Now all eyes on the bridge were on the sky-there are limits even to the strictest training. Magically, six black handfuls of smoke appeared, a momentary flick of flame in the centre of each, squarely in front of the aircraft's nose.
Right for line, right for elevation, Bentley automatically judged. But short for range. If he came on he should fly smack into the next broadside.
And in the next second, when the pilot took no avoiding action, when he made no effort to swing away from what was already on its way up to meet him, Bentley knew quite certainly that the Jap was not an ace, nor clever, nor a psychologist. He was simply a brave man, not well-trained, who had sighted an enemy below him and had then screwed up his courage to attack.
Wind Rode's shells were sighted and flung by well-trained men indeed; men whose drill and experience were aided by the mathematical certainty of radar.
The six long yellow shells were fused to burst at long barrage range, three thousand feet. Their bursting and the position of the diving plane coincided nicely.
That aircraft was travelling fast, something close to 400 knots, but a T.N.T. packed shell spreads its steel splinters and disruptive effect much faster than that. No sooner had the fuses fired and the
T.N.T. exploded than the six shell-casings broken into thousands of pieces of jagged, white-hot steel, lashed the aircraft with hurricane force.
The watchers on the bridge saw it fly into the black bursts, momentarily lost it behind the smoke-screen, and then saw it plummet out clear. But it was no longer an aircraft, an integrated machine of beautiful and powerful purpose.
Part of the fuselage, heavy with the engine, came on down at high speed; the rest of it followed more leisurely, drifting down from the clouds like a handful of flung leaves, twisting, sliding, zigzagging.
"Cease firing," Bentley ordered.
His voice and his face were normal, no betrayers of the feelings inside him. But still he felt no exultation at his quick victory. His mind was exercised only by relief that once again he had taken his ship and men into action and once again they had come out still sailing.
"Pilot's baled out," Randall reported.
Bentley saw the desperate attempt. It was quite clear without glasses. The dark body, then the streaming white of the parachute; and the silk touching as it fell the flame-wreathed engine and itself changing in an instant into a fiery cape.
Wind Rode's gunners, watched the macabre end. The flames of engine and parachute were an ochreous yellow against the backdrop of grey clouds. Only Bentley's mind was exercised by other considerations than fascination and satisfaction. His captain's brain, always watchful, always judging, was thinking that that engine would strike very close.
But there was not enough time to swing the ship. And no need. The heavy metal plunged into the sea a hundred yards astern. The pilot, lighter, followed it in three seconds later. Their entry left two small circles of froth on the face of the water.
"Port twenty," Bentley ordered, "stand-by seaboat's crew."
It was an automatic gesture. Neither Bentley nor anyone else expected that the seaboat would be needed.
Swiftly the destroyer came round, until she was steaming at reduced speed along the line of bearing Pilot had taken on the froth. She slid slowly up to the point of entry, and the quiet surface of the sea was empty.
Burned down to the harness, the parachute had been dragged under by the pilot's heavily-clad body. The gases of his decomposing body would bring him to the surface eventually, but Wind Rode had neither the time nor the inclination to wait for that.
"Half ahead both engines," Bentley ordered, "two double-oh revolutions, steer 310 degrees."
Three minutes later the ship was making 20 knots, back on her interrupted course for base. She had won her battle - at, Bentley was to find out shortly in his cabin, worrying cost.
Surgeon-lieutenant Landis came in first. This was a vastly different surgeon from the one who had joined the ship some months before. Then Landis had been professionally competent, but complexedly unsure of himself in his completely novel surroundings. But war is a forceful teacher, especially in a destroyer, and the officer who answered Bentley's "Come," had confidence and surety stamped on his thin brown face.
"Sit down, Doc," Bentley invited, "cigarette?"
"No thanks, sir," Landis shook his head, "I must be getting back."
Bentley lit a cigarette himself, his first since the action, and over the flame of the match his eyes invited Landis to get on with it.
"Three killed, four wounded, sir." the surgeon responded. "Badly?"
Bentley's voice was practical, interested. He had seen many more casualties than this, and in this matter he had to be like the surgeon himself in an operating-theatre-he had a corporate body to look after, and he could not afford the luxury of compassion for the wounds of some of its parts. Not yet.
"They're out of action, but-no, not badly wounded. They'll have to be transferred, of course. The worst one..." Landis paused, and this brief hesitation was an indication of how familiar he had become with the working of the ship. "The worst one is the cox'n."
Bentley had been waiting for this. It flashed through his mind that he would sooner have lost one of his junior officers. But his face and voice were composed.
"Go on."
"Shell splinters. Extensive laceration to the chest and abdomen." "He's all right?"
After that diagnosis the captain's question seemed paradoxical. But Landis knew what he meant.
"He'll live, yes. He must have been standing side-on to the burst. Penetration was mainly in the abdomen. It reached to the peritoneum, but I've sutured that all right. Loss of blood and shock, of course. It would be a good idea to get him ashore as soon as possible. All of them for that matter."
Without a word Bentley leaned back and unhooked the flexible speaking tube from its holder. Randall answered.
"Increase to thirty knots," Bentley ordered, "then come down here."
"Aye, aye, sir," his friend replied formally. Bentley replaced the tube and turned around. "Nesbitt?" he asked. "Killed instantly. Rather a mess."
"Yes - I saw it. All right, Doc. We'll be in tomorrow. I'll let you know the E.T.A. later."
Landis went out, long and thin in khaki. Bentley tapped slowly at his cigarette, watching the ash drop. Remembering Nesbitt's tortured face, and that death would have been instantaneous, Bentley was inclined to believe that the seaman might have wanted it that way. Then he castigated himself mentally. How the devil do I know what he wanted? Frowning, he put the thought of the seaman from his mind - it was not too difficult, for now he had a real problem.
Smales. His coxswain. Irreplaceable, at least by another man on board. Hooky Walker would take on acting duties till they got in, but the chief bosun's mate had more than enough to occupy him in his own department; he was in charge of the whole upper-deck, the seamanship of the ship.
The gunner's mate was similarly placed. Six big guns, a dozen smaller weapons, the transmitting-station and the director to drill; apart from his concern with the magazines. The torpedo gunner's mate-ditto.
It was an insoluble problem. At peace, or in dock, he could have overcome it. But Wind Rode was a Fleet destroyer at war, fighting in an area where every ship was vitally needed to stem the forceful tide pressing southward. She had been, and would be, at sea and in action almost every day. All his chiefs would be fully occupied.
He could have spared one of his six seamen petty-officers, perhaps. But even if the man chosen could do the job, he was junior to the chief; and the coxswain was senior to them all.
Stirred by his preoccupation with his dilemma, a memory came to Bentley. A recent judgment. A good ship, a taut ship, he had prided himself, not more than an hour ago. Now a Jap bomb had altered all that.
She was still as taut as ever, of course. But how long would that last, without a coxswain? Smales himself had said you had to watch them, they weren't all angels. How much of her present competence was due t
o his and Randall's training programme? How much to the coxswain's steadfast and unremitting discipline?
Randall knocked and came in.
"All well, Peter," he said, and dropped his cap on the table, "we'll be up to 30 knots shortly."
Bentley knew that, even if he had not ordered the increase. The cabin was quivering, he could feel the deck vibrating under his feet, and from the pantry outside came the musical jingle of pieces of crockery dancing.
Randall eased his big frame into a chair and Bentley pushed the box of cigarettes across the table.
"Who were they?"
Randall understood the question at once. The captain wanted, not names, but gunnery positions. The regret, the compassion, the letter-writing to next of kin, would come later. They were still at sea, they had been attacked a matter of minutes before.
"Two loading-numbers of the pom-pom," he answered, "and the trainer. A cook who'd just stepped out of the galley and a stoker on his way aft with a fanny of water. Nesbitt. of course - and the cox'n."
Yes, Bentley thought grimly, the cox'n. The important one left till last. You know it as well as I do.
"You were bloody lucky yourself, old feller," Randall said seriously. "It burst abreast the galley, a fraction aft of you."
Bentley nodded. He knew there would be no delayed shock-reaction to that intimate and venomous blast; his mind had been fully engaged immediately after it, and now he could look back on the bomb explosion calmly.
But he had no wish for retrospective thought. His problem was in the future.
"I've got to get a cox'n," he said bluntly, and picked up another cigarette. "What ships are in Moresby?"
"A couple of Yank cruisers..."
Bentley squinted at him, disgustedly.
"And one of our destroyers," Randall added. His voice was not hopeful.
"That's right," Bentley mused, "the old Pelican. Who's got her?" He answered his own question. " `Dutchy' Holland."
Randall's head was a little on one side, his tough burned face a puzzled query.
"What the hell are you getting at?" he asked slowly. "I've got to get a cox'n," Bentley said again, "and six men." Randall pressed back in his chair. His laugh was a short grunt. "Hornblower, yet! The press-gang is out of fashion, or didn't you know?"
Bentley ignored the sarcasm. His upper teeth roughed thoughtfully over his bottom lip.
"What's she in Moresby for?" he wondered, almost to himself, "how long's she been up here?"
"Longer than us-and that's a lot longer than I want to think about," Randall growled. "Maybe she's on her way south for leave and refit."
"Exactly," Bentley said softly.
Randall thumped forward in his chair.
"Damn it all, Peter!" he expostulated, "you can't do that! You won't have a hope. If they're heading south for leave that makes it worse. Dutchy's a tough nut. He may have an old ship but that boy's been around. He'll laugh at you!"
"That's what I mean," said Bentley slowly.
"Eh?"
"His ship's old. She's had it as far as Fleet work is concerned. We, on the other hand, are new. And very much on the required list."
"But those men have been up here a hell of a long time.
"So? I mind the time we didn't see Sydney for a year or so. There is," he reminded his friend with a quick grin, "a war on."
His friend's sceptical face did not mirror the smile.
"There'll be a bloody war on when you come up against old Dutchy," Randall decided darkly.
"We'll see," Bentley smiled, "we shall see."
A ship, certainly not a destroyer, should not always be judged by her appearance, Bentley thought as his own gleaming craft slid carefully up-harbour towards her anchorage. He put his glasses again on the destroyer they were passing.
H.M.A.S. Pelican had once been the pride of the Australian destroyer squadron. But it was doubtful if any of the men now aboard her could remember back that far. She was of earlier vintage than even the old and valiant Scrap-iron Flotilla, and her age showed in the rust streaks down her salt-faded sides.
It must be a hopeless and frustrating task to keep her clean, Bentley decided-if a chipping-hammer after rust dug too deeply it would chop right through her ancient skin.
But Wind Rode's captain was too experienced to be impressed solely by the old ship's outward signs of decay. His glasses traversed slowly along her length and he noted that all the boats were hoisted square, the falls neatly stowed; none of the guardrails sagged, the ropes on the deck were cheesed-down neatly, her four-inch guns were trained dead fore and aft, all at the correct harbour elevation of ten degrees. Little things...
She might be old, a worn-out has-been, but she was run by a seaman.
And the seaman looked what he was, Bentley thought as he stepped on board Pelican's quarterdeck an hour later and held out his hand.
A calm, oaken face looked back at him, its skin the dark colour of a dried leaf, and something of the same juicelessness, and riven with the maze of wrinkles ploughed into it by thirty years of wind and sun and salt. A hard dry hand gripped his and a growl of a voice said: "Morning, sir."
Holland had been a lieutenant-commander when Bentley had his single sub-lieutenants ring, and he still was. But he offered the title to the senior, younger officer without hesitation. He was the sort of man, Bentley felt, who would call a waiter "sir" if it pleased him, and be damned to an admiral's wife he didn't like.
"Good morning," Bentley returned, and only just caught himself from adding "sir." Holland had been at sea while his visitor was still wearing triangular trousers, but there was something else about him which commanded respect. Not his intellectual or educational capabilities-he would never rise above his present rank-but a sort of gruff, weathered, practical competence. His whole stocky figure and beaten face exuded experience.
They walked forrard towards the sea-cabin and Bentley was thinking that Randall could be right; here was a hard nut indeed to split. On the other hand, Holland's very qualities of experience and hard-won understanding might swing things Wind Rode's way. And it was the ship which was really at stake...
In the cabin, tiny compared to Bentley's, Holland grunted, "Sun's over the yardarm. Gin?"
"Thanks."
The steward brought the gin and tonic, a cool hint of blue in the long glasses, and Holland said "Skoll." Bentley murmured conventionally in answer and they drank.
The older officer's mind was alive with questions - he had heard of Bentley and his exploits, but he barely knew him, and this was not a friendly social visit - but politeness kept rein on his wondering. He said:
"I hear you had a bit of a stoush near Jomard?"
"Yes," Bentley nodded. Holland had given him his opening. He decided to use it at once-frankness might pay off with this veteran. "That's what I've come to see you about."
"Oh...?"
Holland was not yet sure of his visitor's intention, but an unpleasant doubt began to stir in his mind. The relation of a ship in action, and casualties, to a visit to a ship about to leave the danger area was more than a bit obvious. Maybe this bright young fellow wanted to shanghai one of his stokers, or cooks.
He lifted his glass slowly and over its rim his deep, narrowed eyes watched Bentley warily. Wind Rode's captain interpreted the expression accurately - in Holland's position he would have been just as watchful. But his voice when he went on was casual, as though what he were about to ask were in the normal order of natural things, instead of being outrageous.
"I've lost seven men, three killed, four wounded." Holland's eyes were fixed on him steadily, unwinking. "I can manage without the cook, but I need a stoker, at least two men for the pom-pom. And a cox'n."
"You lost your cox'n," Holland said, carefully, "that's bad luck."
"It's calamitous," Bentley nodded definitely. He went on at once. "That's why I'm asking you to give me yours."
Holland lowered his glass. He leaned forward to place it gently on the table. In that positio
n, his wide shoulders bent over, he looked up at Bentley.
"You're not serious!"
His voice was half-mocking, half-doubtful, as if he had heard a joke in bad taste. It was, as well, hard.
"You don't imagine I like asking for these men?" Bentley said, beginning his battle.
"You don't imagine you'll get them?" Holland returned, his lips twisted.
Bentley started to talk. He kept his voice calm, reasonable. He had to avoid the slightest indication that he was trading on his seniority; that would have been fatal, for Holland was just as much lord aboard this old craft as Bentley was in his domain.
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