Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Ainslie had decided to use the submarine’s guns. For one thing it was possible that a full salvo of torpedoes might be necessary, and there was still no certainty of replacing them, the French ones being a different size from the British pattern. Also, the landing craft was very shallow draft, and the salvo might have passed harmlessly beneath her.

  Forster looked quickly at Farrant. He was looking at his magazine again. The fact that his eyes were unmoving and fixed made him think he was studying a picture of a nude.

  It had been Farrant’s perfect opportunity, and to do him justice he had done very well, especially as it was the first shots they had fired from the big turret. With the hull barely trimmed above the surface, the guns had been trained on the landing craft. Inside the hull everybody had been poised, like athletes waiting for the starting pistol. Especially the first lieutenant and the chief engineer. A sharp change of buoyancy, some unknown factor which might throw the submarine out of control, it all had to be watched and prevented. When the guns had fired, one at a time, it had been like nothing Forster had experienced. The crash had been long drawn out, like a great peal of thunder, and the shock of each gun hurling itself back on its springs and cylinders had shaken the hull like some gigantic earth tremor. What it could have been like for the men on the landing craft he could only guess at.

  First the sight of the turret and conning tower rising slowly through the clear water, and then the twin guns swinging towards them like a pair of black, pitiless eyes.

  They had heard the sounds of the enemy vessel breaking up as it sank to the bottom, its cargo of armoured vehicles adding to the destruction and speeding its end. It was just as well. She must have been carrying high octane fuel, and the agony of her crew and passengers was only saved by the sea.

  Dived once more, Ainslie had sent for Farrant. Forster could see him now. Prim, and so pleased with himself it was causing him pain to hide it.

  He thought too of the skipper. Ainslie was a good one to have in command. Rarely raised his voice, and was never sarcastic. But Forster felt he did not really know him. Ainslie had asked the gunnery officer to pass his thanks to the men in the turret, as well as the others in the magazine and shell hoist.

  Forster glanced at the curved bulkhead at the opposite end of the wardroom. Like the side of a lift shaft, it was the main support for the big turret above, and through which went the ammunition hoists from the magazine to the loaders at each gun. It was like the submarine’s core, a symbol of tremendous durability and strength. He turned as Christie remarked, ‘I wonder what the skipper’s doing?’

  Farrant said sharply, ‘He’s with the admiral and chief of staff. They will be discussing our next patrol.’

  Christie smiled lazily. ‘He told you, did he?’

  Farrant frowned. ‘When you’ve been in the Service a bit longer, or attached to it for the duration of this war, you might understand!’

  ‘Oh.’

  Christie sat back, enjoying himself. He had done many things in his life, and had flown some of the worst crates imaginable. Even during his naval flying he had had some strange jobs, but this one beat them all. A flyer in a submarine. On the patrol he had been a spectator as much as anything, keeping close to Forster and the navigator’s yeoman so that he could study the changing charts, the lay of the area over which he might soon get the chance to fly. At thirty-one, he was one of the oldest men aboard. That also amused him. Some, like Sub-Lieutenant Southby, a slight, pink-faced youth who was Farrant’s assistant in the turret, with the additional job of Boarding Officer, whatever that was, were so nervously unsure of everything. Others, a year or so older than Southby, had the confidence of giants but the knowledge of children.

  He said, ‘The way we’re fighting this war, I don’t reckon I’ll have time to learn much more!’

  Farrant stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath. ‘How dare you!’ He stood up and moved restlessly across the wardroom like a caged animal. ‘Two fine ships sunk, all those men dying bravely, and you –’

  Christie’s eyes followed the gunnery officer back and forth. ‘Balls,’ he said calmly. ‘The admiral in Force Z was told that Kuantan airfield had been evacuated because everyone was running high-tailed away from the Japs. He bloody well knew there was no air cover for his ships!’

  Farrant stood stock still in front of Christie’s seat, just to one side of his out-thrust legs,

  Christie added quietly, ‘You talk about those ships and the brave lads who went down. Why not speak of the bloody fools who put them on the bottom?’

  Christie could feel his anger getting a grip. It was all coming back. The carrier he had been in at Crete, the flight deck suddenly bursting wide open in a great mushroom of solid flames. Men on fire, running in circles, aircraft rolling over the side as the old carrier started to capsize.

  ‘Without air cover they were written off from the start. Before the start! Stupid, bloody-minded idiots! It’s a race for who kills more of our chaps first, the enemy or the high command!’

  Farrant had recovered slightly. ‘If I ever hear you speak like that again . . .’ He swung on his heel and marched out, almost knocking down Torpedoman Sawle who was coming to lay the table for tea.

  Forster said, ‘I think you upset him, Jack.’

  Christie looked at the deck, his eyes blurred. ‘Sorry, Pilot. I wasn’t getting at you, y’know. Farrant will be an admiral one day. His sort always win.’

  Then he stood up and looked at his watch. ‘Think I’ll get a lift over the Causeway to the club. Have a couple of cold beers.’ He winked. ‘If they’ll let me in the place!’

  Alone, Forster took the letter from his pocket and began to read it once more.

  Ainslie sat back in a cane chair and drew on his pipe. He and Critchley were in the residence of Rear-Admiral Arnold Granger. He was a sturdy, rounded man, too short for his weight, and his shape was further accentuated by his immaculate white shirt and shorts. Granger was prematurely bald, with just a strip of ginger hair on either side of his head, like feathers.

  He said, ‘I’ve asked you here, Commander Ainslie, because I think you’ve been badly used since you came out from the UK.’ He, too, was smoking a pipe, and waved it in the air like a black finger as he added, ‘Mind you, you’re not the easiest fellow I’ve met either.’ He smiled, changing him to an impish conspirator. ‘But we need every experienced brain we can lay hands on. The C in C has assured me that reinforcements are already on the way. But troop convoys take weeks, sometimes months to get here. We require modern fighter aircraft, experienced infantry, and above all the ability to hit at the bastards before they push down south any further.’

  He walked to a wall map and let it unroll to its full extent.

  In a quieter tone he said, ‘See that line, gentlemen?’

  Ainslie leaned forward, appalled. There was an undulating strip of yellow tape which showed the extent of the enemy advances inland. It was incredible.

  He tried to think back, to recall the length of time since that brief W/T signal about the air raid and then the news of Pearl Harbour. A grand total of ten days. In that small span the Japanese Army had penetrated every coastal defence on the north-east coast of Malaya. From the look of the admiral’s yellow tape, which must already be out of date, it appeared there was nothing to stop the enemy from cutting the peninsula in half from the South China Sea to the Malacca Strait. Ten days from now where would they be?

  The admiral said, ‘So we’ve not a lot of time. It’s not a shortage of troops which is the main problem, but lack of experienced combat soldiers. There are the Indian brigades. Australians, Malay Volunteers, and of course the British regiments.’ He dropped his eyes and played with the pipe, making up his mind. Then he said bluntly, ‘We probably outnumber the Japanese, and I think you should know that, too.’

  Ainslie looked at him, understanding him, and feeling the burden he was carrying. He was the first outspoken and frank senior officer he had met in Singapore sin
ce his arrival. Granger had apparently been in charge of coastal patrols and operational training, and had been appointed to this HQ at very short notice. A better mind than his predecessor – or a scapegoat if the worst happened; it was too early to judge.

  Critchley turned towards him, his chair creaking. ‘The admiral says that civilian morale is important. If it starts to disintegrate, our troops will lose heart. At present the forces in the north are regrouping after making a series of strategic withdrawals.’

  Ainslie looked for a hint of bitterness. Retreats had been called withdrawals for long enough. At home, news readers often spoke casually of patrol activity or slight casualties. It made them acceptable.

  But Critchley was alert again. Involved. Seeking a way out.

  Granger said, ‘Reports are bad. The enemy is using terror as a weapon. We’ve had several accounts of torture, beheading, rape and God knows what else. If we don’t hold the buggers back, the retreat will turn into a rout, right down here as far as the Causeway and the Johore Strait.’

  Critchley put in, ‘And on to the island. They’ll not stop at the strait. Anyway, it’s only four feet deep at low water, they tell me.’

  Granger frowned worriedly. ‘Then someone’s talking too much. It’s true, of course; But you know the British, a strip of water is the English Channel to them. Safety. Separation.’

  Ainslie stood up and crossed to the wall map. It was hard to imagine the bitter fighting up there in the jungle, or even the patrol vessel’s bows sliding under water, the landing craft flying apart under Farrant’s gunfire.

  Outside this long, cool room he could hear some shrill bird cries, the sound of a young woman singing in the kitchen, a native policeman’s measured tread on the gravel path below the window. Relaxed and secure.

  The admiral was filling his pipe with quick stabbing motions. ‘Fact is, we can’t operate surface units up there to support the army. We’ve neither the aircraft nor the fields to fly them from. We’ve lost a few inshore patrols already. I can’t risk any heavier units in case’ – he looked Ainslie straight in the eyes – ‘we have to evacuate.’

  Ainslie nodded. Not again, surely? Dunkirk, Norway, Holland, Greece and Crete. Anyway, it was different here. No cliffs of Dover, no narrow seas for the Navy to lift off an exhausted army. What had once been Singapore’s true strength had suddenly loomed in his mind as complete vulnerability. And all the while those great guns which were here to protect the island pointed impotently in the wrong direction.

  Aloud he asked, ‘You want me to go north again, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ The admiral’s portly shadow joined his own by the map. ‘There is a pocket of resistance on that coast which in a day or so might be reinforced if Army HQ can fathom out how to do it.’ He laid his pipe stem on the map. ‘Just there. If things go wrong, and the Japs put on more pressure,’ the pipe stem moved like a trap door, ‘then all those people will be trapped with their backs to the sea.’

  Critchley said quietly, ‘Could you give artillery support. Bob?’

  The admiral watched Ainslie’s profile. ‘Could you?’

  Farrant’s face seemed to appear on the map. How he had enjoyed using the guns. Perhaps he had even found some sort of pleasure in watching the death and destruction through his powerful sights, too.

  ‘I can try, sir.’

  It was a dream, or the start of a nightmare. Nobody wanted the Soufrière or him. Now there seemed to be no other vessel available, and everyone expected a miracle. Yet he had said, I can try. There was no other way.

  He asked, ‘When?’

  Critchley spoke for the admiral. ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You’ll get full support from the base, Commander.’ The admiral sat down and stared into space. ‘Commander Critchley will be coming with you.’

  Ainslie looked at his friend. ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  Critchley smiled. ‘Experience. As an extension of higher authority. Or maybe to assist.’

  Granger looked at the clock. ‘Sun’s well over the yard-arm. We’ll have a gin, eh?’ He pressed a bell switch and then said, ‘Commander Critchley may be of greater use than either of us realize, Ainslie.’ He smiled. ‘Service politics are over my head.’

  Ainslie walked to the window and looked across the lush green foliage of a garden.

  Critchley was going with him because he felt responsible. It had been his idea to seize the Soufrière, just as he had suspected. Now, if things went badly wrong in those shallow waters he had just seen on the map, he wanted to share that, too.

  He turned and looked steadily at his friend. ‘I’ll find a job for you. No passengers in my boat.’

  The admiral watched them and felt strangely moved. Perhaps there was still a chance after all.

  6

  No Second Chance

  COMMANDER GREGORY CRITCHLEY stepped gingerly into the control room’s orange glow and studied each intent figure in turn. It was very quiet, with just the muted hum of motors and fans and the regular ping of the echo sounder to break the stillness. He could not even hear any of the control room team breathing. In the strange light they looked unreal, like waxworks, not on display but stored for some later exhibition.

  In the two days it had taken Soufrière to work her way northwards again, keeping well to seaward to avoid enemy ships and aircraft, he had had plenty of time to watch his companions. Critchley had refused Ainslie’s offer of the captain’s cabin, knowing that Ainslie needed the seclusion, when he could get it, more than anyone. He had enjoyed sharing the wardroom, studying the mixed bunch who lived, slept and worried there.

  Quinton, the first lieutenant, was peering over to check the hydroplane tell-tales, one hand on each planesman’s back. A good, outspoken and intelligent man. He had a quick temper, too, which when required was a useful foil to Ainslie’s calmer approach.

  Critchley looked across to the chart space, seeing Ainslie leaning over the vibrating plot table, his face reflecting the light beneath the glass. He may look calm, but Critchley knew what was going on. He had interviewed many submariners, some of whom, like Ainslie, had taken part in hair-raising cloak-and-dagger raids on enemy coasts, fighting at close quarters.

  It took guts, and a whole lot of other things to keep going.

  Then there was the navigating officer at his side, Forster. A nice young chap with a load on his mind. Probably a woman somewhere.

  Halliday, at the diving panel, who looked like the ship’s engineer in a dozen sea stories, and the slight French lieutenant close by, Lucas, another man with a well-concealed secret.

  Lieutenant Ridgway was lounging by his ‘fruit machine’, face in shadow. But it usually appeared so even in bright daylight. Like Halliday, he kept to himself.

  The others were out of sight, swallowed up within the hull. Sub-Lieutenant Deacon, the assistant engineer. Young Southby, the second gunnery officer, and, of course, the impressive Farrant, who would be somewhere near the turret with his crews, in case he was needed.

  The ratings, from the fat coxswain to the messenger by the telephones, were as mixed as their officers. Individuals, who at moments like these became one living body.

  Ainslie saw him and smiled. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’

  Critchley walked to the chart space. Some of the men nodded to him, then forgot his presence as a light flashed or a dial gave an unexpected quiver to demand their constant attention.

  ‘Sawle got me some tea. He’d make a good butler.’

  Ainslie looked at the clock. ‘It will be dawn soon. I shall take a look in a minute or two. Number One’s checking the trim. It’s got to be perfect.’ He gestured to the chart. ‘We’re in fifteen fathoms, no more. Practically crawling along the sea-bed!’ He grimaced. ‘But Pilot here assures me all will be well.’ He looked at Quinton. ‘Time to alter course. Steer two-four-zero. Revolutions for six knots.’ He turned his head. ‘Bosun’s mate, pass the word again. Absolute silence throughout the boat.’

  ‘Steady on two-four
-zero, sir.’

  Critchley asked, ‘What will you see?’ He smiled at himself. He was whispering.

  ‘Not much. Two hills.’ Ainslie stooped over the chart again. ‘See? Like a cocked hat from seaward. The Japs are all around there, and our troops are pinned down in a fishing village. There was a mission there, too, but I expect it was evacuated when the panic started.’

  The messenger called softly, ‘Gunnery officer, sir.’

  Ainslie took a telephone. ‘Captain.’

  Farrant sounded impatient. ‘Permission to man the turret, sir?’

  ‘After I’ve had a look, Guns.’ He met Quinton’s eyes across the control room. ‘And don’t forget to take the tampions out before you fire the things!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ No hint of a chuckle.

  ‘I don’t know why I bother.’ To Quinton he said, ‘All ready?’

  The Australian glanced at Halliday who gave a curt nod. ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Periscope depth, please.’ He looked at Critchley. ‘Say a prayer.’

  Critchley moved clear to watch every last detail. The petty officer stoker at the vent controls, the planesmen as they watched for any sign that the boat might rise too abruptly and burst to the surface like a giant dolphin.

  ‘Fourteen metres, sir.’ Even Quinton sounded unusually hushed.

  Ainslie nodded to the rating with the hoist switch and ducked down to receive the periscope as it hissed smoothly through the deck.

  He found he was holding his breath, blinking rapidly as if he could already see above the surface. He watched the lens lightening reluctantly. It was very early in the morning, with a slight swell to sway the hull like an unseen cradle.

  ‘Stop.’

  He moved the periscope in a slow circle, his feet and legs moving crablike round the well as he looked for any sign of life. Astern it was pale grey, delicate and giving no hint of the heat and colour to come. He swung the periscope towards the bows. The land was directly across his vision, from side to side like an undulating black reef. In less than an hour there would be green and brown and blue and, if the chart was right, a crescent of silver sand by the village.