' about it - the tempo of action was increasing all about them, and it would be surprising if they went to sea and returned unsighted and unmolested.
Scimitar had brand-new plates on her left jaw, and when she finally came out of dock the rectangle of new paint was plain against the rest of her seasoned grey. The cruiser, tugs lashed to her sides, waited to occupy the vacated berth.
Slowly Scimitar slid her revitalised length through the lines of ships. She came to her anchor just ahead of Wind Rode. Bentley was on deck to watch her. In other circumstances he might have sent her captain a welcoming and facetious signal - there was little enough opportunity for humour in their deadly game but now he satisfied himself with the formal piping due to a senior ship's passing.
He was standing clear on the quarter-deck with Randall, and as his hand went up in salute to his flotilla-leader he wondered what Sainsbury's thoughts were. No communication whatever had passed between either captain since the junior officer had been ordered back to his ship. But Scimitar merely returned the salute, as any other ship would have done, and Sainsbury brought her neatly to her anchor. Watching, Randall muttered:
"I don't suppose there's any chance of him accepting a dinner invitation?"
"As much chance as an ice-cream dog trying to catch an asbestos cat in hell," Bentley grunted. His glance flicked sideways to his friend. "I've been kicked in the teeth once. Once is enough."
"Okay, okay, it was just a thought. I imagine well be back to work soon?"
"I'd bet on that," Bentley said calmly.
His money was safe. Shortly after breakfast the next morning Ferris brought in the signal to his cabin. The message was from Scimitar, and after the traditional opening: "Being ready in all respects for sea," it went on to inform him that his flotilla-leader required his company on a patrol beginning in one hour's time.
"Acknowledge," Bentley ordered briefly, and when Ferris left he read the signal again. Then he tossed the sheet impatiently on to his desk. Sainsbury's - any senior officer's - orders to proceed to sea were always couched in that formal fashion. What had he expected? Some guff about all is forgiven?
He called for his messenger, and when the head poked in said:
"First-lieutenant, please."
Randall heard with bored calmness the orders from his captain which could result in their sinking into oblivion, then he asked:
"Nothing else in the signal?"
This unconscious parallel with his own thoughts irritated Bentley.
"What else did you expect?" he said gruffly.
"Nothing, nothing. What d'you think? Just the normal patrol?"
"I expect so, insofar as any patrol can be normal. I hear things are getting a bit heated out there. Something's going to blow soon."
"That's what the mess-deck thinks," Randall grinned. "When it does, I hope the whole ruddy Fleet's in on it. My taste for lonehanded combat's gone a bit sour. Ah... just the two of us?"
"Just the peregrinating pair," Bentley nodded, "the top brass wasn't kidding when he said he'd use us together. I can't blame him. The two foreign erks go out and leave him all his own destroyers."
"Fair enough. For mine. I'd rather work with devils I know." He took up his cap. "We're all set now. I hope it's a nice uneventful cruise."
Bentley knew him so well that he accepted the real, opposite meaning of Randall's last words. You're as sick of this blasted place as I am, he thought. He said:
"How are the troops?"
"Whingeing like all hell - and rearing to go!"
"The silly beggars are never satisfied," Bentley grumbled - and felt the old excitement stirring. He was taking his ship to sea, and he had two hundred men tired to boredom of doing nothing, men who would welcome any change from the monotony of this big and remote harbour, even if it meant a change into deathly danger.
Suddenly he felt happier, more content. He had a splendid ship, and he commanded a fine team.
"On your way," he grinned, "special sea-dutymen at 8.45."
When Randall had stepped his bulk through the door Bentley went to a cupboard and took out his binoculars in their leather case. He pulled the black glasses free and, as he had done thousands of times, he focused them on the funnel of a ship far down the harbour.
Unbidden, a memory slipped in. The last time he had used these glasses they had been trained on a buckled bridge, searching for a prim, thin face...
He lowered the binoculars. He was seeing that face now, without mechanical aid, granitehard and he was hearing the biting voice:
"Be good enough to leave my ship!"
Slowly he laid the binoculars on the desk. No anger, now. A profound pity and regret moved in him. If they ran into trouble out there, this patrol might see the ignominious finish of the finest man he had ever known. Breaking on his own bridge under attack, gibbering perhaps, the whole bridge team witness to the collapse of a four-ringed captain, the first-lieutenant taking command...
Bentley shook his head, an instinctive and involuntary gesture to clear his mind of the horrible picture. There was absolutely nothing he could do about Sainsbury now. An official approach was not only repugnant to his nature; it would achieve nothing.Excuse me, Admiral or First Naval Member, but I think Captain Sainsbury should be relieved of his command.
If he were so crass as to try that, they would think he had been relieved of his senses. He took up the binoculars and walked down the passage to the chart-room.
They were ready to get under way.
On his bridge, the cable-party on the foc's'le below him, the cable heaved in until it was up and down with the anchor just holding, steam on all boilers, Bentley waited for the executive signal from Scimitar.
It came, and he ordered: "Weigh."
The cable-holder ground with an iron clanking and the links banged slowly along the deck and down through the navel-pipe. Hanging over the guard-rail, a seaman played a forceful jet of water on the cable, sluicing off the mud. The cable swayed slightly back and forwards and the cable-officer reported:
"Anchor aweigh."
Shortly the tonnage of iron came into sight through the clear water and he added:
"Clear anchor."
Wind Rode was now technically under way, unsecured to the land. Bentley gave his orders and slowl
y her nose wiped round towards the entrance. He watched Scimitar with an unwonted attention: normally destroyers got under way with a minimum of fuss and time. But he was worried. Had his words affected Sainsbury so that the older man might try some flash manoeuvre to prove his competence? Destroyers were easy to handle when you knew how, but there was the other side of the coin - because of their relatively light weight and enormous power, they could also get into trouble, and fast.
His worry was groundless. Sainsbury took his ship out as neatly and carefully as always, swinging her economically with rudder and opposite-turning screws and then aiming her sharp nose straight for the opening.
Bentley felt slightly foolish. He should have known that now the old chap was under no strain - he could take his ship to sea in his sleep. It would be if they joined action that the trouble might start.
Bentley was no gong-seeking striver after bubble reputation. He had been too long at war not to know that his earlier excitement would fade into a prayer that an action would soon end once the shells or bombs started arriving. Yet, for the first time in his career as he followed Scimitar out, he found himself consciously hoping that this patrol would prove abortive, that they would sight nothing to strain further the already overburdened will and strength of his leader.
His hope, not the patrol, was to prove abortive. They had been at sea two hours, with Manus vanished under the earth's curve astern, when the first signal came. Ferris did not read this one out: he came across and handed it to the captain. Wind Rode, Bentley read, was to assume that half of her forrard mountings' crews were out of action, and that she had a fire in the foc's'le messdeck. The affected guns were to be kept in action, and the fire was to be put out and the bulkheads shored up.
Automatically he gave the necessary orders, his face a mask. He heard the gun-crews closing-up and the thud of drill projectiles being ejected, and he saw the fire and repair parties running along the iron-deck towards the messdecks. Some were sweating in fearnought suits, some dragged hoses, others lumped big wooden spars and wedges.
He heard and saw these familiar things but his mind was thinking: Is it deliberate, this long-known drill? Or is it the normal order of a meticulous, if pedantic, leader? Whatever the reason for the drill, there was no doubt about what the men involved thought of it.
Bentley's expression was so forbidding that Randall changed his mind on the subject of drill-crazy captains he had been about to mention. He said instead:
"I'll have to get all that gear cleared away double-quick. If we run into anything..."
Bentley's reply was unintentionally snappish:
"If we run into anything we might need those hoses!"
His reaction had been due to an unreasoning irritation with the drill order. But, as he voiced it, he realised that he had spoken nothing but the simple truth. Those hoses would be handy if shell or bomb started a fire. Had the cunning old devil deliberately specified fire-drill with that eventuality in mind?
Of course not, his commonsense told him. Radar was operating perfectly, and there was nothing on the sea or above it. And if there were, his men were trained to provide whatever remedy the situation called for.
"Yes, Number One," he said in a normal tone, "I'd get it cleared away fast."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Randall's voice as well as the words were formal. He moved away to watch the drill at B-gun. It occurred to Bentley that he'd better pull his own socks up if the efficiency of his ship were not to be affected by his concern for Sainsbury.
The drill was completed and the fact reported by signal to the leader. It brought a formal acknowledgment. But then, Bentley had. to remind himself, what else could it bring? The man who had ordered it was not on board to check his consort's efficiency.
The drill cartridges were restowed, the hoses and shoring-up spars were returned, and the ship settled down. The sun climbed up the cobalt vault and neared its zenith, and Pilot shot it when it got there and put the ship accurately on the map. The men went below to dinner and quiet and peace pervaded the ship.
Bentley left the bridge for his own lunch. He had started on his salad when Ferris knocked and brought in another signal. Bentley hid his irritation; he fully expected the square of paper to hold promise of another drill during the afternoon. But the signal merely told him that they were to continue on this course till nightfall, when they would turn to the south. Both ships were due back in base at ten o'clock the following morning. Thankful, vaguely annoyed because of the feeling, he finished his lunch.
It may have been because of his unnatural sense of irritation that, when the report came three hours later, he welcomed the promise of action it held. This was something on which he could lavish all the anger he might feel.
"Bearing oh-one-five," the asdic but had reported, "contact moving left to right. Classified submarine." The bearing put the submarine on the starb'd bow. Its position here indicated almost certainly that the Jap was heading for a look at what the harbour held. Manus lay one hundred and twenty miles to the west.
Bentley's first reaction as he heard the report and the metallic pinging of the asdic was exultation. Here were two fast and experienced destroyers sitting on top of one submarine - a most desirable state. While one ship remained in contact, signalling every change of the enemy's course, the other could run down at full speed and loose depth-charges. No need for the attacking ship to worry about speed interfering with its own asdic transmissions, and a minimum of time for the submarine to affect an avoiding course alteration. If he and Sainsbury did not get this fellow then they should retire to a more suitable occupation, like instructing Girl Guides.
The second reaction, following quickly on the first, was a sense of frustration that he had only one asdic set. He could not afford to lose contact with what he had found, yet there might be other friends of the Jap around. But they had to accept that risk. The imperative thing was to get to work on what they knew they had.
Sainsbury's signal lamp blinked. The stutters informed Bentley that the leader would maintain contact while Wind Rode performed the pulverising. This suited Bentley and his mood perfectly. He snapped orders and Wind Rode bore down on her enemy.
She had been at twenty knots and she picked up speed swiftly. While it would be risky to raise or lower the asdic dome at this speed, the streamlined container was safe as it was now, in the lowered position. Scimitar lay on her port beam, and Sainsbury's information came concise and explicit.
Bow-waves curling at her stem, the destroyer rushed in for the kill.
On the quarter-deck she mounted two throwers and two sets of rails. This array meant that she could drop a pattern of four charges at once, one to port, another to starb'd, and two more straight down over the stern. The first pattern could be quickly followed by another, and each charge contained three hundred pounds of high-explosive amatol. Yet that half-ton of explosive could be immeasureably increased in its effect by the incompressibility of water surrounding the submarine. The submarine was strong, but it was already withstanding the pressure of hundreds of tons of water. All that was required to open it up to that pressure was for Bentley to drop his patterns close enough.
He was intent on doing just that.
At this speed his own set was mainly inoperative through the rush of water past the dome. But Scimitar was in firm contact, and she was handled by a man who once had sunk five U-boats in one day in the Atlantic. It was his knowledge and experience which now guided the speeding Wind Rode.
"Stand-by," Bentley warned.
He was almost ready to drop, and the target was altering course. Had he been on his own his speed would have been much less than it was, and the submarine would have had time, with its smaller turning circle, to slip inside the lethal area of his pattern. As it was he swung Wind Rode and she answered quickly. He was almost directly above the submarine.
This was before the time of automatic firing of charges from the Asdic Control Room. He snapped orders and the big levers on the
bridge jerked back and the throwers spat the hurtling canisters. From the rails two more dropped into her boiling wake.
She thrust on. Now was evidenced the value of two hunting ships working together. It would have been impossible for Bentley's asdic to maintain contact, through the turbulence raised by her screws. But Sainsbury was free of that interference. His information fed across and Bentley swung her under full rudder.
Astern, the swelling sea seemed to flatten. A flash of brief and intense whiteness flicked across the surface. Then the sea erupted.
It was not the conical uprising caused by shells or bombs. A huge dome of water lifted skyward and retained for a second its beautifully symmetrical shape. The next instant the balloon shattered into sky-reaching splinters of flung white. The cascade hung there and the deep voice of the explosions vibrated against her plates. She was still shaking from the effects of her own discharged fury when the water fell back into the tossing sea.
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