by Edwyn Gray
You’re too damned right, Hamilton thought to himself as he replaced his cap, saluted, and left Snark’s airless cabin. No brass-hat was going to tell him to leave his ship undefended in the face of enemy attack. And he doubted whether the other officers would be any more successful in the task. After two years of combat operations, he was unlikely to be convinced of his errors by a group of officers who had never fired a gun in anger....
The Officer’s Club was conveniently close to the guard ship and Hamilton picked his way through the traffic on the Bund and slowly walked up the sweep of the wide stone steps leading to the entrance. The cold bite of the air- conditioning was a welcome relief after the sweltering heat on the waterfront. As Hamilton removed his cap, a white- coated Chinese attendant bowed him obsequiously towards the main bar - an attractive, spacious room overlooking the harbor, with a long polished mahogany counter, a glittering display of inviting bottles, and deep comfortable club armchairs.
He settled himself on a leather-topped stool and lit a cigarette. The bartender, a retired chief petty officer wearing a row of ribbons from the Kaiser war on his white mess jacket, put down the glass he was polishing and came over to take his order.
‘A large Scotch with ice.’
Bennett put his glass under the optic, measured out a generous double Haig, and deftly added two large lumps of ice. He put it down in front of Hamilton with a cheerful grin.
‘New in, sir?’ he asked.
‘This afternoon,’ Hamilton nodded. The bite of the whisky helped to calm his still ruffled temper. ‘The trouble with this place is they don’t know there’s a war on.’ He tilted the glass and swallowed the remains of the whisky in one gulp. ‘Another double,’ he told the bartender. ‘If you ask me, the only way to look at Hong Kong is through the bottom of a glass.’
Bennett grinned tactfully and went back to the Haig. A small group of officers were gathered further along the bar, and he watched as one of them got up from his stool and walked across to the new arrival.
‘You must be from the submarine?’
Hamilton nodded as the lieutenant commander held out his hand. ‘Welcome to Hong Kong- my name’s Ottershaw, Harry Ottershaw. I run one of the gunboats- Firefly. We’re berthed down by the Star Ferry Pier.’
Hamilton gripped Ottershaw’s hand firmly. ‘Nick Hamilton - Rapier,' he acknowledged by way of introduction. ‘Just in from the Med. And I can’t say I think much of your C-in-C’s welcoming committee.’
Ottershaw perched himself on the empty stool next to Hamilton and grinned. ‘We heard about your spot of bother with the Japs. I’m afraid the authorities don’t like it when we start shooting back. I expect you got a rocket from Snark.’
Hamilton shrugged. ‘I can look after myself,’ he said defensively. ‘But I’m damned if I’m going to apologize.’
Ottershaw smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to, old man. Most of us have had to eat humble pie with the Japs at various times since we’ve been on the Station. It’s all part of the way of life out here.’ He glanced up as his drinking companions came down the bar to join him.
‘This is Mike Grimshaw - another gunboat man,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘And Jock McVeigh. They’ve both been out here for so long they’re practically natives. This is Nick Hamilton, chaps, skipper of the sub we saw coming in this afternoon.’
Hamilton shook hands and called Bennett across to order another round of drinks for his new colleagues. As he turned away from the counter, he saw Grimshaw looking at the ribbon of the DSO on his breast. The gunboat commander frowned thoughtfully for a moment and then broke into a wide grin.
‘Of course - I thought your face looked familiar. You must be the chap who rescued the prisoners from Nordsee last year. Your picture was splashed all over the newspapers at the time.’ He raised his glass in salute. ‘Good to have you with us. But what the devil are you doing in a dump like Hong Kong? I thought they only posted us old has-beens out here.’
Hamilton shrugged. ‘I’ve been asking myself the same question ever since I received my orders. What the hell am I supposed to do with an operational submarine on a peacetime station - sit around and make myself look pretty all day?’
Ottershaw exchanged glances with his companions. ‘You’ll have plenty to do, old boy. We might not be directly involved in the war out here, but we manage to get ourselves shot at on most patrols. And it’s not only the Japanese. Everyone seems to be trigger-happy in China.’
‘Except the British,’ Hamilton said pointedly.
‘We call it restraint,’ the lieutenant commander corrected him gently. ‘But we have our moments. We’re permitted to open fire on certain occasions. But most of the time our orders are to keep out of trouble and achieve our ends by negotiation.’
‘Most of us felt the same as you when we arrived out East,’ Grimshaw intervened. ‘But you must live and learn. It’s a tricky problem. And as you’ll soon discover, we’re in no shape to take on the Japs in a full-scale war.’
Hamilton remained skeptical. ‘They ran off soon enough when Rapier gave ’em a taste of their own medicine. What they need is a sharp lesson.’
‘Aye - perhaps they do,’ McVeigh conceded. ‘But just watch out and make sure ye dinna learn one yeself.’ Ottershaw glanced at his watch. He could see Hamilton was in no mood to be objective and it seemed a diplomatic moment to withdraw. No point in rubbing a newcomer up the wrong way on his first day ashore.
‘Come on chaps. We’ll just be in time for the five o’clock at Happy Valley.’ He put his empty glass on the bar and smiled at Hamilton. ‘That’s the local racecourse,’ he explained. ‘You’ll find most of the Navy there during the season. Why not join us tomorrow?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve asked for an appointment with the Governor tomorrow. I expect I’ll see you in here again once I’ve sorted things out.’
Like hell I will, he promised himself as the three officers went out. I’m used to fighting seamen - not bloody cocktail commanders. He stared broodingly at the bottles glittering against the mirror behind the bar counter. Perhaps if he got roaring drunk he’d feel better. He called Bennett over and ordered another double.
The ex-chief petty officer filled his glass, dropped in the regulation two ice cubes, and placed the drink down on the bar top.
‘I know what you’re thinking, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘But you’ve got it all wrong. They have to put up a show to hide their feelings. They hate the Jap’s guts just as much as you do. But the Navy’s under strict orders out here. They’re merely doing what they’re told.’
‘It’s a convenient excuse, chief. But it won’t wash with me. This war has taught me how to look after myself- and my boat.’
‘I know it isn’t my place to go talking behind their backs, sir...’ Bennett lowered his voice. ‘But those three gentlemen ’ave all seen plenty of action in their time. Take the Lieutenant Commander. He was at Narvik in Lapwing - ’ad it sunk under his feet in a runnin’ fight with three Jerry destroyers. And not before he’d taken one of ’em to the bottom with ’im. He might tell you about it one day, but I doubt as ’e will. And old Jock McVeigh won his first DSO in 1919 against the Bolsheviks in the Baltic. Then he ups and gets a bar at Dunkirk. They sent ’im out here for a rest and what ’appens? A Jap sentry puts two bullets in his arm when he tries to tow one of the Jardine & Mathieson steamers out of trouble up the Yangtse earlier this year.’
Hamilton drained his glass. ‘Thanks, Chief. You’ve probably saved me from making a bloody fool of myself. It’s my own fault for judging by appearances. But with that sort of service behind them, why the hell do they let the Japanese walk all over them?’
Alf Bennett picked up an empty glass and started polishing it. ‘You’ll find out, sir,’ he said dismally. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
It was almost dark when Hamilton finally left the club, and the short tropical twilight had already deepened into a velvet blackness by the time he reached the quayside. R
apier was berthed between two destroyers and a precariously long gangplank stretched out across the murky water to the nearest ship, Thracian. Hamilton considered it carefully for several moments and then launched himself on to it a trifle unsteadily. The swaying of the gangway did not help his equilibrium but, squaring his shoulders and staring straight ahead, he managed to stay on the narrow planking.
A marine sentry was guarding the far end and saluted smartly as he saw the officer approaching.
‘Your pass, sir.’
Hamilton grabbed at a stanchion to maintain his balance and blinked at the burly figure blocking the step on to the destroyer’s deck. He was not drunk, but the whisky, after an enforced abstinence of almost a fortnight, was making his head swim.
‘Lieutenant Hamilton - Rapier.’
‘Sorry, sir. Must see your pass. Captain’s orders.’
‘I am the captain, man. Let me through.’
Somehow the Marine corporal contrived to expand, so that his already large body completely blocked the shipboard exit from the gangway. He shone his night-lamp on Hamilton’s face.
‘No, you ain’t, sir - with respect. Never seen you before.’ He moved his head slightly and spoke to someone standing in the shadow of the starboard cutter. ‘Nobby, go and fetch the OOW- this ’ere bloke says he’s the Captain.’
‘Not of this boat, Corporal,’ Hamilton snapped impatiently, as the unseen Nobby vanished in the direction of the quarter-deck in search of the officer of the watch. ‘I’m in command of Rapier, the submarine berthed alongside.’
‘Let’s see your pass then, sir,’ Isaacs said stolidly. He was a man of somewhat limited conversational power.
The cool night air had cleared Hamilton’s head, although it had done little to assuage his temper. He was about to give the corporal the full benefit of his impatience when he heard the sharp footsteps of the destroyer’s OOW approaching.
‘What’s going on, Corporal?’ The question was asked in the high-pitched voice that Hamilton detested, and he squinted through the darkness at the OOW’s uniform to see if he could pull rank. He was disappointed by the two gold rings on Jessop’s epaulettes. Despite his growing irritation, he bottled his temper. After all, he reminded himself, the marine corporal was only carrying out his orders.
‘Gentleman trying to come aboard without a pass, sir,’ Isaacs explained portentously. ‘Says he’s the Captain.’
Lieutenant Jessop epitomized everything Hamilton hated about the Royal Navy. He was immaculately dressed in his tropical whites, with shorts just that trifle too long and the tops of his white stockings adjusted with almost mathematical exactitude an inch below his knees. Hamilton suppressed a snort of derision as he saw the telescope tucked under his arm in the approved Dartmouth fashion. Unaware of the impression he had made, Jessop stepped forward and examined the visitor carefully with his shaded lamp.
‘He’s not the Captain,’ he confirmed to the corporal, in a tone suggesting an important discovery.
Hamilton clenched his hands. He had an enormous desire to push the pompous little duty officer into the sea, but he restrained the impulse. ‘I am Lieutenant Hamilton - Commanding Officer of the Rapier. My boat is berthed to seaward and my only means of access is via your gangway. Now if you have completed this little farce, perhaps you’ll let me go aboard my own boat!’
‘He don’t have a pass, sir,’ Isaacs pointed out impassively.
‘Of course, I don’t have a pass. We only arrived today and I was immediately called ashore to see Captain Snark. I know nothing of your security system, but no doubt I can come to some amicable arrangement with your Captain in the morning. Right now I just want to get aboard my own boat.’
‘We have to make sure the Chinese don’t get into the ship,’ Jessop explained earnestly. ‘That’s why we have passes.’
‘Good God, man! Do I look like a bloody Chinaman?’ Hamilton exploded.
Jessop agreed that he didn’t. But without the magical pass, there appeared to be no way of crossing the threshold on to Thracian’s deck. Hamilton fumed in the darkness and weighed up his chances of bursting past the gangway guard. He concluded, however, that Corporal Isaacs was a trifle too solid to be swept aside.
‘Look, Lieutenant,’ he gritted. ‘I know I don’t have a pass. But perhaps if my Number One was called over to identify me that would suffice until the morning?’
Jessop visibly brightened. ‘Sounds a good idea, old man. Styles! Go across to the submarine, give the Executive Officer my compliments, and ask him to come to the gangway.’ Nobby merged back into the shadows again on his latest errand, while Jessop endeavored to fill the interval with his own brand of light conversation.
‘Sorry about all this, old man. Have to take all these precautions, you know. Can’t have any of these damned Chinese on board - never know what they’ll get up to.’
‘I would have thought it more important to worry about the Japanese,’ Hamilton said sourly. ‘I was under the impression that the Hong Kong Chinese were on our side.
The sarcasm was lost on Jessop. His high-pitched laugh reminded Hamilton of a donkey braying. ‘To be frank, old boy, I can’t tell the difference. Both look the same to me. But I take a jaundiced view.’ He sniggered at his own tasteless pun.
‘This should be Mannon,’ Hamilton interrupted, as he heard the footsteps echoing across the deck planking. The tall familiar figure of the Rapier’s executive officer ducked under the blast screen of the for’ard gun, and grinned cheerfully as he recognized the skipper.
‘Thank the Lord you’ve arrived, sir,’ he said without ceremony. ‘We’re having a spot of trouble on board - your girlfriend refuses to leave. Keeps on telling us you’re her master. The other two are just as bad - gibbering away like a wagonload of monkeys.’
Jessop’s jaw dropped incredulously. He’d heard that submarines were a piratical undisciplined bunch - but to have their own women aboard! He looked at Hamilton and gulped.
‘Okay, Number One,’ Hamilton said cheerfully. ‘I’ll come and sort them out.’ He nodded towards Jessop. ‘Our friend here wants you to identify me. Seems I don’t have the right visiting card.’
Jessop was feeling slightly demoralized. He stepped back from the gangway as if Hamilton’s licentiousness would contaminate him. Women aboard one of His Majesty’s ships! What next? He forced his mouth into a ghastly smile.
‘We can waive the formalities, Lieutenant Hamilton. I’m sure there is a great deal to be attended to on your boat - please proceed.’
‘You’ll have a word with your skipper in the morning and arrange about the passes? I don’t want my men going through this charade every time they come aboard.’ Hamilton made his way to the port side and paused as he reached the narrow gangplank leading down on to the Rapier’s fore casing. ‘By the way, old boy,’ he said casually. ‘Can we borrow one of your boats? Got to get rid of the evidence, you know.’
Jessop’s shudder was mercifully hidden from view by the darkness. Surely they didn’t intend to dump the women overboard. He recovered his composure. They probably wanted to ferry them ashore without being seen.
‘There’s a dinghy and a jolly boat tied up to the portside boom.
Hamilton guessed what was going through his mind. He started down the gangway to the submarine, grinning to himself. Jessop seemed such a bloody fool he couldn’t resist a parting shot.
‘Thanks, old boy. And don’t worry if you hear a splash. It’ll only be my Number One disposing of the bodies.’ He winked broadly at Mannon. ‘That’ll give the pompous little prick something to think about,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Now let’s go down and get our guests sorted out.’
The two Chinese seamen and the girl were squeezed into the control room, with what appeared to be at least half of Rapier’s ship’s company. The three survivors were strenuously resisting the combined efforts of the submariners to drag them out on deck, and jabbering wildly to anyone who would listen. The arrival of the captain brought the fight to an a
brupt stop and the men straightened up respectfully as Hamilton ducked through the forward hatch and entered the brightly fit compartment.
‘Sorry about the commotion, sir,’ Blood apologized anxiously. ‘But we can’t get these bloody Chinks to leave the boat. And I can’t make head nor tail of what they’re yelling about.’
Hamilton turned to the three Chinese, who immediately threw themselves on to their knees and began kowtowing to him.
‘Mister Captain,’ Chen Yu began. ‘We no go. We belong you. British sailors no understand.’
Hamilton hid his smile and looked sternly at his unwanted guests. Having made his speech, Chen Yu was again bowing with frantic urgency, while his companion kept his face pressed against the deck. The girl, however, sat back on her haunches and looked the lieutenant straight in the eye.
‘You know ancient customs, sir. I am yours. You no want?’
At that precise moment Hamilton decided he wanted her very much. Now that she had recovered from her ducking, she looked delicately pretty with a soft mouth and dark, inviting eyes. And, despite the unflattering shapelessness of the submariner’s sweater someone had lent her, he could see the promise of her slender body. He motioned them to get up off their knees.
‘I did a tour out here in 1937,’ he told Mannon, as the two men and the girl got up from the deck. ‘It’s a custom amongst the river people. If a Chinaman is saved from drowning, he becomes the property of his rescuer for the rest of his life.’