J. E. MacDonnell - 025

by The Blind Eye(lit)

  Gradually the time-interval between transmission and reception reduced. Bentley's thoughts dwelt briefly on Peacock's competence- the echoes were clear, unblurred-and then his mind shifted down inside the fleeing submarine. They would be tense in the control-room, hearing the tok-tok of the asdic transmission beating against the hull, hearing by now the tearing rush of the screws. The captain would be exercising every atom of his skill to determine just when his attacker would drop her charges. He had done it many times before, he would do it again. Then the order for full speed and the wheel-order to swing her abruptly out of the line of the dropping destruction. He would be committed to his line of action, he would not know that the destroyer was also swinging, and lowering her second pattern to meet him.

  If he turned to port? If he had decided that he had carried out the same tactic too often, that his enemy might have caught on? Then the destroyer would be turning in one direction and its target escaping in the other.

  Bentley shook the thought from him with a physical movement of his head. He listened carefully to the transmissions, then turned his head. This was the time of automatically controlled and fired charges. Wind Rode's canisters were fired from the bridge, where a torpedoman heaved back on four long steel levers.

  He was watching the captain now, and before Bentley had ceased speaking the levers were jerking back. For the last time of that fruitless hunt the destroyer spat out her challenge.

  "Hard-a-starb'd!" Bentley snapped.

  He knew he had to be quick. The submarine could turn more easily than Wind Rode. But now Bentley used his port screw, giving it full power so that its increased thrashing dragged her stern round faster. He waited a minute, giving the submarine time to complete its own turn, then he gave the order which finally exhausted his antisubmarine ammunition.

  Randall stepped up on to the grating beside him. Both men stared astern, a little to the left of where the first pattern's explosion had ulcered the sea with white froth. And both of them would remember those waiting moments for a long time.

  The first indication of the result of their attack came not visibly, but audibly. Peacock's voice, still calm but obviously controlled, sprang from the speaker:

  "Contact lost." A few seconds, while Randall's mind was numb and Bentley's raced with a roiling whirl of possible future action- and then, not calm now, but triumph breaking nakedly through its professional tone, Peacock's voice again:

  "Breaking-up noises! Bridge? Breaking-up noises! No doubt about it! She's smashed open! Dropping fast!"

  Bentley reached forward and took up the phone.

  "All right, asdic-room. Well done. Resume normal sweep." Bentley replaced the phone and he came upright and Randall's big hand rested firmly and understandingly on his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "RADAR RANGE OF THE ISLAND?" Bentley asked.

  "Forty miles," Randall answered.

  "Well close in and take a look."

  "What about the charges? They might have heard them."

  "At this range. I doubt it. They were set deep."

  Randall nodded. He said, his voice low:

  "Peter, you're going to bombard again if we find anything?"

  It had been a long hunt, from just before dark till after midnight. Bentley's body was tired, and his face still ached, but now his mind was buoyant. He grinned at his friend.

  "There are some things-like that girl of yours in Cairo-which should never be taken on twice. I'm about 20 years older than I was that night off the Louisiades."

  "Thank God for that!" Randall said feelingly. "Then we just take a look?"

  "We can hardly do less, seeing as it concerns the courage of certain convictions... I don't know if we'll be able to see anything-no doubt the Japs learned a lesson from our last crack at an air-base-but we'll certainly stand a better chance than that submarine who poked round here last week."

  "And if they latch on to us?"

  "Then, my optimistic shipmate, we've got 36 knots and six hours of darkness to unlatch,"

  Randall smiled in the darkness. You're optimistic enough yourself-now, be thought. And I don't blame you! Things could have been nasty. So nasty that... The thought slipped in and wiped the smile off.

  "Hey! What about the admiral? He doesn't know if we got that curious bloke or not. He might be waiting for confirmation before pressing on!"

  "I'd thought of that" Bentley replied easily. "And I'm sure he would reason that if we failed, we would have risked breaking wireless silence to tell him about it."

  "I suppose you're right." Randall rubbed at his stubbly chin. "How about a cup of kai?"

  "Thanks. But make it coffee. Black and strong."

  "Sleep-killer coming up!"

  They sipped their coffee side by side, tired but content, knowing that whatever the Fleet was steaming into, it had an even chance of getting out again. Not worried much about tomorrow, knowing from hard experience that sufficient unto the night is the evil thereof. The night was moonless, though mainly unclouded, and they should be able to sneak close enough in to Naos Island to detect any large-scale activity without being sighted themselves. There was a risk, of course-there was always a risk. But four years of war in destroyers cause familiar risks to be treated, if not with contempt, then without undue worry.

  The island was not large and Wind Rode cruised right round it at reduced speed in a little under an hour. She was almost back at her starting point, having seen nothing but the dark blur of trees and "the white necklaces of foam on the blinding reef. It seemed that Naos was completely surrounded by its reef, which would rule out fuelling tankers and vindicate the admiral's opinion, and it also seemed that it was uninhabited, at least by a large force of Japanese aircraft.

  Yet Bentley was restless. He could give his analytical brain no reason for this feeling, unless it was the conviction that the Japs would have learned a wise and bitter lesson from that other bombardment of their secret base. The British assessment of their Eastern enemy had skyrocketed after the sinking of Prince of Wales and Repulse, and the warning inherent in the sinking of the Sydney by a "merchantman" was fully understood by the Allied naval forces. It was reasonable to assume, then, that the Japs would have learned their lesson. And if they had, they would be careful to show no lights or any other sign of activity, especially since this base, if it were one, had proved its worth so definitely.

  The ship moved slowly on. He was beginning to wonder if his pet theory was not influencing his judgment, and if he should stop wasting time and get back to the Fleet, when Ferris, whose eyes no hawk could sneer at, said:

  "Captain, sir? I think the coast falls back there a bit Fine on the port bow."

  Bentley raised his night-glasses. Ferris was right. Only a trained eye would have noticed the indentation, but then the eyes now staring at it from four pairs of binoculars had been looking for signs like this all their adult lives. There was also, Bentley noticed at once, no white necklace barring the fall-away.

  "Could be a harbour," he muttered to Randall. There was no undertone of excitement, even of interest, in his voice. Patently, in an island this size, the bay or harbour would be small, and any tankers secured there would have been audible. Wind Rode was grey and low-a tanker, especially an empty one, would be long and high. The destroyer slid on slowly across the mouth of the bay, her asdic set operating, the single ping of the transmission nicely lonely.

  "Nothing in there," Randall grunted.

  Silently Bentley agreed. His glasses trained right and picked up the start of the white-flashed reef-he judged the bay to be about a mile wide. The order had formed in his mind. He was about to tell Rennie to bring her up to 30 knots, and give him the course to the Fleet, when the lonely ping of the asdic set multiplied itself. The echoing peep was clear and startling.

  Even as his head swung towards the illuminated bearing-repeat dial of the asdic the thought flashed through Bentley's mind-it might not be an air-base, but there could be submarines in there. Obviously
there was a submarine in that bay, and just as obviously the one they had destroyed was trying to make its way home to it.

  Then Peacock shattered that pat theory.

  "Contact bearing Red four-eight," he reported. "Stationary."

  Bentley snatched up the phone.

  "Classification?"

  "I'm... not sure, sir."

  Peacock? Not sure? Bentley snapped:

  "Come on, then! What's it look like?"

  "I don't think it's a submarine, sir. I'm almost sure it isn't. But it's a submerged object, steel I'd say, not as long as a submarine. It looks like..."

  Peacock hesitated. Bentley demanded impatiently:

  "Come on, man! Looks like what?"

  "This sounds a bit odd, sir... But the outline-blunt ends- reminds me of a petrol tank. I mean the bowsers, the big cylinders sunk under the pumps In a garage... I'm sorry, but that's the closest I can get to a classification. It is definitely not a submarine-at least nothing like any we have knowledge of."

  Bentley was not listening. His brain was trained to think and evaluate at life-saving rapidity, and it was doing precisely that half a second after Peacock had mentioned the words "petrol tank." He was helped in the decision he came to by the fact that he had been looking for fuelling points for the past hour, and by memory of an earlier experience.

  "By God!" he ejaculated, and slammed his hand on the bearing ring, "so that's it!"

  Randall stared at him, not speaking.

  "Where the hell was it?" Bentley's voice ran on. "Madagascar, Mauritius, somewhere down there. Swell too great to go alongside, fuelling lines laid out to seaward on 44-gallon drums. But here they've gone one better-they've laid the tank itself out of sight! Sure to be lines running ashore. Brother! All they've got to do is open a valve. And fifty aircraft sail over the Fleet!"

  The speech was staccato, but Randall had followed its implications clearly enough. Instead of answering, he twisted his head to stare at the shore. But he was not looking, so much as sniffing.

  "Smell it?" he snapped. "Plain as hell."

  "High octane," Bentley grunted, "made in Tokyo."

  "You'll go in?" Randall asked. "It could be touchy. There's not that much room."

  There was no anxiety in his voice; the tone and the face were eager.

  "Revolutions for six knots," Bentley answered nil question, "steer

  095. Start the echo-sounder."

  He felt the variation of the deck ease, and saw the bow come round for the opening, and he thought, as he always did, of what else had to be done But Wind Rode had been closed-up for action for an hour; he was taking her in at a safe speed; the echo-sounder was feeling the bottom for him, and Pilot himself was watching the pointer trace the depths. There was acute danger from the shore-he was certain now of what the island held-but this was war.

  Satisfied, he let his mind run rapidly over what he had to do, while one section of his intelligence handled the conning of his ship.

  The petrol tank must be large, and it would be secured to the harbour bed. Vertical pipes would run from it to the surface, and through them the fuel would be pumped, or sucked, to valves ashore. The shore-going lines would almost certainly be suspended from drums. They would be available; he could get at them. But it was no use simply destroying the pipes. Even if he cut them, and fired the emerging fuel on the surface of the water, he would by his act reveal himself; he would have to depart at high speed, and an enemy frogman could quite easily go down clear of the flames and shut the master valve on the tank.

  He had to destroy that tank, and he had to do it completely.

  "Gellatly on the bridge," he ordered abruptly. Then he stepped down to the chart-room voice-pipe.

  "Pilot? Anything yet?"

  "No, sir. Not the tank. But we've plenty of water-20 fathoms, 22, 21..."

  "Very well." Bentley did not want to know the readings-he had given orders that he was to be told if the depth fell below five fathoms. He listened to the asdic ranges-the echo-sounder's pulses were shafting straight down-and he knew that if he were to send a frogman down that depth would need to decrease.

  "Gellatly, sir."

  Bentley swung. "How's your rib?" he asked without preliminary,

  "Fine, sir."

  "No nonsense, Gellatly. This is a vitally important job. How's your rib?"

  "I can dive, sir," the frogman answered simply.

  "A hundred feet?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good. Up here."

  Gellatly stepped up beside the binnacle. The captain would not leave it again in this confined area. Randall moved to the chart-house voice-pipe.

  "There's a petrol tank down there," Bentley said concisely. "A fuelling tank for the Jap aircraft ashore."

  "A case for limpet mines, sir," Gellatly said at once.

  "Yes-if we carried them."

  "Hand grenades?"

  "Not powerful enough. It could be a strong tank. Demolition charges. Pound and a quarter, T.N.T."

  "That should do it, sir."

  "I must be sure. As soon as we're over the tank you'll go down. Waste no time. You should tell at a glance the strength of it. Then get up here again. I'll have the charges ready."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  Randall called, quietly:

  "Depth 15 fathoms, sir. Shoaling."

  "Right!"

  Bentley checked the asdic range and Gellatly hurried from the bridge. The ship was almost over her target. Bentley spoke into the wheelhouse voicepipe:

  "Cox'n? Pass all engine orders by phone."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "Stop both, slow astern together. Warn the engine-room to stand by for full power." And to the bosun's mate: "Tell the gunner's mate I want a dozen pound and a quarter demolition charges made up- ten-minute fuse. At the rush."

  The seaman leaped for the ladder. The ship quivered as her weight was dragged to a stop. Bentley thought again about that ten minutes. He knew he was right. At any minute he might be discovered; his intentions would be realised at once. A longer fuse-length would allow a Jap frogman to negative Gellatly's efforts. At the same time, at full power and if all went well, he could be between five and six miles clear before the balloon went up-that would give the enemy aircraft no focal point from which to begin their search.

  As well, he would be given a few more minutes before they could take-off. That was all he needed. Once clear of land, a destroyer would be hard to find in hundreds of square miles of night-covered ocean. Once clear...

  "Pilot reports we're right over it, sir," Randall said. "It's a tank all right. Resting on the bottom, ten feet high. Some tank! Hold it! Repeat, Pilot! Yes, have got. Two tanks, sir, side by side. There may be more..."

  "Blast!" Bentley muttered to himself-that would increase Gellatly's job to the danger point. He could not expect to hang around here much longer without being sighted. The Japs were certain to have sentries posted. As it was he was lucky not to have been seen already.

  "Ready, sir," Gellatly said beside him.

  Bentley crushed down his forebodings.

  "Over you go. I can't waste time with a shot-rope. There are at least two tanks."

  "Yes, sir."

  "The night was so dark Bentley could barely see Gellatly's face. But his voice was steady. `I've changed our plans. Take the charges with you now. Six to each tank, split them evenly if there are three. I doubt if they'd have more than three. Place the charges under the bellies of the tanks. But you know all that. Good luck, and quick..."

  His voice broke off abruptly. Gellatly's face was clear, shiningly clear, before him. The whole bridge was shining, gleaming, the bright grey paintwork contrasting vividly with long streaks of black shadows.

  Bentley's head jerked round.

  His eyes squinted with sudden pain. The searchlight's baleful glare came from the head of the little bay, and it was trained full on the stopped destroyer. Their luck had run out.

  Their luck, but not their lives-not yet.

&nb
sp; "Director!" Bentley roared, "take that searchlight!"

  He shouted his orders to Rennie and the engine-room bells clanged urgently in reply. Bentley's hand was up shielding his eyes from the fierce white glare, and he saw plainly the fuelling lines snaking shoreward, held up on their floating drums. He thought of rupturing those lines with gunfire, firing the petrol with direct-action shell. But that was all his guns would do, he realised-pure petrol would burn no easier than pure water; it had to have its oxygen added, and the vital tanks would remain untouched.