He gripped her arm on the table. ‘I love you.’
She smiled at him sadly. ‘Strange thing was, he never once asked if I wanted anyone else.’ She shivered, despite the humid atmosphere. ‘You see, Tim, he’s never lost anything in his whole life. I think that was why I married him. I thought I needed someone strong. But underneath all that confidence he’s weak. And dangerous.’ She looked away. ‘So take care, Tim. I know you’re leaving tomorrow. He told me how I’ll be sorry when I see what he makes of his new appointment.’
‘Poor darling.’ He touched her skin with his fingers. ‘If only . . .’
She nodded. ‘Pay the bill, Tim. I’ll not let him spoil our evening together. Not for anything.’
In a dark corner of the restaurant Lieutenant Commander James was already half-drunk, and one of the waiters was watching him apprehensively. It always looked bad to bounce a man in uniform, especially an officer.
James saw Rowan and the girl and jerked erect. Chadwick’s wife. He could remember her, despite the fog in his brain.
So that was the way of it. The next time Rear Admiral bloody Chadwick made one of his sneering remarks about his German wife, he would tell him a few home truths. He stood up and knocked over a jug of water.
The night before sailing and he was here alone. James peered round the room. He would go out and find a woman. The waiter took his money and walked with him to the door.
He had been a waiter in Sydney for a long time. He knew a lot about sailors, no matter what uniform they wore. He thrust a card into James’s pocket and said, ‘She’ll fix you up, mate. Just the job.’
He watched James stagger out on to the street and then shut the door after him.
16
Attack
WHILE THE AMERICANS maintained their pressure of attacks on the Japanese-held islands throughout the Pacific, their main fleet and its vast resources prepared for even more ambitious moves.
Like most of his companions, Rowan had not expected their little Air Support Group to be in the front line of every major action, but he had anticipated playing a part on the fringe of things. It did not take long, however, to realise that being part of the Fleet Train for the Allied build-up in the Pacific and Indian Oceans meant just that and nothing more.
As the time dragged on the group covered many hundreds of sea miles, but whenever they anchored or moored alongside a jetty they were barely ashore before they were off again with another convoy. The American base in the Admiralty Islands, up to Hawaii or across to the U.S. mainland and San Diego, wherever the supplies of war were required to be collected or delivered, they obediently went.
Dawn to dusk air patrols with unfailing and boring regularity, the convoys only varying in size to make one day different from the last. The group had been reinforced by the arrival of a Free French cruiser, the 10,000 tons Spartiate. Retaken during the Normandy invasion, she was manned by French sailors who had until then been serving in Britain. She was commanded by a spade-bearded dynamo, Capitaine de Vaisseau Tristan Perrotto, who was openly discontented with his role of nursing clapped-out supply ships, when in his opinion he should have been hitting at Germany.
Apart from the powerful French newcomer, the group had altered little. The sloops had been reclassified as frigates, and they and the two carriers displayed more rust through their dazzle-paint than when they had arrived in Ceylon.
Hustler spent most of her days ferrying replacement aircraft for the Americans, and her own planes spent more time ashore than afloat. It all made for tension and low morale, and Chadwick’s varying moods of impatience did little to ease matters.
The news of the savage fighting in many of the tiny islands, hand-to-hand between Japanese and American marines, where no quarter was given or expected, seemed a world away from the lines of tired ships.
They had seen nothing of the Japanese at all. Russian convoys, U-boats and a dozen other perils they had faced and matched in the past were like history, and to those who had not even experienced them, this unbelievable existence was nothing but torment.
At the end of August the Americans launched the first of their massive carrier strikes against the Phillipines and the islands of Chichi Jima and Iwo Jima, the first of which was only five hundred miles from Tokyo.
When the news of the early successes broke, Growler and her consorts were just preparing to leave Brisbane and take another convoy all the two thousand odd miles to the American base at Manus Island in the Admiralty Group. Ammunition and fuel, food and crated Grumman fighter-bombers, which would then be forwarded to the big fleet carriers for immediate use.
The last item was almost the worst part. Every time the group touched land or was within safe signalling distance of high authority Chadwick had asked for the replacement of some of his Seafires with Grumman Martlets. They were more durable and of a match for the Japanese, if and when they met.
Rowan guessed the admiral’s desire was to bring his group to the forefront of things and not allow it to be forgotten, himself with it.
But none came, and the normal orders for convoy escort were pinned up in wardroom and messdecks alike prior to sailing.
In Brisbane he found two letters waiting for him from Honor. They had both been written in Sydney, and the last had explained that she would soon have to return to England.
Rowan was partly glad she was leaving, partly disappointed. Because of the long periods at sea, the uncertainties of which ports they would enter for re-storing, he had never known when he might see her again. But there had always been a slight hope.
But with her husband officially in a sea command, and her own excuse for being in Australia gone, she would have to leave.
He read and re-read her letters, discovering something fresh and different each time. He hoped she would find comfort in his letters too, after the censor had finished with them.
He was in his cabin writing another one to her when he was called to the Operations Room.
The convoy was smaller than usual, and as he paused on the flight deck, squinting, even through his dark glasses, he saw them forming into three lines, the French cruiser’s craggy shape taking up her station in the centre lead.
The land was almost gone beyond the horizon, and the parts of the Queensland shore still visible were mere shadows in a thick haze.
He stepped into the Operations Room and found a chair as close to a deckhead fan as he could manage. He nodded to Kitto and James, to Dexter and Broderick, the Air Staff Officer. Even Syms, the globe-headed Met. Officer, was present. ‘The old firm’, as it was known. They had become so used, or bored with each other that few words were necessary.
But there was a difference, he thought. James looked as gloomy and tensed-up as ever, but Kitto seemed quietly excited, something rare these days. Any sort of hope of a break in monotony was usually dashed before it was properly explored.
Kitto announced, ‘The admiral’s coming here in a moment. The skipper, too.’
He shot Rowan the briefest glance. The skipper, too. Then it was important if Buchan was leaving his bridge before the convoy was properly sorted out.
Muffled, like an angry beast, a Swordfish rattled into life. The first patrol getting ready. So Commander Jolly would have to take care of that, too. But the Swordfish crews, unlike the fighter pilots, had had plenty of exercise, singly and as a team. They flew-off. They landed-on. Check out local shipping and drifting flotsam. Come home again.
Some of their work had been taken over by the French Spartiate, She carried three catapult-operated seaplanes, and used them apparently quite independently of Chadwick’s standing orders on the matter.
The two men were either poles apart or so much alike that It was hard to imagine them getting on.
Rowan had hardly seen Chadwick, apart from an occasional appearance in the distance. On the flying bridge, his features expressionless behind dark glasses, or his head and shoulders above the compass platform. He usually stayed in his quarters and sent for anyone he w
anted to see personally.
He was probably wondering what to do about Honor. If he suspected Rowan of anything he had given no sign.
At that moment the door opened and Chadwick, Buchan and the flag lieutenant came in.
Chadwick nodded. ‘Sit, gentlemen.’
In crisp shirt and shorts, white stockings and spotless shoes, he was every inch the senior naval officer.
They sat.
‘You may not have noticed,’ he swayed slightly as Growler dug her bulk into the first big roller, ‘that Hustler sailed without her usual deck cargo of new planes.’
Rowan had noticed, but his mind had discarded it.
Chadwick continued, ‘Because this time we shall have a proper job of work to do. I said from the start we would show what we could achieve. The Fleet Train is essential, but lacks glamour. This job will lack both qualities, but will be a foot in the door.’
He snapped his fingers. ‘Wall chart!’
His flag lieutenant, who seemed to have aged considerably, ran to the bulkhead and uncovered the big coloured map.
It showed the northern shores of Australia, New Guinea and north-west to the Japanese-occupied territories of Indonesia and Sumatra.
He said calmly, ‘The Americans have got their hands full with the Phillipines operation. Our new British Pacific Fleet will not be properly operational until another couple of months, longer, if I know the Admiralty.’
That brought a few smiles.
‘So we have been offered the task of leaving our visiting card at certain targets in Sumatra.’
In the following seconds Rowan saw the mixed expressions of the others. Those who would stay and plan. Those who would be flying.
Chadwick nodded gravely. ‘The Swordfish torpedo bombers will not of course be suitable.’
Rowan thought he saw Dexter’s hands relax across his knees. He must have been thinking of the slow approach through land-based flak.
‘But when we get better information I will use the Stringbags for a diversion on local shipping, or something like that.’
It was then he looked directly at Rowan.
‘The Seafires from both carriers will be in their separate role of fighter-bombers. Each will carry the full load of one five-hundred-pound bomb. In and out.’ He slammed his fists together. ‘Bonfire night!’
He nodded to James. ‘Anything yet?’
James stood awkwardly and fiddled with his papers.
‘The enemy have some fighter cover near their Sumatran ports and refineries, sir. But much of it has been ferried elsewhere to help against the Americans.’
Chadwick gave his old grin. ‘You see, gentlemen, it’s a game. You wait your chance, and have to eat dirt while you do it, and then . . .’
Rowan saw in those few moments the original Chadwick, the one who had come aboard at Liverpool, so full of confidence and optimism. The game.
He found he was touching the little medallion under his shirt.
It was no more a game than the oil tanker in Norway had been.
And this was a different war entirely. In Europe people always had the strange feeling they could get home. Somehow. If the worst happened. And when it did, if you went into the bag, the Germans would abide by some vague rules of an outdated etiquette.
But the Japs. There had been plenty of terrifying stories of what had happened in Malaya and Burma, and anywhere else where their victorious army had hauled down the flags of the colonial powers. Britain, Holland and France. Europeans captured by the enemy, men and women alike, had suffered terribly.
He tore his mind from the sudden apprehension and made himself stare at the big chart.
The sea distances around each overcrowded group of islands were vast, supply lines so stretched, it was no wonder the Americans had found it a hard fight to regain lost ground. It was a war of aircraft carriers, submarines and supply convoys, and then the mad dash from landing craft under the protection of bombardment from sea and sky.
He pictured their two escort carriers, the French cruiser and a handful of frigates. Hardly an armada.
‘So, gentlemen, I want a massive effort from everyone. I intend to fly over to Hustler today and say my piece to them also.’ He raised an eyebrow at Dexter. ‘Fix that, will you?’
He picked up his cap from the deck and stared at it thoughtfully.
‘If we pull this off successfully, I think we shall carry more weight when our new fleet arrives. That cannot be a bad thing.’ He looked at the small group of officers. ‘So let’s not foul it up, eh?’
They delivered the convoy to the Americans at Manus without incident, and after a long and maddening delay weighed and proceeded.
South and then west into the Indian Ocean. Although the supply ships were convoyed without loss, there had been news of several attacks in the same vicinity from Japanese submarines. Some supply vessels and a destroyer had been sunk and others damaged. It made the war seem real again. And closer.
The ships of the group exercised as much as they could during daylight hours, but even after his visits to the American admiral at the island base Chadwick had said nothing further about his proposed assault on Sumatran targets.
The pilots had discussed it at great length, which was hardly surprising. Views ranged from unlikely to absurd. Bill Ellis had said that even if the Americans and the growing strength of the British naval forces were stretched to the limit it was highly improbable that two hard-worked escort carriers would be used against dangerous objectives on land.
But then, Kitto had argued, paddle-steamers were not designed to be used as minesweepers, nor had millionaires’ yachts been thought of as anti-submarine vessels. After five years of war, he was quite prepared to believe anything.
It certainly began to look as if Chadwick had got his way. As the little force steamed on a north-westerly course, leaving the nearest piece of Australia some fifteen hundred miles astern, the idea of a real operation started to take on new dimensions.
Sitting on his steel chair, or pacing in the confines of the bridge, Captain Buchan thought of little else but the pencilled lines and bearings on his charts, which daily showed him how near they were getting to danger. Like the other commanding officers in the group, he knew exactly what had happened when Chadwick had visited the American admiral.
A light fleet carrier under the American admiral’s command had been badly damaged by torpedo bombers and would be out of action for some while. She had been part of the group used to draw Japanese ships and aircraft from the really important theatre of war, the Phillipines and Leyte Gulf in particular, which was now obviously the vital hinge in the whole campaign. It was a war of great fleets and capital ships, one which had to be won totally, and which had already shown the superiority of the carrier over the line of battle.
While Chadwick’s Air Support Group had languished in Manus, and had watched the daily bulletins about the mounting battle being fought two thousand miles away, it became equally clear that the Japanese were hitting back with fanatical determination.
And so as reports of heavier fighting and greater losses came in, Chadwick received his orders and his clearance to move.
His group would make a feint attack towards the southern tip of Sumatra, just above the Sunda Strait. It would engage nothing, but any enemy patrols would think differently. Long enough for an American carrier group to launch a real attack on the big oil refinery at Palembang.
Viewed from a distance it was a good plan, Buchan thought. To divide the enemy’s resources and then strike a real and damaging blow from the air would have two effects. The Japanese would lose a valuable fuel supply, and the people they were dominating with barbaric force would see that the war was going against their oppressors.
But Buchan was worried about Chadwick. Perhaps the Americans did not understand people like him. The fact was nobody really knew what to do with the Air Support Group. Without a real British Pacific Fleet they had no proper purpose. When that fleet finally arrived the group’s u
sefulness would dissolve entirely. Maybe the U.S. Navy thought it was a good way to keep Chadwick out of their hair. If so, they did not know him at all.
No doubt, thousands of miles away, in a bomb-proof bunker under Whitehall, a staff officer had stuck a little pin on a map to show the group had moved again. Somebody else might remark that it was good to see a bit of Anglo-American co-operation at this stage of the Far East campaign.
Buchan thought it more likely that nobody cared there either.
He was troubled too by the weather. It had worsened in the past twenty-four hours, with several bouts of violent tropical rains which had made such a drumming on the wooden flight deck they had even had to shout to each other on the bridge.
It was now October, usually a safe time for weather. The fierce storms of typhoon force were more prevalent in the early part of the year, but freak upheavals were not unknown. It was hard to accept that the fate of aircraft and men rested on flimsy information and the knowledge of an ex-schoolmaster. Syms, the Met. Officer, was competent enough, but he was no Greenwich expert.
He walked to the flying bridge and looked down at the deck. The rear part was full of fighters, and around them mechanics and members of the handling party moved like worshippers with lifeless idols. It was time Chadwick told them it would be called off, he thought. He had even allowed the gunnery people and armourers to prepare the massive five-hundred-pounders which the Seafires would carry to their prescribed target.
He lifted his glasses and moved them slowly across the ships ahead and around him. They had been joined by four destroyers of the Royal Australian Navy, and with a total absence of helpless merchantmen the group had taken on the appearance of a proper naval task force. But only the appearance of one.
A bosun’s mate said, ‘Call from the Operations Room, sir.’ He kept his hand over the telephone. ‘It’s the admiral, sir.’
‘Captain speaking, sir.’ He watched the nearest destroyer through the salt-smeared glass. Lifting and plunging. A thoroughbred.
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