A tall column of water shot up alongside the small warship, another far beyond it. Both eight-inch guns whirred softly in their turret as Farrant adjusted the range to allow for the fall of shot. He was good, all right. It had been a perfect straddle with the first salvo.
Ainslie watched the warship, blurred in haze and distance, as realization reached her commander. There was a flurry of foam at her stern, and with sudden urgency she began to turn, her shape shortening.
‘Right gun, shoot!’ He heard Farrant’s disembodied voice through the turret speaker, and then ducked as the bang exploded across the bow and long trailers of smoke drifted into the bridge in a choking cloud.
But he saw the brilliant flash as the shell hit the side of the Japanese vessel, a violent explosion amidships as the second shell burst dead on the target.
A machine-gunner yelled, ‘Second ship, sir! Starboard beam!’
As the submarine swept from the inlet’s last protection, Ainslie saw the other ship, the warning flash of her guns, his mind recording everything even as two shells screamed overhead and exploded in the shallows.
The second vessel was larger than Quinton had been able to distinguish, and he realized she was anchored, her hull lined with several smaller craft, while another was already speeding towards the shore.
Ainslie snatched up the handset as the turret started to shift target. ‘They’re landing troops, Guns! I’m going to close with her!’
He peered at the gyro again, his mind blank to everything but the cluster of landing craft.
‘Starboard fifteen. Steer one-four-zero.’ That would give Forster something to think about.
The machine-guns’ belts of ammunition clattered against the steel sides as the hull tilted over to the sudden change of direction.
He heard two more shells tear over the conning tower, nearer this time, before they vanished in a great welter of bursting spray.
Then both of Farrant’s guns fired, the shock so bad that it felt as if the turrret would hurl itself over the side.
Ainslie gritted his teeth as two lines of bright tracer lifted from the vessel’s decks and then came plunging down towards him.
He touched Southby’s arm. ‘Open fire!’
The heavy machine-guns on either wing of the conning tower clattered into life, the red tracer floating with deceptive grace towards the enemy before ripping across the hull and landing craft like a steel whip.
‘A hit!’
A mushroom of fierce flame burst upwards from the vessel’s after part, wreckage splashing amongst the released landing craft like missiles.
Ainslie peered round the port machine-gun, seeing the seaman’s bared teeth, his eyes half blinded by sun and sweat as he poured another long burst into the enemy. He saw the first warship settling down by the bows, her deck slightly towards him as she began to capsize. About the size of a corvette, and no match for Farrant’s big shells. Had Soufrière been submerged, and the little warship on the surface above her, the roles would be very different.
Steel slashed and clanged against the conning tower and struck bright sparks from the casing, and Ainslie knew that some of the troops in the landing craft, realizing their own sudden danger, were joining in the fight.
Farrant continued to fire on the major warship, until with another tremendous explosion she broke free of her anchor and spewed flames and dense smoke from everywhere but the bridge.
Ainslie felt blood splash on his cheek and turned as a seaman fell choking to the gratings. There was blood everywhere and he saw Southby staring at the writhing man as if he was stricken.
Menzies took charge. ‘Get this man below. You, Dyke, take his place!’ With a beefy fist he thrust the other seaman against the smoking gun and added, ‘Hit those buggers, man!’
And here was a landing craft right alongside. It was like a nightmare, upturned faces, inhuman beneath those small helmets as they fired rifles and pistols. Some of the troops fought their way from the side as the craft hit the saddle tank and heaved over like an overloaded crate.
A machine-gunner was yelling like a maniac as he swung his gun back and forth across the water, whipping the sea into froth, changing it from blue to pink.
The warship had ceased firing altogether, and was apparently surrounded by blazing fuel, amongst which soldiers and sailors alike thrashed and screamed until the flames silenced them forever.
‘Cease firing.’ Ainslie wiped his mouth with his wrist. ‘Control room, this is the captain. Resume course and check all departments for damage.’
Still at maximum revolutions, the Soufrière headed out and away from the land, the inlet and all but some hills hidden by drifting smoke.
The first warship had already disappeared beneath the surface, but the other one was still afloat and burning fiercely. On the bridge they heard the explosions within her hull, the crackle of ammunition caught in the fires, and Ainslie hoped the little colonel and his men would hear them also.
Two shells fell without exploding somewhere between the submarine and the wrecked landing craft. Fired by the enemy or the remaining British artillery it was not possible to know.
Forty-five minutes after Farrant had secured his scorched guns the lookouts sighted an aircraft, far away on the port beam, tiny and remote, like a chip of glass in the sky.
Ainslie followed it with his binoculars, watching each change of direction. It was making for the smoke which covered the horizon in a brown veil.
He held his breath, counting seconds, waiting for it to turn and fly straight towards the lens.
‘Control room to bridge. The depth is now twenty fathoms, sir.’
Ainslie looked at Southby. He too was splashed with blood, his fair hair stained by smoke.
‘Take your gun crews below, Sub.’ He watched the slow realization on his face. ‘I think we’ve made it.’
Then he looked at the yeoman of signals, unbreakable, like a rock.
‘Clear the bridge, Yeo.’ He pressed the diving button twice. ‘And thanks.’
Ten minutes later the sea was unruffled once more, with nothing to show that Soufrière had ever been there.
11
Time to Go
REAR-ADMIRAL GRANGER removed the pipe from his mouth and said, ‘I’m very sorry to hear about Commander Critchley. I didn’t know him well, but what I heard of his intelligence work was good. Very good.’ The pipe smoke hung motionless above him, the fan unmoving.
Ainslie looked past the admiral at the wall map. The yellow tape had moved still further south, and there were some new arrows across the water to the east, probing through Sarawak towards Borneo.
The admiral nodded. ‘Full-scale amphibious attack. The Australians are putting in some more troops, but they’re not having much luck.’
Captain Armytage, who had been standing by the window, said, ‘That Japanese submarine you met up with when you went after the Soufrière was probably smelling out the land for all this.’ For once he sounded very low. ‘The Japanese are pushing through the islands like ants. It will take years to drive them out again.’
‘Anyway.’ The admiral seemed eager to finish the meeting. ‘I’m glad you got back safely. And with two more sinkings to your credit.’
Armytage said, ‘There have been no signals today from that sector, so it looks as if the enemy have overrun that position after all.’
Ainslie looked down at his hands, very tanned against his fresh drill uniform.
He had berthed the Soufrière that afternoon, not alongside the old depot ship, for she had been moved to a southern anchorage at Keppel Harbour. In fact the base had appeared very deserted, with only a few harbour craft and some old river gunboats to keep them company.
The streets, on the other hand, were full of people, the air tense with rumour and speculation. There had been several hit and run air attacks, but the damage had been slight compared with the devastating effect on morale.
There was talk of looting and deserters robbing abandoned houses. Of
spies and saboteurs, although much of the damage was probably caused by lack of maintenance, the people employed having gone elsewhere. If the admiral’s fan was out of order, it did not say a lot for the rest of the island.
The admiral said, ‘Captain Armytage is taking over here as acting commodore. You will await your orders through him, although God knows when that will be.’
Armytage said smoothly, ‘I am sure we will get along.’
Ainslie looked at the admiral. ‘May I ask where you are going, sir?’
His smile was without warmth. ‘Oh, I shall be around. Not too far away.’
Armytage said, ‘The admiral is taking charge of commercial shipping movements.’
Ainslie thought of the dead medical orderly, the seaman falling on the pier, the man bleeding on the conning tower.
He said quietly, ‘Preparing to evacuate, you mean, sir?’
‘I said no such thing, dammit!’ Armytage’s anger was back again. ‘You take too much on yourself, too much by half!’
The admiral said wearily, ‘We’re taking no chances, Ainslie, that’s all. We have to prepare, just in case.’
Armytage said irritably, ‘When the reinforcements get here we shall see a change all round. The Japs can’t go on overreaching their supply lines like this. We’ll show them a thing or two.’
Ainslie said, ‘Commander Critchley implied that Soufrière would be going to England soon, sir. She would be very useful either as a long-range patrol submarine or even running supplies to Malta.’
Armytage glanced at his watch. ‘Well, Critchley’s no longer with us. I shall see what Whitehall has to say.’ His eyes hardened. ‘In due course.’
There was a commotion in the passageway and Ainslie heard a voice, vaguely familiar, exclaiming angrily, ‘Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, you pompous idiot! I’m not asking. I’m telling you, see?’
The door burst open and Guy Torrance strode into the room. His well-cut, light-weight suit was patchy with sweat, and his face was flushed, dangerously so.
The flag-lieutenant hovered behind him saying, ‘I could not stop him, sir!’
The admiral asked grimly, ‘Well, sir? To what do we owe this noisy intrusion?’
Torrance glared at him. ‘I have two boats building here, under contract. Launches for my lighterage business in Rangoon.’
Granger nodded. ‘They’ve been commandeered for the emergency. Those and a lot more.’
Torrance shouted ‘Emergency is it? God damn it man it was of no bloody importance last week! What the hell are you talking about?’
Armytage snapped, ‘Now look here, whatever your name is –’
But the admiral shook his head abruptly and said, ‘I will look into it. Leave it with me.’
Ainslie had seen the admiral’s signal to his subordinate. Either Torrance held a lot of influence or he was afraid he might spread fuel on the fire of rumour.
Torrance seemed partly satisfied. ‘Well, then.’
He turned and saw Ainslie for the first time. His eyes sharpened, focusing like gunsights.
‘Robert Ainslie, right? The chap who dragged the girls from the sea.’ He grinned. ‘Never thought to find you in this dump!’
‘Commander Ainslie is about to leave this, er, dump.’ Granger shot Ainslie a warning glance. ‘He can see you to your car.’
Outside the room and past the busy typist, Torrance murmured, ‘Bloody fools. Wouldn’t know an emergency if it kicked them up the arse!’
Ainslie fell in step beside him. The sun was getting low and the water looked strangely hostile.
There were a lot more troops about, and some sandbagged emplacements around the base.
Torrance stopped beside an expensive-looking car and asked, ‘Where are you going now? Spot of leave?’ He did not wait for an answer but added, ‘I was joking just now. I knew you’d been away in that ruddy submarine of yours. I’ve friends in high places, y’know. You look worn out. The smart uniform doesn’t fool me. Christ, if I wasn’t doing essential work I’d be in uniform myself. I could show them a thing or two.’ He paused and asked, ‘Well?’
‘No leave, I’m afraid. Not yet, anyway.’ He watched a ragged Malay in handcuffs being marched past by some grim-faced military police.
Torrance followed his glance. ‘He’ll get the chop, that one. Looter, I expect.’
He opened the door of his car, the wretched prisoner forgotten. ‘Hop in. Come and have a tot at the hotel. The service is going to hell, but the drink’s okay.’
Ainslie felt all his refusals falling away. ‘I could telephone the base from there.’ He watched Torrance’s face for some hint of guile or suspicion. But his mind seemed to blunder from one thing to the next, each disconnected from the other.
‘Course you can.’ He pressed the starter impatiently. ‘Play golf, do you?’
The car swerved away, almost running down a man who was approaching them with a tray of celluloid Father Christmases. With a start Ainslie realized Christmas was only two days away.
Torrance drove faster than he should, the horn going vehemently whenever somebody got in his way.
He said, ‘My sister-in-law’s husband is alive, by the way. Prisoner of the Japs somewhere. An estate worker came through the lines with the news.’
Ainslie thought of the girl screaming at him, calling him a coward. Then again aboard the yacht, so full of sexual excitement. Of how her sister had described the marriage. What would she think of the news? Her husband alive, but unlikely to get back to her for years, if at all. His question answered itself.
The car stopped and Torrance said, ‘Just a quick nip before we go in.’ He reached under the seat and took out a heavy silver flask and shook it. ‘Good.’
He did not offer it to Ainslie, and held it to his lips for a full minute, his eyes unblinking, lost to some inner thought.
‘There now. All done.’ He wiped his mouth and set the car in motion again, humming cheerfully to himself.
‘Will you be going back to Rangoon when you’ve finished your business here?’ He saw the error too late.
Torrance said brightly, ‘Told you, did she? Not like her. Doesn’t mix very well. Not like her sister, what?’
They swept past Raffles, avoiding the beggars and traders who waited hopefully for unwary servicemen, and Torrance said, ‘No, UK probably. She wants to see a top man in Harley Street.’ He swung the wheel, his voice suddenly changed and angry. ‘God knows why. Keeping on about it. It’s best forgotten.’
The Indian porter hurried forward to open the door, saluting as he did so. He saw Ainslie and bobbed. ‘Ah, Commander-sahib, splendid to see you again.’
Ainslie darted a glance at Torrance but he had apparently not heard.
He said, ‘Thank you,’ and thrust some loose change into his ready palm.
She was seated at one of the small tables, and was even wearing the same white dress.
As they approached she sat very still, her eyes on her husband, and yet somehow looking at Ainslie.
‘Brought your friend along. Thought he might need a drink.’ He snapped his fingers at a waiter. ‘Christ, I’m parched.’
Ainslie took her hand. Then she did look at him openly, her lips slightly parted as if she was seeing him for the first time.
‘I’m glad you came. Sit down. It’s so hot, isn’t it?’
Torrance was speaking with the waiter, his hands moving to describe the size and quality of the drinks he required.
Ainslie said softly, ‘We met at the base. I’d just got in.’
She nodded, a pulse moving in her throat. ‘I know. I’ve thought a lot about you lately.’ She spoke in an unnatural, matter-of-fact tone, but her eyes told a lot more.
A messenger came from the desk and said to Torrance, ‘Telephone call for you, sir.’
Torrance stood up violently. ‘Hold my drinks for me.’ He winked at Ainslie. ‘Keep both hands where I can see them, eh?’ He went off laughing.
Ainslie looked at her
, but she showed no concern over his comment, and he guessed she was used to it.
He said quickly, ‘May I just say something?’ He watched her tense, the sudden alarm in her eyes. ‘You look absolutely lovely. I shouldn’t be saying this to someone else’s wife, but I can’t help myself.’
She smiled, pleased or embarrassed he could not tell.
Then she said, ‘I thought you’d forgotten about us.’ She glanced round, but Torrance had his back to them on the other side of the room, his head nodding as he spoke on the telephone. ‘You look so tired, but I shan’t ask you what you’ve been doing.’ Impetuously she touched his arm. ‘I’m glad you said it. Just don’t laugh at me, will you? I mean, later on, when –’
She leaned back, breaking the contact, as Torrance came back from the desk.
‘That was your admiral. He’s had second thoughts about my boats.’ He beamed at them. ‘Thought he might.’
The nurse came through the entrance leading the little girl by the hand. ‘Here’s your daddy, Frances.’
But the child walked past him and stood gazing at Ainslie’s cap on a chair.
The nurse said, ‘We’ve been finishing our Christmas shopping. Mrs Torrance.’
Torrance glanced at the child and asked. ‘All right, Frances?’ She ignored him, but he added, ‘That’s a good girl. Just you trot along, eh?’
He stood up, downing his drink with one swallow, and exclaimed, ‘Damn! I’ve left some important papers in the car. I’ll get ’em before some light-fingered chap gets his hands on ’em!’
With that he was gone, taking long strides, like a man hurrying for a train.
She said, ‘He’s gone for a drink.’ She spoke without bitterness or emotion.
Ainslie held out his hand to the child, feeling the nurse watching him like a protective hawk.
‘Hello, Frances.’
The child regarded him for a few seconds and then turned away towards the stairs.
Ainslie said gently, ‘He said you may be going to England?’
Once, the thought of a long sea passage from Singapore to the U-boat-infested waters of the Atlantic would have seemed extremely hazardous. But now, after what he had seen on the peninsula, he was not sure of anything.
Strike from the Sea (1978) Page 18
