A Dawn Like Thunder

by Douglas Reeman

  ‘We were sent here to seek out targets. We now have one. This operation comes rather earlier than we might have hoped, but speed is of the utmost importance.’

  He moved to the map and pointed with a long pair of brass dividers. ‘Here we are, Trincomalee. From this point the attacking force will head due east, then around the northern reaches of Sumatra and into the Malacca Strait.’ He thought he saw the hint of a smile on Villiers’ lips. An old memory perhaps, or something else entirely. ‘This track has been used for months by our submarines, for landing reconnaissance parties and agents and recovering them when their missions were completed. A hard job at the best of times, and the confines of the Strait have added to the difficulties.’ He glanced at the bearded submariner and saw several heads turn towards him. ‘Bob Jessop is no stranger to those waters, and he will be carrying the chariots and their crews to this destination.’ The dividers made the map shiver. ‘Salanga. Intelligence have reported that the Japs are building a new r.d.f. installation there, as near to radar as makes no difference. Because of the many islets and other hazards, our submarines always have to surface some six miles away. In the past, for landing special parties, that has been barely sufficient. But we have now learned that the enemy has moved three or four MA/SBs into the nearby harbour.’

  He saw one of the Wrens bend over to ask Peter Napier something and added, ‘Sorry. Motor Anti-Submarine Boats. Not exactly a fleet, but with some form of advance warning just one of them would be enough to tear out of harbour and pinpoint our submarine.’

  Peter was watching him intently and Ross noticed that his hand, which had been resting against the Wren’s on the table, did not withdraw.

  ‘We will complete final arrangements tomorrow, but the two chariots for the operation will be Lieutenant Walker’s and the new arrival, Sub-Lieutenant Napier’s.’ He saw some surprise, perhaps resentment, on the faces of the others at the latter choice, and said calmly, ‘Peter Napier’s chariot is newer and of slightly different design. It is what he has become used to.’ They were in fact faster, had a better range and carried almost double the charge of Torpex in their warheads.

  He tried not to watch Peter’s elation, as if it was one huge game. A privilege and a prank rolled into one. He saw him grip the girl’s hand and whisper something, and the way she looked back at him.

  It was then that he noticed the Wren petty officer, Victoria Mackenzie. She had been sitting slightly behind the other choice, Lieutenant Walker, the Canadian, her hair very black and shining in the hard lights. She too was taking notes. As he spoke she looked directly at him. ‘Operation Emma – this seems only right as it is timed for Trafalgar Day. I think the little admiral would have approved.’

  He watched their faces, more composed now. Remembering those other raids, familiar faces which had not returned. He said, ‘I do not have to remind you of the very real danger in this or any other such plan. If you are captured . . .’ He paused. ‘No, let’s think of Emma.’

  He was caught off guard by a sudden outburst of clapping and stamping feet. He saw Walker, the Canadian, applauding and grinning at him and tried not to think that after tomorrow they might never meet again.

  The door banged open and they all stood up as Pryce thrust into the room. He looked directly at Ross and then waved one hand in front of his face. ‘What a bloody stench in here! Thought the whole place was going up in smoke!’ Then he smiled. ‘There will be drinks in the wardroom tonight, gentlemen. In the chief and petty officers’ mess too. Compliments of Rear-Admiral Dyer.’ He coughed and added wryly, ‘Ossie. Though God knows how we’ll get the money from him!’

  For most of them it was the closest thing to a joke Pryce had ever been heard to make.

  The meeting began to break up, the invisible barriers between officers and other ranks asserting themselves once more.

  Pryce said, ‘Went well, I thought. Good show.’

  ‘I’d like to go along in Turquoise, sir.’

  He had expected, at best, an argument, but Pryce nodded. ‘Capital. This time anyway. It might have to be called off at the last minute. Your being there would keep up morale.’ He nodded again, his hawk nose like a beak. ‘Good thinking – er, Jamie.’

  Ross turned to look for the girl named Victoria but she had already gone.

  In twos and threes they left the building, trying to avoid the moonlit puddles as they made their way back to the makeshift wardroom.

  Pryce sat alone in his office, staring at the door. One jump ahead. Instinct or some inner warning, he never questioned it.

  ‘Come!’ It was a hesitant tap at the door.

  He looked at her impassively. ‘Ah, Victoria. You’ve got something?’

  She crossed the office to his desk. ‘I have just decoded it, sir.’ She looked quite shocked, without her usual self-assurance.

  ‘But you know what it says?’ He softened his voice slightly. ‘Come on, Victoria. I’m not a mind-reader.’

  For an instant, but no longer, her tawny eyes flashed with anger.

  She said, ‘It’s addressed to you, sir. Restricted.’

  It was brief. He could almost feel her watching him as he read it.

  He said, ‘Lieutenant-Commander Ross’s father has been killed in a salvage accident.’

  There was a long silence. Then she asked, ‘Will you tell him, sir, or . . . ?’

  He toyed with the idea of offering her a drink, and dismissed it just as quickly. One jump ahead. Never forget.

  It would not do. At any enquiry, let alone a court martial, the gesture might well be seen as something very different.

  He said, ‘Can you keep a secret?’ He saw her flinch as if he had sworn at her. ‘Until Operation Emma is over, one way or another? There’s nothing he can do, and it might deflect his attention from the job in hand. You do see that.’

  ‘I – I suppose so, sir.’

  Pryce began to relax very slightly. The chink in the armour. ‘You saw and heard them in Ops this evening. You were there. They’re depending on him, surely you must have seen that?’

  She stared at the signal on his desk as if it were something obscene. ‘I shall tell nobody, sir.’

  He said, ‘Not even the Colonel.’

  She looked at him, calm again, defiant, the Victoria he trusted. ‘No, not even my father, sir.’

  The door closed and after a momentary hesitation he put a match to the signal and let it burn to ashes.

  The girl stood on the wet pathway and looked at the moon. Then she heard footsteps and saw a white figure looming out of the darkness. It was the new sub-lieutenant, Peter Napier. There was some special link between him and Ross, but she could not decide what it was.

  He asked brightly, ‘Have you seen Lieutenant-Commander Ross, my dear?’

  So young, she thought, so very young, not like the others, who were young only in years.

  She shook her head. ‘No. He’s not with Captain Pryce.’

  ‘They’re all waiting for him.’ He sounded lost, suddenly unsure, and she recalled Pryce’s incisive voice as if he had just spoken. They’re depending on him, surely you must have seen that?

  ‘I was wondering. When this stunt is over, perhaps we could have a run ashore together?’

  She was glad he could not see her face. He seemed to be doing quite well with the Wren who had sat beside him at the meeting. Perhaps anyone would do.

  She said coolly, ‘We’ll have to see.’ Then she turned impulsively and added, ‘Good luck with Emma. We’ll all be thinking of you.’

  She watched him melt away. Another hero? Or another telegram?

  She considered Pryce again. So cold, so certain of everything. He always referred to her father as ‘The Colonel’. So that she should never be allowed to forget.

  She heard noisy singing from the wardroom, and wondered if Ross was there with his soft-spoken friend, the other new arrival, Villiers.

  Somebody else was hurrying in that direction: it was her superior, Second Officer Clarke.
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  ‘Glad I caught you, Victoria. Can you hold the fort for me for a couple of hours? I’ll fix it with Base Operations.’ She could barely contain her excitement as she faced towards the singing.

  ‘Of course, ma’am.’ Who would she be sleeping with next? She never seemed to have any trouble.

  She watched the other woman continue towards the wardroom; she was almost running.

  Then she stared into the greater darkness where even the lights would not reach. What is wrong with me? Some heavy drops of warm rain fell on her shirt. She was alone.

  The Turquoise’s wardroom, like most of its kind, was small, compact and functional. The bunks that filled much of the compartment mostly had their curtains drawn, their occupants clinging to this small measure of privacy before going on watch again or returning to their other duties.

  Ross sat at the table, toying with his mug of sweet tea and listening to the familiar sounds of a submarine running submerged, her electric motors making barely a tremble. A calm sea, the skipper, Bob Jessop, had said, and so it had been for the five leisurely days it had taken them to reach this point on the chart.

  He could hear gentle snores from one curtained bunk and some restless thrashing about from another. Should the scream of the alarm klaxon shatter the stillness he knew from experience that these same men, like the others who were resting throughout the boat, would be at their stations in seconds, some of them probably not even realizing how they had got there. They had surfaced during the night to start the noisy diesel engines in order to charge the precious batteries and ventilate the boat. It would be the last time until the operation was finished. Or cancelled. He glanced at his watch: seven in the morning. He tried to remember what the time had been when Nelson had sighted the combined fleets of the enemy on this October day.

  He heard sounds from the galley, which was only paces away, its smells of cabbage-water and greasy food constant reminders.

  A whole day before they would leave Turquoise and head for the land.

  And I will not be going with them.

  He opened his chart very carefully on the table, but even so the snoring stopped for a few moments. He could almost hear the unspoken complaint: Don’t forget the poor bloody watchkeepers!

  As if on cue, a pair of feet emerged from a bunk and Peter Napier slid down beside him. He looked tousled but fresh, and Ross guessed that he probably did not have to shave yet in any case. He asked, ‘Want a look?’ and studied him as he leaned over the chart. How old was he – nineteen, twenty perhaps? And yet he seemed so much younger.

  He said, ‘We’ve just passed through the Great Channel, see? The Nicobar Islands to the north of us, and Sabang and the tip of Sumatra about forty miles to the south. Plenty of room, and over a thousand fathoms under the keel.’ He smiled. ‘For the moment, anyway.’

  Napier touched the chart. ‘And that’s our destination?’

  ‘Salanga Island is at the top of the Malacca Strait, which is about one hundred and sixty miles wide around there. It narrows quickly after that – even a submarine would find it tight. So if the Japs are putting some sort of radar on the island, it would make these landing operations even more hairy.’

  He watched his hand move on the chart as if it were thinking and planning independently. ‘Just follow the drill. If you think the observations don’t match the reports, you pull out.’ When Napier said nothing, he touched his arm. ‘Right?’

  ‘A piece of cake.’ He turned and looked at Ross, momentarily uncertain. ‘You wanted me out of this, didn’t you? Because of what happened to David. But, you see, I needed to do it. When it was offered, I took it with both hands!’

  Ross nodded. So like David for those few seconds: brown eyes, the vivid emotion on the face. Like that day he had wanted to call off the mission – the cruiser and the floating dock. David had not thought it was a ‘piece of cake’.

  ‘I’m sorry. I felt responsible.’ They both smiled. ‘I still do.’

  The messman paused by the curtained entrance. ‘Breakfast in about fifteen minutes, gents.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Tinned bangers and powdered egg! Just the job!’

  Ross sighed. They must have stomachs made of iron.

  ‘By the way.’ Napier sounded casual. ‘I met that pretty Wren before we shoved off from the base.’ He hesitated. ‘You know, the petty officer. A real dish.’

  Ross replied quietly, ‘You didn’t waste much time.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that. When I met her I was looking for you.’ He glanced only briefly at the curved deckhead as the hull gave a sudden shiver. ‘She was upset. I could tell.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I imagined it. I don’t think so. She’s not like the others.’

  ‘How so?’ It was good to let him talk. Whatever he showed outwardly, he must be nervous about the operation, his first. Or was it something else?

  ‘Well, I heard somebody say at the party that she’s – well, half-and-half, if you see what I mean?’

  Ross said, ‘I do believe you’re blushing.’ But all he could think of was her suppressed anger when she had entered Pryce’s office, as if she had known they were talking about her. He added lightly, ‘She’s probably cheesed off at being bothered by lovesick subbies!’

  ‘All the same . . .’ They both looked up as Turquoise’s commander strolled into the wardroom, yawning and scratching his black beard.

  ‘Any char yet?’

  A curtain twitched slightly. ‘Not so much bloody noise!’

  Jessop swiped the curtain where he imagined the occupant’s backside would be and growled, ‘Don’t be so bloody disrespectful to your captain!’ Then he grinned. ‘All quiet up top. I had a quick peek at first light. Like a mill-pond.’ He became businesslike again. ‘We received no signals when we were charging batteries last night. So it’s still on.’ He glanced at the chart. ‘Our chummy-boat landed a party of squaddies yesterday, so we would have heard something if that had misfired.’

  Ross, too, was looking at the chart, the neat lines and soundings, depths and compass variations, seeing it as it really would appear. Rocks, small beaches, and the headland where the radar station was said to be. He could guess what the bearded submariner was thinking. How could men volunteer for that kind of work? Put ashore to fend for themselves in an area known to be crawling with Japs. Sheer courage, or was it a kind of madness? An Australian major who had been instructing them in jungle warfare had said, ‘Keep it in your minds at all times. This enemy is like nothing you’ve known before. No use bleating about the Geneva Convention and a prisoner’s rights if you get captured. All the territory they’ve taken is held by fear, by sheer bloody savagery. So keep it in your minds. Get them first.’ He had stared around at their intent expressions, face by face. ‘They kill people like us,’ he had lingered over the final word, ‘eventually.’

  Ross thought suddenly of Villiers. He had actually gone back to Singapore, and he had no doubt that he would go again if it was suggested to him. And what of the girl in England, another man’s wife? Perhaps she might change his mind.

  Napier stood up and looked for his shoes. ‘I think I’ll go and see how my Number Two is getting on.’

  He left the wardroom and Jessop said thoughtfully, ‘When I fix a ship in my crosswires I try not to think of the people who are going to die when I fire a salvo. But this is different. I prefer my war.’ He grimaced suddenly. ‘God, smell those sausages! Whoever invented them should be marooned on a desert island for a year with nothing else to eat!’

  Ross knew his mind was somewhere else, planning, preparing in case the operation had already been discovered by the enemy. But he asked, and he was surprised at how calm he sounded, ‘By the way, what time did Our Nel first sight the combined fleet?’

  Jessop paused, a mug of tea halfway to his beard. ‘Six o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t until eleven-forty that Victory hoisted England Expects.’ Then he grinned broadly, his teeth very white through his beard. ‘That wou
ld have suited me, Jamie. One hell of a battle, but knowing that the admiral was up there, taking the shit with all the lads!’

  Peter Napier paused in the doorway of the heads and dabbed his lips with his handkerchief. He had been sick, without warning. Now, as he splashed his face with brackish water, he looked at himself in a mirror. He had heard Ross and Jessop laughing in the wardroom. The sound had helped to steady him, to restore him.

  But the face he saw in the glass was that of fear.

  The launching of the two chariots from Turquoise’s saddle-tanks had gone like clockwork, or one of those regular drills in Scotland. That was the only similarity: here, the sky was bright with moonlight and stars that appeared to be touching the water, and the sea was almost warm to the touch.

  Bill Walker, the Canadian lieutenant, had left first, his being a slower chariot than Napier’s newer model.

  Walker’s Number Two was a taciturn Tynesider named Nash. It was a marvel how they managed to understand one another.

  Peter Napier peered at the luminous dials of the compass and depth-gauge. He had tested everything within minutes of seeing the submarine swallowed up in the darkness; there had been no faults. He should have felt the usual excitement, that heady exhilaration which had so surprised him after his first dive. Ross had been on the submarine’s casing to see them depart, and Napier had sensed his disappointment at being left behind, as well as his concern for his dead friend’s brother: he had seen it in his eyes when they had gone through the last briefing before changing into their rubber suits.

  The briefing had been yet another grim reminder of danger and the possibility of death when they had packed their additional equipment inside their clothing. Known in the Special Operations Force as the Just in Case Kit, it had no longer seemed so funny with the mission and the land a sudden reality. It contained a pistol and ammunition, a small bag of gold sovereigns, compass, knife and compact tool kit, and a square of silk on which was written in several Oriental languages that the British government would reward anybody who helped the bearer in distress. And finally there had been a tablet of poison, as a last defence against capture and what would certainly follow.