He ran to the wing. ‘Guns! They may try to scuttle!’
He saw the lieutenant nod before urging some of his men towards the forecastle and the point of impact.
A few more shots cracked against the Kalistra and Menzies growled, ‘Why don’t we give them a basinful?’
Ainslie took his cap from the flag locker and jammed it over his unruly hair. Then he walked out into the sunlight, clearly visible to anyone on the shore or the submarine as he raised his megaphone and shouted. ‘This is the Royal Navy! I have orders to take control of your vessel immediately!’
From the deck below he heard his words being repeated in French. That was Lieutenant Cottier, Lucas’s companion.
Ainslie felt the sweat pouring down his chest and spine in a hot flood. Yet his blood was like ice as he waited for the sickening impact. The light going out as a bullet found its mark. Like poor Osborn.
Then across the water came the reply, sharp and metallic. ‘If you attempt to board my ship I will destroy her.’
Ainslie’s eyes narrowed. They were at least talking. That must be her captain, Poulain. He measured the distance as the Kalistra pounded towards the pier.
‘Half speed ahead.’ He felt the response, and seemed to sense the bows dropping with relief. Less than half a cable to go. ‘Wait for the order, Swain.’ He lifted the megaphone again. ‘There is a Japanese submarine about to enter the lagoon! Be in no doubt as to what will happen to you and your people if I withdraw now.’ From one corner of his mouth he whispered, ‘Ease her a bit to starboard, Swain. Easy.’
Somewhere below him he heard a man cough, another humming fiercely between his teeth. Osborn lay where he had fallen, arms and legs outflung in his blood, his eyes fixed on some point above the masthead.
Everything depended on Soufrière’s company as much as her captain. What news that had slipped out of Indo-China had been terrifying. Japanese atrocities had been reported against men, women and children alike. Their own fate, should they deny their submarine to such a ruthless attacker, would be a terrible one.
He heard a seaman grunt with alarm as the submarine’s great gun turret, which stood as high as the freighter’s bridge, suddenly began to swing towards them, the two barrels moving until they were depressed and sighted on the Kalistra’s hull.
Ainslie looked straight along the nearest gun, feeling nothing, yet wanting to understand. He was about to die. It was bound to happen one day. But not like this.
He realized the gun was no longer in his line of sight. The turret had stopped turning, and he saw some white-clad sailors climbing through an upper hatch, their arms at their sides, their dejection like something physical.
The metallic voice called again, ‘Do you guarantee our safety?’
Ainslie wanted to measure the last yards, but dare not move now. He heard Quinton taking over the con. He must have guessed, understood his anxiety.
‘Yes. We are not at war with Japan. If that submarine interferes with us, we will be.’
Quinton said sharply, ‘Hard astarboard. Stop engine.’ The hull was already swinging heavily towards the pier. ‘Midships.’
The tension was unbearable, and all the while the Soufrière seemed to be growing larger as the freighter thrust over the last strip of water.
‘Full astern!’ Quinton ran to Ainslie’s side as the telegraph jangled noisily. Then as Gosling yelled, ‘No response on telegraph, sir!’ Quinton exclaimed, ‘Jesus! We’ll ram it.’
But Forster had managed to get through to Halliday on the voice-pipe, and within five yards of the narrowest part of the pier the Kalistra shuddered to dead slow, until with a great sigh she came alongside, bringing down a small hut and a pile of empty oil drums.
Ainslie hurried from the bridge, Quinton on his heels. Seamen were already across the pier and groping for handholds on the submarine’s casing or around her big conning tower. Others were trying to make fast the freighter’s lines, urged on by threats and curses from Petty Officer Voysey.
As Ainslie reached a small brow which was the only connection with the Soufrière’s hull, he saw a group of French seamen being held at gunpoint by some of their companions.
He said quietly, ‘Take charge here, Number One. Be easy with them. There’ll be bitterness enough later.’ To Farrant and Lucas he added, ‘You come with me.’
Then he walked between his men and stood on the Soufrière’s grey deck. For a moment longer he looked at the tricolour which hung from the conning-tower staff, then he raised his hand to his cap in salute.
A tanned French lieutenant strode to meet him, his face grim.
He said, ‘This way, sir.’ He glanced questioningly at Lucas and shrugged. It could have meant anything.
Ainslie turned to question him, but Lucas was staring up at the flag, his eyes blurred with emotion, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Ainslie reached out and touched his arm, seeing Halliday’s trade-mark on his sleeve.
‘One day, Lucas. One day you will be back.’
Then with a nod to the watching sailors, British and French, he followed the lieutenant through a massive watertight door and into the conning tower.
If it were possible, the Soufrière’s interior was even more impressive than her upper deck. The control room seemed twice as big as any Ainslie had seen, and the equipment, dials and torpedo firing controls shone like those of a newly commissioned boat. What was strange was the small number of her company in view. Just a handful here and there, staring at Ainslie and his companions as if they had landed from the moon.
The sounds of generators and fans were muted and remote, adding to the impression that this great submarine was sealed rather than enclosed.
The French officer stopped in a passageway by a curtained cabin and said, ‘The capitaine is waiting for you inside.’
Ainslie glanced at his companions. ‘Wait here.’
He had to force himself to speak calmly, to prevent any kind of urgency transmitting itself through them to the others and maybe spark off serious trouble. They could all be taken prisoner, or shot down like the petty officer. Everything depended on the next minutes, even seconds. He must shut out the need for action, the mental picture of that other submarine. Everything.
He stepped over the coaming and removed his cap, allowing the curtain to swing behind him. Again the cabin, a rare luxury for any submarine commander, was dramatic and impressive, a modem version of Jules Verne. Well-made bookcases, a curtained bunk and, bolted to the deck itself, a desk which would not look out of place in an office.
But his attention was immediately locked on the Soufrière’s captain. Michel Poulain was small and very neat, with a dark beard, greying at the edges, and intensely penetrating eyes. He stood up slowly, his eyes moving to indicate a vacant chair.
It was impossible, of course, but Ainslie had the notion that Poulain had been waiting and planning for this very meeting for months. Dreading it, but at the same time hoping for somebody to take away his self-made responsibility.
Poulain sat down again, very carefully. ‘I am sorry about your sailor who was shot.’ His English, like the man, was even, well modulated. ‘These things can happen.’
Ainslie leaned forward, feeling the silence pressing in on him, the great hull surrounding them like a shell.
‘What I said, Captain, was the truth. With the war as it is, we cannot afford to strengthen our enemy’s resources. Your submarine must be prevented from falling into enemy hands.’ He let the words hang in the air. ‘One way or the other.’
Poulain looked around the cabin as if he had not heard. ‘Soufrière is no longer a mere sous-marin. She is part of France. While she is in being there is something to hold on to, to believe in. Soon the war will end.’ For the first time he smiled, but it made him look incredibly sad. ‘You British delude yourselves. At worst you will be invaded and made to suffer all the horrors of occupation. At best you can hope for stalemate and some kind of ignominious armistice which will leave you
alone in helpless isolation.’
‘That is much how we are today.’ Ainslie tried not to listen to muffled footsteps overhead, his men or Poulain’s he had no way of knowing. ‘But we will not give in. It is not our way.’ He opened his hands as if to contain the cabin. ‘But your ship, I find it hard to call her a boat, could bring havoc to us, and so indirectly to France.’
Poulain sighed. ‘I had intended to take her nearer home. To North Africa perhaps. You will have seen that I am short-handed, less than half the proper complement.’ He gave an eloquent shrug. ‘They had their reasons for leaving me. I did not try to prevent them.’
Feet came pounding along the passageway, and then after a muttered conversation with Farrant, Quinton thrust his way past the curtain.
He nodded formally to Poulain and then said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but the Jap boat is coming into the lagoon now.’ He glanced at the Frenchman and added coldly, ‘I think we’d better get weaving.’
Poulain said quietly, ‘I respect your attitudes. You must do me the same favour.’ He stood up and moved about the cabin. ‘We cannot dive. We had trouble with the forward hydroplanes, an inspired madman tried to put them out of use for ever!’ His tone hardened. ‘I buried him at sea. I have had some repairs carried out, but not enough. However, with the extra oil I had intended to run on the surface by another, less troublesome route.’
Ainslie did not know how he knew, but he was sure the moment had arrived. Perhaps it was what Poulain wanted now that his original plan had been stopped dead. Either way, Ainslie had more than the Soufrière to worry about now, he had his men and the French sailors to contend with.
He stood up. ‘Number One, carry on with the plan. Lucas and his assistant will help the Chief, the rest is up to you.’ He hesitated. ‘Tell Menzies to hoist another ensign –’
‘Non!’ Just one word, but it sounded as if it had been torn from Poulain’s throat. He recovered slightly and picked up his cap. ‘I will lower my flag first.’
Ainslie followed him out and towards the gleaming control room.
Farrant said in a sharp whisper, ‘What are we waiting for, Number One? We’re sitting ducks!’
Quinton glared at him. ‘Stow it! D’you imagine for one bloody minute the skipper doesn’t know that? Get up top and prepare to cast off, to cut the moorings if so ordered!’ He watched the lieutenant stride away, his neck red above his shirt. ‘Stupid sod!’
Lucas said, ‘I’ll go aft. I must stick the labels over the controls for your men to read.’
Quinton clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Too bloody right! Who speaks French anyway?’
On deck once more Ainslie could feel the change. Most of the French sailors had vanished below, where they would be watched but not harassed. It had been that easy.
He heard Voysey yell, ‘Attention on deck!’
Very slowly the tricolour came down, to be replaced instantly by Menzies’s second white ensign.
There ought to have been a ceremony, Ainslie thought, later there probably would be. But then it would be too late. Meaningless. Here, a man was losing his ship, his own visible sign of hope. And he was doing it with dignity. The British seamen watched impassively, a French mechanic was sobbing uncontrollably, as Poulain gathered up the flag and in turn saluted Ainslie’s.
Ainslie said, ‘I am getting under way, Captain, I will understand your feelings if you wish to go to your quarters, but . . .’
Poulain looked at him across the folded flag and said proudly, ‘She is ready to move. She has always been so, since the day she was built.’ He turned to look around once more. ‘I will stay with you until you have the same satisfaction as myself. Then . . .’ He did not go on.
How strange it was to stand on the bridge and look down past a pair of long guns. The transition was almost complete. Ainslie’s own men were moving about the fore-casing while others ran along the pier, slackening mooring lines and releasing the brow.
Ainslie looked at the voice-pipes and handsets below the bridge screen, recalling all the photographs and plans he had studied of this same array back in England.
Taking his hesitation as uncertainty, Poulain said, ‘This one.’ He tapped a speaking tube.
‘Control room, this is the captain.’
He heard Quinton’s voice immediately. Very sure and unruffled. ‘Ready, sir.’
‘Lookouts to the bridge. Clear away main armament. Fast as you like.’
Men were clambering up through the conning tower hatch, and on either side a powerful machine-gun was mounted, the belts trailing down through the hatch like brass snakes.
The bridge gave a sudden tremble, and from aft Ainslie saw a cloud of blue smoke rising above the longhouse as the diesels coughed throatily into life.
‘Take in the springs!’
Ainslie stood on the steel gratings watching his men as they struggled with unfamiliar lashings and wires. In spite of the responsibility, and the possible danger that the Japanese boat might try to stop him from leaving, Ainslie could feel the excitement rising within him like a drug.
‘Main armament closed up, sir. Cox’n on the wheel. Ship’s head two-three-zero.’
Ainslie glanced at the gyro repeater by the screen and took a quick bearing of the nearest headland. Across one side of his vision he could see the other submarine, standing quite still like a basking shark.
‘When we get under way, Number One, tell Guns to train his turret on the other sub and load with semi-armour-piercing. She’ll be at about green four-five.’ A war of nerves. One torpedo from the Japanese boat would put paid to everything. The sight of these big guns would have to do the trick.
Quinton came back again. ‘Captain, sir? Guns says he can’t manage it, for Christ’s sake!’
Ainslie licked his lips. It was all too fast. But for the Jap they would have had time for Farrant to get the hang of it.
He made himself reply calmly, ‘Not to worry, we’ll manage.’
Voysey was yelling up from the fore-casing, ‘Singled up to ’ead and stem ropes, sir!’
Poulain stood at his elbow, watching everything. He said suddenly, ‘The men in the turret will obey me. I could have them brought up to instruct your gunners, yes?’
Ainslie smiled at him gravely. ‘Too late, I’m afraid.’
He shouted, ‘Let go aft!’ He saw the other ensign above the listing Kalistra suddenly vanish and wondered how she would fare now. Probably better under the Japanese than her original owners. A few more years, a few more weary passages. ‘Let go forrard!’
He heard Voysey acknowledge and then yell, ‘All clear, sir!’
Ainslie took a quick breath. ‘Slow ahead, both engines.’ He listened to the water foaming around the screws, and then saw the rickety pier begin to slide astern. They were moving.
Very slowly the Soufrière’s blunt bows slid from beneath the makeshift longhouse, her periscope standards tearing away the matting and allowing the new ensign to flap in the hot breeze.
‘Clear the upper deck.’ Ainslie raised his glasses and studied the outlet channel. ‘Close all watertight doors.’ Men bustled past, glancing at him, or staring quickly at the sky as if expecting to see neither again. ‘Steer two-three-five.’
Gosling’s familiar rumble. ‘Course two-three-five, sir.’
Ainslie could picture him, his fat bulk hanging over the steel chair as he had seen it a million times.
Menzies said abruptly, ‘The Jap sub’s signalling, sir!’
Ainslie raised his glasses again as the yeoman read the winking light. ‘Request we heave to, sir. To parley.’
It came to Ainslie like a cold shower. The Japs dare not fire. Not because of international law, but simply for self-preservation. If they fired a torpedo into Soufrière at this reduced range it would be like igniting one gigantic bomb. Soufrière’s tubes were all loaded, and Quinton had already said that she carried forty spare torpedoes. All that, plus ammunition, fuel and probably the exploding oil from the Kalistra woul
d reduce the whole lagoon to one devastating furnace.
‘Make to the Japanese, Yeo. Request refused. His Majesty’s Submarine Soufrière is leaving harbour.’
Menzies sucked his teeth and then trained his lamp, well pleased with Ainslie’s signal.
Ainslie turned to see how Poulain had taken his remarks, but the little Frenchman had disappeared below. He stepped from the gratings and crossed to the after part of the bridge. The pier was already well astern, but there was no sign of anyone in the village or anywhere else.
He heard a slight squeak and saw the turret begin to turn, the right and then the left gun moving up and down to emphasize their readiness. It might be a lie, but it would have a great effect on the Japanese, whose deck gun was no more than a three-inch. He returned to the fore part of the bridge and took another bearing from the gyro.
There was the open sea, held between the twin headlands like blue glass.
He touched the screen, feeling the strength beneath him. He smiled. The beast.
Menzies said, ‘The Jap’s not following, sir.’
Ainslie leaned over the voice-pipe. ‘Number One. Tell Chief to increase to full revolutions. Just until we get clear. It will give them something to remember us by.’
Moments later, with a bow wave creaming away on either side to wash over the rocks and the flotsam left from Kalistra’s ramming, the big submarine pushed her way out into the open water, her wake ruler-straight like a long white tail.
Only when he was certain the other submarine was not following did Ainslie fall out his men from their action stations.
He added for Quinton’s benefit, ‘See if you can get some food and drink going round. It will break the tension. Then put our people to work. Back to school. When we get back to Singapore I want us to be halfway to being a going concern.’
Up the voice-pipe he heard Quinton chuckle and say, ‘The catch of the season, eh?’
If the Soufrière resented the sudden change of ownership and command she did not show it. But her previous commander, Capitaine de Frégate Michel Poulain, a man who had needed to believe that some day, all on its own, things would be as before, could not accept it. After leaving Ainslie on the bridge he went quietly to his cabin and shot himself through the head.
Strike from the Sea (1978) Page 5
