J. E. MacDonnell - 025

by The Blind Eye(lit)

  She was heeling, well into the avoiding turn, when the fighters' wings jetted abruptly into flickering points of flame.

  The shells whined over the bridge and struck and burst against the funnel and mast. And from down aft, just forrard of the torpedo-tubes, Wind Rode snarled her challenge.

  There was only one pom-pom, and it took one target. The shells, visible as fiery tracer streaks, did not hose out low, or to left and right, and then elevate and train on. They bit directly at the fighters nose, a compact cone of meticulously-aimed disruption.

  The first fighter whipped overhead in a flashing bellow of sound. It seemed the pom-pom's target would follow. Until, a few feet from the ship's stern, the plane sagged abruptly as though it had flown into a vacuum. Only Wind Rode's hard-over swing saved her quarterdeck and the depth-charges packed on it. The port wing smacked into the stern, and ripped off a second before the rest of the aircraft plunged with a fan-spraying flash into the sea.

  "Midships," Bentley ordered, his voice thick, "starb'd twenty."

  He straightened from the voice-pipe and looked at Randall.

  "Gellatly's on the pom-pom," he said.

  Randall nodded, surprised.

  "Of course. I reported the ship closed-up."

  Of course... Bentley thought. He watched the single fighter dwindling to a speck to starb'd and his mouth twitched. The ship had been reported closed-up for action. He should have known then that Gellatly had obeyed the bells and risen from his sickbed. Of course...

  "Midships" he said, "steer 090."

  The destroyers were mainly left alone for the rest of the attack,

  Wind Rode and her sisters joined in the deluge of fire flung at the torpedo-bomber formations as they bore in for the battleships, and though no individual ship could claim a bird from that acreage of bursting steel, there were six low-flying bombers shot into the sea.

  The torpedo-bombers came in again, and again they were met by a barraged wall of exploding shells. Forced to unload at long range, they missed with every torpedo, the Fleet swinging ponderously out of the paths of the racing missiles.

  The high-level bombers, held off while their low-flying allies made their bid, were more successful.

  In they came, remote specks high in the blue, the drone of their engines a steady snarl of sound, their course steady, their intention malignant.

  The Fleet's flowers opened amongst them and two bombers changed into plumes of fiery red, the flames flattened back along the fuselages under the 300-knot resistance of the air. The stricken aircraft curved downwards in a steady, symmetrical arch and the rest of the formation moved steadily on. Well ahead of their target the bombs dropped, and came down in a forward arch to match that of the crashed aircraft.

  The flags hoisted up the flagship's foremast and the Fleet turned in obedience to starb'd. Watching, his orders given and executed, Bentley felt a sudden and fierce pride. Enough bombs to kill a thousand men were already in the air, dropping down, aimed to hit. And beneath this deadly rain the ships of the Fleet had turned on the order of a few bits of coloured bunting, hundreds of thousands of tons of steel swinging in unison on the order of one man like a squad of soldiers at drill.

  The bombs were aimed at the battleships and the admiral's order, and its experienced and instant execution, turned the targets in under the arch. It also swung the starb'd side cruisers in towards those curving black blobs, and from Bentley's forward position it was obvious that the three cruisers' future position would coincide with the entry point of the bombs.

  The admiral was in strict control of his Fleet, but individual squadron commanders could still take avoiding action. Bentley saw the leading cruiser's bow begin to swing, and the others follow. Too late. There were dozens of bombs, and a cruiser's deck is 600 feet long. The last ship in the line escaped with a shaking, a very close shave that brought her clear of the mess with her upper-decks streaming water. Her two companions ahead were smothered in an abrupt and colourful cape of white water, black smoke and red fire.

  The bombers sailed on, still high, still remote. They were receding targets, and in accordance with the strict gunnery rule that you forgot passed targets and swung about to meet the next oncomers, the guns of the Fleet fell silent.

  The drone of the aircraft and the thunder of the bombs drummed away to silence in the vastness of the surrounding blue. The sea was peaceful, the sun shone brightly, the guns were quiet. Only two things spoiled the tranquillity of the scene-the stench of burnt cordite which hung in a miasma round each ship, and smoke which poured its fouling columns into the sky from the burning cruisers.

  Bentley cast a quick look round his bridge. The lookouts were staring at their appointed sectors, the radar aerials still swung above him. Satisfied, he raised his glasses and laid them on the bombers' targets.

  The second cruiser of the line was apparently still under control. She was smoking, but she was swinging to starb'd to avoid her sister. This ship, 12,000 tons of eight-inch cruiser, was one huge smoke pall. Sick in his guts, Bentley realised she must have taken a full stick of bombs, a chain of disruption that had laced her from bow to quarterdeck.

  A cruiser's steel is thin, to give her long range and speed, and it had afforded her scant protection from the high-velocity entry of the bombs. Everything about her told its story to Bentley's experience- she was stopped, therefore her engine-rooms and boiler-rooms had been savaged; no signals recording damage or asking for assistance flashed from her bridge, therefore the bridge team was out of action; redness, fierce even against the competition of the sunlight, showed through her portholes, therefore armour-piercing bombs had burst inside her, blowing the dead-lights off the scuttles and firing her innards; and, as the final indication of the extent of her hurt, he saw men jumping from her smoke-wreathed decks and entering the water with minute, telling splashes.

  "She'll go up in a minute," Randall spoke throatily beside him.

  Randall was wrong. It was less than ten seconds after he had spoken when the 600ft.-wide wall of smoke was rent aside under some enormous and clearing breath. On Wind Rode's bridge they saw it plainly-some objects hurtling skyward like meteors, other pieces ascending slowly and gracefully, bigger pieces, turning over and over as they fell back towards the flattened sea.

  A warship like a cruiser, charged with shells and cordite and torpedoes from stem to stern, is a much more explosively volatile carrier than even an oil-tanker. Any one of those eight-inch magazines going up would have finished her, but the chain reaction had in a fractional instant of time fired the lot.

  The smoke wall welded together again, and now there was nothing there on the sea but that thick and boiling curtain.

  "From the flag, sir," Ferris called hoarsely

  "Pick up survivors."

  The reaction of Bentley's shocked mind was wholly automatic.

  "Starb'd thirty," he said.

  "Away seaboat's crew stand by lines and scrambling nets."

  Once again a rescue ship, Wind Rode heeled out of the line and creamed across the advance of the battleships. Two hours later, 48 men on board out of a complement of 650, she hauled herself clear of the stinking scum on the water and increased speed to overtake the homeward-bound Fleet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "SO YOU'RE LEAVING US?" Bentley smiled. The ship was at anchor in the harbour and he moved his head a little to escape the shaft of sunlight from the porthole. "Had enough destroyer time?"

  McQueen lifted his head and stared blankly at the captain.

  "God, it was horrible!" he said in a low voice. "Horrible."

  "It was," Bentley admitted, "but then it's all in the game. You yourself have got something down there that a Jap skipper might find just as horrible."

  His voice was crisp, curt almost. McQueen's were dangerous sentiments, ones which Bentley had long ago trained himself to subdue. If a surgeon must deny himself feelings of sympathy at the operating table, then a destroyer captain must deny himself even more stringently w
ith a hundred things to think of in the middle of an air-attack.

  "Speaking of your baby," he said, understanding McQueen's feelings, "what do you want done with it?"

  "I imagine the test will be conducted later on," the scientist said slowly. "Can't it stay where it is?"

  "All right," Bentley nodded. The weapon in its tube was surrounded by hundreds of tons of high-explosive-a ton or so more could not hurt "Now what about you? You're in a berth ashore?"

  "No. I'm victualled in the flagship. The admiral wanted it that way." He glanced at Bentley "Of course, I'll have to check with him about the weapon's staying here. And when the next test will be. But it should be all right."

  "I'm sure it will." Bentley grinned slightly. Wind Rode was stuck with the thing, and his experience of outlandish novelties in a Fleet told him that no one else would volunteer to take it off his hands Well..."

  Bentley had no need to cultivate the admiral's dismissive gesture of stubbing out a cigarette. His voice did perfectly well. McQueen stood up.

  "Thank you for having me," he said. "You'll be informed the time of the next test. Ah-by the way, good luck at the tournament. I think I shall come along and watch it."

  "Do that," Bentley smiled-and thought: it will take a hell of a lot more than a boxing tournament to wash out the taste you've got from this trip! You know a damn sight more about explosives now than ever you did...

  "Yes. Goodbye, sir."

  "Goodbye, McQueen. See you again."

  When he had gone Bentley sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping idly at the desk. He started to think about the scientist, about what a frightful shock that cruiser's blowing-up must have been to him, a man whose experience of war at sea must be nil. From there his thoughts moved on naturally to the cruiser, the sight she had made, the hell it must have been aboard her flaming decks...

  He pushed himself up abruptly and strode to the door.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Tell the chief bosun's mate I shall expect him in the torpedo-space in five minutes."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "I think that's everything," said Randall, looking round the pile of gear on the deck, "gloves, towels, bucket, shorts, boots... yep, the whole gubbins."

  They were standing in the burning afternoon sunlight on the quarterdeck near the gangway. Below them the motorboat waited. Most of Wind Rode's libertymen were already ashore, complete with the canvas chairs and boxes which would constitute their seating around the boxing ring. The tournament was due to start in an hour with the lightweight bouts, sun regardless-bright arc lamps at night might have brought vicious and unwelcome moths...

  "All," said Bentley, "except Gellatly."

  "He sent word he'd be right down," Randall told him. His voice lowered a little. "Look, old fellow, I'll be only too glad to act as second. Don't you think it would be better that way? After all, captain, first-lieutenant."

  "No," Bentley shook his head. "On the contrary. Democracy and all that."

  He was about to add more. Randall said it for him;

  "You want Gellatly to see this, don't you?"

  "That's right. Win or lose..."

  "And you also want Floss to see him there."

  "Badly," said Bentley, and running steps sounded along the deck.

  "Sorry, sir," Gellatly said, "the surgeon wanted a look at the sticking plaster."

  "Right," the captain said briskly-there was a limit even to democracy, and it was a long time since he had been kept waiting. "Into the boat."

  The area to which they had walked from the landing-steps was designated here as a football field: at home it would have made a first-class rough for a golf-course. But the tussocks and ruts were now hidden beneath the improvised seats of thousands of men, their faces directed towards the white square of canvas surrounded by its posts and ropes, inside the ring a man was standing.

  The Fleet Physical Training Officer owned a very sound brain in a healthy body. The admiral was sitting a few feet in front of him, and even if the P.T.O. had not known of his interest in sport the august officer's presence here would have indicated it.

  This tournament was the P.T.O.'s brainchild, this was his day, and he meant to make the most of it. He held up both hands and the mutter of the multitude died. Without benefit of electronic boosting his voice reached out to their impatient ears:

  "We are gathered here today... " a few grins, all dutiful, "to witness a battle which should remain in our memories for years to come. You have waited for this for weeks, and now we have the two protagonists face to face."

  He paused, the slow turning of his bead taking them all in.

  "Why doesn't the nitwit get on with it!" the admiral growled to his captain beside him. "I'm damn near dehydrated."

  "Luckily unaware of the impression he had caused, the P.T.O. got on with it:

  "Most of you have heard of Able-Seaman Floss, who hails from the flagship. From time to time, here and in the Mediterranean, you have seen him fight in tournaments. So I don't have to tell you what we can expect from him today."

  Floss was done with-the head turned again.

  "Nothing about the amateur title of England," Randall murmured to Bentley.

  "Sailors can be wrong," answered the captain tautly.

  "Opposing Able-Seaman Floss today," bawled the promoter, "we have someone who is a complete stranger to you. This is only natural-Commander Bentley is captain of an Australian destroyer, Wind Rode. You have not seen him before, neither have you seen him fight. But... " a hand came up, as though to stifle the non-existent murmuring, "there are plenty who have seen him fight."

  Blast you for an idiot, the admiral thought. This is what I wanted to avoid; build-up the seaman, not the commander.

  "To such effect," the P.T.O. was saying, "that he holds the heavyweight title of the Australian Navy."

  It was not difficult for the admiral to catch his attention-the

  P.T.O. was acutely aware of what was making the sun glint from the shoulders in front of him. So that he saw the short and negative gesture the admiral made.

  Wondering how he had goofed, the P.T.O. shouted:

  "And now I present... Commander Bentley and Able-Seaman Floss!"

  The two boxers walked lightly to the centre of the ring. So far as he knew, this was the first time Floss had seen him; Bentley looked into his eyes, smiled, and nodded. It was a deliberate gesture. He wanted no truck with a man who would deliberately punch into another's broken rib, but he had to take advantage of every effect, no matter how tiny, he could produce. If he had ignored his opponent, then Floss might have been sustained by a hate against curt and snobbish Authority in the form of this destroyer captain. And Bentley could afford no sustenance towards a man who had been training for this for months.

  Floss nodded back, without smiling. The P.T.O. was warning them about foul punches and breaking clean from the clinches, and Bentley saw Floss's eyes flick towards the Australian's corner. They narrowed, and Bentley knew, for what it might be worth, that Gellatly had been sighted as his second, He was satisfied. He might not win this contest, but neither would he fold in the first few seconds. Floss would have something to remember it by, and he would know that what he received was witnessed by the man he had savaged.

  The P.T.O. lifted his head back.

  "And now," he shouted, "Commander Bentley of Wind Rode versus Able-Seaman Floss of the flagship for... the heavyweight championship of the Fleet!"

  Bentley danced back to his corner and there was a cold shock in his guts. The last words of the P.T.O., now the referee, rang in his mind like a bugle. Throughout his training he had thought of Floss as a swinish bully, a man who had cruelly injured one of his own men, a messdeck thug who needed to be forcibly and physically beaten down. The fact that the beating would involve the heavyweight championship of the Fleet had never consciously entered his thoughts.

  The heavyweight championship... When he had won the Australian title, he had trained for close on three months.
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br />   He lowered himself on the ropes in his corner, flexing his leg muscles, smiling back at Gellatly's encouraging nod, and behind the calmness in his face ran a thin, taut thread of strain. There was no weakening of will about it, no physical fear-it was the acute tension of a man whose every faculty was pitched to a vibrating string of alertness, the cold realisation of a fighter who knew that he had taken on, through a natural hatred of bestial force, another fighter whose training and physical readiness exceeded his own.

  A bell clanged and the two men stepped quickly and lithely to meet.

  In those few seconds of approaching, Bentley's eyes flicked over the body of Floss. He saw the muscled bulk of the man, but he was not dismayed. He was no skeleton himself, and he knew that not all the muscle in the world could effectively protect the vital nerve centres round the chin, the solar plexus, nor cushion the shock of a blow to the eyes or the heart. Floss was not much heavier than be, if at all, and all that Bentley had to do was to get in through his guard-and get in quickly.