J. E. MacDonnell - 025

by The Blind Eye(lit)

  At first the bridge team had been exultantly alert, positive in their belief that the two destroyers would make short work of this interloper in Allied waters. But as the hours wore on towards midnight, and the charges exploded, and the ship shook, and the target was lost, and regained, and still maintained its twisting, dropping evasions, certainty dwindled to hope, and then to anger and frustration.

  Bentley, his face composed in the upward light of the binnacle, but beginning to line with strain, was worried about their continued lack of success. Yet he had a larger worry. He had been throwing charges over like chicken-feed, and he knew that his supply was dangerously depleted. They had now more than 300 miles between them and base, and at sea you never knew what you might be faced with. A signal had told him the Antelope was in the same undesirable state.

  For the twentieth time he watched his consort destroyer, a grey shape in the night, move in for her attack. It was natural that his mind should revert to thought of the weapon whose existence the admiral had revealed. Oddly, he found in that existence not so much a desire to have it with him now as a justification for his failure. Certainly months, possibly years, had gone into the weapon's design and building, and that precious time had been spent on that particular project because plainly the normal depth-charges in use were lacking in hundred per cent, efficiency. He and many other escort-ship captains had proved that before-he was proving it now.

  Submarines, when skilfully handled, are very difficult birds to kill. Luck might place a first pattern within a few feet of a pressure hull and crack it open to the hungry sea. Luck might also work for the opposite side. It was working overtime here.

  Bentley had made up his mind before Antelope's charges hurled the water sky-high. They had not sunk the enemy, but they'd certainly frightened hell out of him! If he escaped, he would think more than twice before tackling this unhealthy area again. The thunderous boom of sound reached them. They waited, some searching the empty sea astern, others listening to the asdic transmissions. They had become so used to the double sounds that Peacock's voice reported before they realised that the peep was missing.

  "Contact lost."

  "Breaking-up noises?" Bentley asked quickly, "Anything at all?"

  "Nothing, sir."

  He breathed in, a slow tired breath. He knew he should leave now, that he could meet a good deal of unpleasantness over 300 miles of open ocean, and that he had little enough to meet it with. But he had to know...

  "Starb'd twenty. Carry out searching sweep."

  Fifteen minutes went by, twenty, half an hour. Nothing, Battlewise, Bentley had his radar sweep continuously round a full arc, conscious that his elusive enemy might have surfaced, and be running for his life at 18 knots while they probed for him 200 feet down. Nothing.

  Randall stepped up on to the grating. Captain Turnbull had long since gone below, not understanding, and tiring of the fruitless game."

  "I'm calling it off," Bentley muttered. "We've got three patterns left."

  The dimly visible bow swooped on over the sea, the waves hissed down her sides, the wind of her passage sighed in the mast rigging. The night all about them was quiet and velvety and concealing.

  "You think we got him that last run?" Randall said.

  "I don't know. I don't think so. We've lost him before."

  "We've also scared the pants off him," Randall suggested. `That I do know!'" Bentley said.

  His voice was tired, bitter. He tugged nervously at the skin of his throat. "We can't flap around here all bloody night," he grunted. His head turned decisively. "Yeoman?"

  Ferris, older than any officer on the bridge, had been on it since four o'clock that afternoon. His voice came crisp and alert:

  "Sir?"

  "Make to Antelope-`Disengage. Take station astern. Speed 25 knots, course 205.'"

  "Aye, aye, sir!"

  The shaded Aldis lamp clicked on and off. A small dim eye opened from Antelope's bridge. Wind Rode heeled on the turn, and her consort swung in behind her. Thwarted, not at all sure of victory, their asdic and bridge teams wearied with strain, the destroyers steadied on the base course and dug their tails down for home.

  There was no need for the captain to concern himself with the comfort of his new guests. The ship's organisation had seen to their bedding down, Hooky and the gunner's mate-with the coxswain closed-up at the wheel-distributing the nurses in the iron-deck messdeck and its former occupants reluctantly bedding down with their male fellows on the foc's'le messes.

  There was a spare cabin down aft. It took Captain Turnbull and his first mate. The rest of the merchantman's officers made themselves comfortable in the wardroom.

  Landis the surgeon had reported no wounded, and Bentley was relieved. But that was as far as his interest went. He had rescued the survivors, he had nearly lost his ship in the process, he had had a viciously frustrating night, and sighting of his passengers could wait till the morning. Not even a destroyer captain is psychic, so Commander Bentley merely grunted an acknowledgment to the salute he received on the deck outside his sea-cabin, and moved on into the passage. He saw that the man was Petty-Officer Gellatly, and that he was talking to a nurse: a perfectly normal situation, one which Bentley could not be expected to forecast would have considerable effect on his fairly-immediate future.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WIND RODE AND ANTELOPE anchored in their trot at a little after 1.30 of a hot afternoon.

  The report of the rescue and the ensuing attack had to be made, but it could have been sent by signal, or by boat. Bentley had decided otherwise. He finished making the report and sent his messenger for the first-lieutenant.

  "Yes, sir?" Randall said at the door.

  "Come in, Bob. Take a pew. How'd you like a look-see round the flagship?"

  Randall had known his captain a long time. He looked at him shrewdly.

  "I have to deliver this," Bentley said calmly, and tapped the report.

  "I see. You're not usually so personally interested..."

  "Not in the report, no."

  Randall grinned, suddenly.

  "Ah," murmured Bentley, "I see the dawn of realisation."

  "Damn good idea!" Randall nodded. "We leave now? Right. I'll get the boat alongside."

  A destroyer's motorboat is lacking in Rolls Royce qualities of silent running, and they spoke little on the trip across the busy harbour. Bentley was thinking that this was the only way he could get on board the flagship-she was wholly British-manned, and his sole acquaintance on board was the admiral...

  But he himself had seen the stream of callers for the big cabin, and more would not be noticed. He would not, of course, ask to see the admiral, but would make his contact with the ship's commander. This officer wore similar rings to himself, though he was much superior in seniority, being the battleship captain's deputy.

  The commander no doubt would be surprised at this personal delivery, and Bentley decided he would justify it by stating that he considered the presence of an enemy submarine so close into the coast of some importance.

  He saw that the motorboat coxswain was heading for the starb'd ladder, the entrance reserved for commanding-officers and others of like eminence, and he knew that would mean the spotlight of a piping party. But he could hardly alter the tradition-hallowed routine, much as he desired an unnoticed arrival.

  They climbed the ladder, the pipes shrilled out, curious faces turned, and the officer of the day saluted him. Bentley saw it was the same lieutenant who had taken him down to the admiral.

  "Good afternoon, sir."

  Bentley returned the salute, nodding.

  "Is the commander on board?"

  "Yes, sir. He's on the quarterdeck now-standing beside the after capstan. I'll take..."

  "Never mind. What is his name?"

  "Commander Letchford, sir."

  "Thank you," Bentley said, and walked aft Randall waited beneath the giant barrels of Y turret.

  Commander Letchford had never seen Bentley in
his life. But out of the edge of his eye he saw the tall officer walking briskly towards him, and turned. He was a man to whom keen observation was second nature-having 2,000 men and 40,000 tons of ship to look after-and he pegged the approaching officer instantly and accurately in his mind: three rings, young, executive, therefore a commanding-officer, or a second-in-command of a cruiser. But not British-he knew them all in the Fleet-therefore Australian; and being Australian he would belong to a destroyer-or vice versa.

  "Good afternoon, sir," Bentley said.

  Not only respectful, the commander judged-he would have to be that, on this quarterdeck-but pleasantly respectful. A pleasant-looking young fellow altogether.

  "My name's Bentley-Wind Rode"

  "How are you, Bentley?"

  Bentley took the proffered hand. Slight, he judged, three stone under his own weight-and, like so many of this British breed, all steel-wire beneath that cultured voice and courteous face.

  "My name is Letchford. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  Bentley consciously kept the understanding grin from his face. This officer was the approachable boy aboard the flagship, slightly less lordly than the captain, the man on whom all the complaints and requests from the other units of the great Fleet solidly fell. From destroyers especially. His voice was still courteous, but Bentley recognised an added quality-caution, born of experience. He had been senior officer of a flotilla of boats himself, and be would have treated an unexpected visit from one of his captains with the same cautious reserve.

  "No, thank you, sir-all well." The commander's smile grew a little. Bentley held out the manila envelope which contained on half a typewritten foolscap page the account of a rescue of 78 human beings and of an eight-hour hunt in darkness for an enemy submarine.

  The commander took the envelope. He glanced up from it to Bentley's face.

  "You went out on that rescue mission?"

  "That's right, sir. But we also contacted a submarine. He was quite close-in to the coast and I thought the admiral should know about it."

  "Of course. Ah-you don't wish to see the admiral... ?"

  "Good lord no! But if you'd put that in the right hands... ?"

  "I will do that, certainly." The keen eyes on Bentley were still courteous, but now a quizzical shrewdness had replaced the caution. "By the way," he said casually, tapping the envelope against one open palm, "I hear Wind Rode has put a man in against our chap for the heavyweight title."

  "Yes, that is so," Bentley answered, as casually.

  "The admiral was rather pleased about that. It seems no one else was keen to take on the big fellow. He's a stickler for physical fitness, you know. The admiral, I mean."

  "I've heard something to that effect."

  The commander made to place his foot on the handy capstan and changed his mind-the captain of the quarterdeck would have keelhauled any ordinary-seaman he caught doing that to the gleaming paintwork. He said, his mouth puckering a fraction:

  "I've heard something about your own boxing experience. Australian Fleet championship, wasn't it?"

  "Something like that. But it wasn't yesterday."

  "M'mm. Time marches on, and all that." His voice crispened. "All right, Bentley, I'll take care of this report. Is there anything else?"

  "No-o, not actually. Except that..."

  "Perhaps you'd like to walk round the ship?"

  "Why, I'd like that very much!"

  "Good. I'll arrange..."

  "Oh, please don't bother! We'll just wander around."

  "As you wish. Goodbye then."

  "Goodbye, sir."

  Bentley was approaching the twin barrels of Y turret when the voice stopped him.

  "Bentley?"

  "Sir?"

  "You'll find our chap sparring on the foc's'le."

  There was a fractional pause. Then the grins, open and unaffected, warmed between them.

  He picked up Randall and they walked forrard together.

  "Seems a nice bloke," Randall suggested, jerking his head aft towards the quarterdeck.

  "Nice," Bentley agreed, "and bright. He was awake up to us as soon as I gave him our address."

  "Yes," Randall grinned, "I heard the last information. Y'know- I suppose we could have just come on board and asked to watch their bloke? It would have been much simpler."

  "Not quite," Bentley shook his head. "I don't want him to know we're sufficiently interested-or worried-to come over and check his style."

  They walked past the base of the huge main-mast.

  "You are worried?" Randall asked.

  "No. Not yet. The sailors say this bird was amateur champion of England-but you know what sailors are!" Randall smiled, and Bentley went on: "I heard once-midshipman at the time-two sailors discussing with the utmost apparent accuracy of knowledge the bank account of a cruiser captain. A few months later, while I was learning how to cox a motorboat, the bowman told me-for a positive fact- that the commander used to beat his wife."

  "They get around," Randall grinned in agreement.

  "But not always on-course," Bentley added. "Ah-this looks like it."

  They eased their pace and came up behind a crowd of men. It was certainly the most novel situation for a boxing-ring Bentley had come across, but just as certainly it was being put to efficient use.

  There was a large open space of deck between the enormous barbettes of A and B turrets; the ring was temporary, but it was complete with ropes, padded corner posts, and canvas stretched tightly across the deck. Into his mind flashed a memory of he and Gellatly shuffling around in the few feet of space abaft the torpedo-tubes, and then his eyes fell on the main protagonist in this ring.

  The boxer was crouched, but patently he was as tall as Bentley. There the resemblance ended. The Australian was lithe and muscled: this man was shouldered massively, and thick all the way down to his bulging calves. His back was towards Bentley, and his head was covered with a leather protector. Then he punched, and side-stepped, and Bentley could see his face-not much of it outside the headgear, but enough to give the destroyerman an impression of harsh and brutal ugliness.

  "Hell's... bells!" said Randall softly and slowly beside him.

  Bentley agreed, but be did not answer. He touched the shoulder of a man in front of him. The seaman turned, recognising an officer and a stranger.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What is the name of the big fellow?"

  "Why, that's Fairy, sir."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Fairy, sir. Fairy Floss. His name's Floss..."

  "I see," Bentley murmured, and even through the concern he felt be could not help smiling. Anything more completely dissimilar to a fairy... "He's your entry in the heavyweight title?"

  The seaman nodded, smiling back. This bloke, whoever he was, seemed pleasant enough.

  "That's right, sir. Smasher, ain't he? I wouldn't like to be the china from that destroyer what's takin' him on!"

  The smile went with the last words. Here's one barracker Floss won't have, Bentley realised. In the next second he knew why. A collective grunt rose from the crowd as the sparring partner, a much lighter man than Floss, reeled back from a vicious left hook. Floss was after him like a panther, but he did not strike again. He leaned heavily on his opponent, tiring him with his weight, and his right hand came round and delivered a punishing blow to the kidneys.

  You swine, Bentley thought-dirty-punching swine; and he was briefly surprised at how angry he felt. The other boxer sagged. He stared up and muttered something. Floss pushed him away, a powered shove that had the smaller man falling against the ropes. Floss ignored him. He danced round the ring, shadow-sparring, and his voice sneered at them:

  "About as good as my ole woman! Come on then, you bastards, I ain't gonna fight with meself all bloody day!" He halted his exhibition, staring at them. "Well, wot about it? Wot about all your bets? You want this destroyer mug to take me?"

  "All right, Fairy," a voice spoke, and a big stoker bent and ducked
through the ropes. He tugged off his boots, and Bentley glanced at Floss. But the ugly face was grinning-apparently he delighted in his grossly inappropriate nickname.

  "But none of them kidney punches," the new sparring partner warned. "I'll sink me boot where it hurts if you do."