Strike from the Sea (1978)

by Reeman, Douglas

  And now what? Wait for more orders. To head for England. To stay and evacuate the top brass. To scuttle the submarine and get away by other means.

  Quinton said, ‘Like a bloody madhouse. Look at ’em!’

  When people realized there were no more big ships, no further hope for the masses of frightened refugees, it would get far worse. All the old pent-up hatreds and grievances, the rigid barriers between white and coloured residents would explode into a separate war altogether.

  A siren hooted mournfully, and the yeoman of signals said, ‘The biggest of the transports has weighed, sir. Bengal Princess. She used to be on the run to Japan before this lot. Seems like a bad joke now.’

  Ainslie trained his glasses on the dull-painted transport as it began to glide clear of the other shipping. She would be somewhere on board, she might even see the rounded grey hull of the Soufrière before the ship cleared the harbour and joined the waiting escorts.

  Quinton was watching him thoughtfully. ‘Any orders, sir?’

  Ainslie looked down at the seamen who were taking away the unwanted wires, while Voysey, under the cold eye of Farrant, the gunnery officer, checked the lashings on the moorings and prepared to run out the brow.

  Peace or war, a commanding officer still had his routine to follow.

  ‘Find out from the hospital how our AB is getting on.’

  It was incredible that the man who had been wounded, right here on Soufrière’s bridge, was still alive. The PMO had said he had a hole in his side you could put your hand in. Hunt, the SBA, could take the credit for his survival.

  With the inlet overrun and captured by the enemy there was no way of knowing whether the other seaman who had been cut down by the mortar bomb on the pier was alive or dead. It would mean a letter to his parents. Missing. That must be even worse. Not knowing. Losing hope every day.

  He said heavily, ‘Tell the Chief to go over all the machinery. If he needs spares we shall have to get them fast. I think we’re a bit isolated in all this muddle.’

  Quinton turned to leave. Then he asked, ‘Was everything all right? With the elephant and things?’

  Ainslie nodded. ‘Yes. But they’re well out of it now.’

  The coxswain heaved his massive frame through the hatch and saluted, his eyes watering in the sunlight.

  ‘What about leave, sir?’

  Ainslie shrugged. ‘I’m waiting to hear. But it will be confined locally, I expect.’

  Gosling considered it. ‘We staying, sir?’

  ‘Doubt it. As the air raids increase it’ll be too dangerous to stop here.’

  He looked towards the colourful waterfront. Now everyone would know about the Soufrière. That would mean the Japs knew, too.

  He lowered himself through the hatch and made his way to his cabin.

  Forster was waiting for him, his face grim.

  ‘If it’s about the muck-up you made, Pilot, you can forget it. I imagine it will not occur again.’

  But Forster showed no sign of relief. He said, ‘Well, thanks a lot, sir. But I was thinking of something else. I – I was wondering if I could make a special signal from here. I want to tell someone not to worry.’ He ended lamely, ‘To wait until I get back.’

  Ainslie sat down and stared at him. ‘A woman, no doubt.’

  ‘The wife of Psyche’s skipper, sir.’

  Ainslie nodded. ‘Widow.’

  ‘Well, yes, that is . . .’ He clenched his fists. ‘I want to marry her.’

  ‘There’s a child involved?’

  ‘There will be, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ He wanted to have a shower, to be alone for a while, but Forster’s anxiety pushed it aside. Perhaps he was growing up after all. It was to be hoped he did not regret it later on. ‘You’re certain about this?’

  ‘Quite, sir.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll get it sent off today if you let me have the details. It will make a refreshing change from most of the signals from Singapore, I should think.’

  Forster went out, looking like a condemned man who has confessed at the last minute.

  Petty Officer Vernon tapped on the door. ‘Shore telephone line connected, sir.’ He grinned through his beard. ‘Makes a change.’

  Ainslie leaned back and ruffled his hair as the door closed. He knew what Vernon meant. In other times a submarine, even the big Soufrière, would have been well down the list for telephones. There were few other vessels of any size flying the white ensign here now.

  He started as the telephone buzzed, remembering those other occasions, like the little colonel when he had received news of Critchley’s death.

  He picked it up. It was Rear-Admiral Granger.

  ‘Good, you’re alongside then.’ He sounded very near and as if he was worried. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got to drag you ashore so soon. Something’s come up. Rather urgent. The FOIC wants you in his office right away.’

  Ainslie said, ‘I’ll be ashore in fifteen minutes, sir.’ He waited, thinking of all the staff officers with no ships to supervise.

  Granger added, ‘Are you ready for sea?’

  Ainslie moved to the edge of his chair, his old instincts flashing a warning.

  ‘Yes. Fuel, torpedoes recovered, all but some machine-gun ammunition.’

  ‘I’ll get on to the commodore’s office about it.’ The admiral seemed relieved.

  Ainslie put down the telephone. Another job. He had been expecting it, so what was the matter with him? He stood up, searching for his cap.

  By the time he got through the army pickets and barbed wire barriers a staff car had arrived for him. It carried him to a newly commandeered building on the city outskirts, again heavily protected by anti-aircraft batteries and armoured scout cars.

  Ainslie had only met the admiral once before. A tall, austere man, with neat grey sideburns and a Victorian face.

  There was a senior RAF officer present, too, and a foreign-featured man in a cream, light-weight suit.

  Granger was also there, looking tired, even dispirited.

  The admiral said, ‘This is Air Vice-Marshal Thomas, my opposite number, and Major Zahl, American Intelligence.’

  They all shook hands, checking what they saw, assessing viewpoints without words.

  A lieutenant brought Ainslie a chair, and the admiral said briskly, ‘You will know the present position better than most. I’ll not go over it all again. What might have been done, what should have been prevented, and so forth. It’s water under the bridge now. What we have to do is to stop a disaster from becoming a disgrace as well.’ He nodded to the American.

  Major Zahl had an easy voice, totally at odds with what he had to say.

  ‘The fact is, Commander, the United States’ commitment in the Pacific is still reeling from Pearl Harbour. Next year, things may be different, who can say? But right now we cannot help the Commander in Chief here.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘Except by sharing what we know.’

  The Air Force officer interrupted, ‘Major Zahl has brought news of another Japanese aircraft carrier. She’s the Sudsuya, one of their newest, and best.’

  Ainslie watched him, seeing his despair. It could not be easy for him. With his airfields and planes in ruins.

  The admiral said, ‘She’s in Indo-China, at Cam-Ranh. The Americans scored a hit on her last week, but the damage is not too serious. She is reported to be sailing in a few days.’

  Zahl nodded. ‘Our agents have made it perfectly clear. The flat-top is to reinforce the Nip Navy, but more to the point, to destroy any chance of further evacuation from Singapore. Without air cover you –’

  Ainslie gave a tight smile. ‘I know, Major. I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘I’ve brought you here, Ainslie,’ the admiral seemed able to exclude everyone else present, ‘to put it plainly to you. I am sending Soufrière to attack the Sudsuya as I have nothing else. There is nothing else.’

  The silence was oppressive, like the approach of a tropical storm.

  Ainslie said, ‘I und
erstand, sir.’ Did he really? Even if he managed to sink the carrier it would delay but not prevent the inevitable.

  The admiral and the air vice-marshal looked at each other, and then Granger asked, ‘Is there anything I can get for you?’

  Ainslie shook his head. ‘A crystal ball, sir. That’s about the only thing which might help.’

  The admiral said, ‘If you’d like me to speak to your people, Commander? To tell them how important this mission may be to all of us?’

  Ainslie stood up. ‘Thank you, but no, sir. I know them pretty well, some of them over a long period.’

  ‘Well, I suggest we get it started.’ The air vice-marshal looked at his watch.

  Ainslie left the room without realizing it, Granger beside him, already groping for his pipe.

  Granger muttered, ‘Pompous bugger.’ He did not explain what he meant.

  At the entrance Granger said suddenly, ‘The Torrances didn’t get aboard the Bengal Princess, by the way. There was some argument, I’m not yet certain of the real reasons.’ He eyed Ainslie steadily. ‘I didn’t tell you earlier because I knew you’d take on this assignment for her sake, am I right?’

  Ainslie nodded, his heart heavy. ‘Probably, sir. What will they do now?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll manage something. I’ve got a reserve of vessels laid on. Leave it to me.’

  They shook hands, and then Granger said, ‘It’s asking a lot of you.’

  Ainslie replied, ‘The enemy will know about us this time. It’ll not be easy.’

  But he was really thinking of her. She was still here, in the city. It did not seem real. Nothing did.

  He said, ‘You will get Natalie Torrance and Frances into a ship of some sort?’

  ‘I said, you can leave it to me.’ Granger smiled sadly. ‘Of course I will.’

  The staff car was waiting to carry him back to the harbour. He was tempted to ask the driver to take another route, by way of the Royal Hotel. But it would not help either of them. Especially now.

  The air vice-marshal hurried down the steps as the car drove away in a cloud of sandy dust.

  ‘All buttoned up?’

  Granger eyed him coldly. The air vice-marshal was leaving the island on the next available vessel.

  ‘Yes. That was a brave man I just shook hands with.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Too bloody good to throw away!’

  Granger strode away, flushed and unusually angry.

  As dusk moved in across the harbour the Soufrière slipped her moorings and without fuss turned her bows seaward.

  That afternoon, after an argument with the local military police and then a terse telephone call to Granger, Ainslie had been able to take over a large transit shed on the dockside. It was the only place large enough for him to address his whole company at once.

  It had been a moving occasion in many ways. Ainslie had stood upon a packing case while his officers and ratings had broken ranks and gathered round him.

  He tried not to mince words, because he had never known lies to help when lives were at risk.

  Ainslie had explained where they were going, and why. As his voice had echoed around the big shed he had watched their faces, remembering all the incidents, the moments of tension and humour which had somehow welded them together.

  Gosling, looking shabby and old beside his friend Menzies. Sawle, who knew the officers better than anyone. Hunt in his white jacket, his lips pursed and vaguely disapproving. Young Southby beside Halliday in his boiler suit. Farrant, Christie, the flyer, and all the others.

  There had been one incident which he had not planned for.

  As he had made to leave, Quinton had climbed on to the packing case and had called, ‘Now listen to me, all of you. Some of you probably believe this is a crook deal and not what we came out to do. Well, maybe it is at that. But it’s the same bloody war, and the same reasons for getting on with the job, our job.’ Then he had turned to look across the breadth of the shed to where Ainslie stood by the entrance. ‘And if we can get through this without being chopped, then I know one skipper who can fix it.’ He had thrown up a salute. ‘And that’s a fact!’

  Now, as Ainslie stood beside Forster’s chart table listening to the reports and instructions being passed through his command, he could still hear the burst of wild cheering which had followed him through the doors of the shed.

  Quinton had timed it well. A few seconds earlier and they might all have seen their captain break down.

  Eight hundred miles to go, with orders to ignore any other targets.

  He crossed to the voice-pipe. ‘Captain to bridge.’

  Farrant was up there, holding the fort as they slipped past the last small vessels and patrols.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Clear the bridge. We’re diving.’

  The klaxon shrilled raucously, and then Ainslie looked from Quinton to Halliday.

  ‘Here we go.’ He heard the hatches clanging shut, the usual commotion as the lookouts’ feet thudded down to the deck. ‘Ready?’

  Halliday gave a crooked smile. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Ainslie listened to the softer purr of electric motors, the awakening ping of the echo sounder. But he saw her face, felt her heart beating against his body, as if she were somehow here beside him.

  He said sharply, ‘Group up. Slow ahead together. Open main vents. Take her down to fourteen metres.’

  As the water roared into the saddle tanks and the deck gave a deliberate tilt, Ainslie went to the periscope, searching for the land but finding only the early stars.

  ‘Down periscope.’ He stood back as it hissed into its well. They were on their way.

  One day and eight hours after clearing the harbour limits the submarine Soufrière was crossing the sixth parallel and heading north approximately midway between the Malayan peninsula and the coast of Indo-China.

  At any other time it would have seemed like a leisurely passage. The weather had been kind, and they had neither sighted nor detected another vessel of any sort.

  Surfaced, her diesels growling steadily while Halliday completed another battery charge, the submarine thrust through the unruffled waters with barely any motion at all.

  Ainslie stood on the high bridge, watching the stars as they began to fade. It would soon be dawn. Time to dive again.

  Around him the lookouts, very aware of his presence, scanned their different sectors, while Ridgway, who was OOW on deck, kept his own binoculars levelled towards where the horizon would soon appear.

  ‘I’m going below.’ Ainslie paused and took a deeep breath. Another old habit. Then he slid down to the control room, to that other world, separate yet connected to the one he had just left.

  Quinton was checking the trim again, while Halliday was in a deep conversation with his panel watchkeeper. The French lieutenant, Cottier, was studying a wiring plan as he tried to discover what was going wrong with the lights above the pump gauges.

  Forster said, ‘Signal for you, sir.’ He held out the pad. ‘Nothing new about the carrier, except that she’s still at anchor.’

  Ainslie eyed him calmly. ‘Then what is new?’

  ‘That evacuee convoy was attacked, sir, several of the ships were sunk near Banka Island, including the Bengal Princess.’ He watched as Ainslie leaned over the table. ‘And the Japs are still advancing.’

  Ainslie studied the chart, giving his mind time to relate the brief, stark signal. Had she been aboard the transport she would be dead, or trying to keep afloat until the Japs captured the survivors.

  He felt a sense of panic. Suppose nobody else would be able to get away and were forced to wait for the Japanese Army to smash its way on to the island? He gripped his hands into tight fists until the pain contained his new anxiety.

  Granger had given his word. She would get away. There would be a better chance in a smaller, faster vessel, one which could slip through the many islands, or hide during the day from searching aircraft and warships.

  Forster aske
d, ‘Something wrong?’

  He answered, ‘Your message was sent off, Pilot. I hope it does some good.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’ Forster did not seem to notice how his question had been parried.

  The smell of frying bacon floated through the boat, making the watchkeepers rub their tired eyes and lick their lips. From the W/T office came the stammer of morse, the overriding surf-noise of static. There was music too, strange and distorted, probably from some Japanese station.

  Ainslie moved restlessly around the control room. He kept thinking about his orders. The feeling that someone very high up in Whitehall had got things moving so quickly. It was quite unlike what he had found earlier out here. Maybe it was Winston Churchill who had said the right words after hearing the news from Washington and Singapore. Preparing for the day when the story of another disaster would fall on the world, but mostly on the long-suffering people in Britain. The destruction of one of Japan’s largest warships might be some compensation for the loss of Prince of Wales and Repulse, might even help to smooth over the brutal fact of this defeat, for a while anyway.

  ‘Trim completed, sir. Diving stations in five minutes.’ Quinton waited, watching his mood.

  ‘Very well. By this evening we shall be in enemy patrol area Item Fox. We’ll have to keep our wits about us.’ He smiled. ‘A good breakfast might help.’

  Quinton moved away from the helmsman. ‘I heard the news about the convoy, sir.’

  ‘They weren’t aboard, John.’ He saw the relief on Quinton’s dark features and added, ‘So that’s something to be thankful for. God, she doesn’t deserve all this!’

  Quinton turned to watch a messenger carrying more tea to the watchkeepers, his face as intent as any professor.

  He said, ‘Well, if I know you, Skipper, you’ll change all that if you get half a chance, eh?’

  Ainslie slapped his shoulder and walked towards his cabin, knowing Quinton was still staring after him.

  Tonight they would rise once more to periscope depth and contact base. After that, all their lives would be in his hands.

  He was still considering the fact when the klaxon tore the air apart and the tannoy blared, ‘Diving stations! Diving stations!’