J. E. MacDonnell - 021

by The Coxswain(lit)

  "Diagnosis completed," he grinned.

  "You're probably right," Randall conceded, believing Bentley implicity. "There's only one snag. Holland thinks Rennie's a taut hand, so do you. The only bod who doesn't know about that is Rennie."

  "He's just forgotten it - temporarily. We might find him a different character in the morning."

  There's a few of us might be different in the morning," Randall growled. He was looking at the circular patch of blue sky and now he had forgotten Rennie. "What do we use? Direct-action shell?"

  "Yes."

  Bentley knew that Randall's question was rhetorical. He was the gunnery-officer, and he knew that direct-action stuff, shells which burst on impact, was the only ammunition for a mission of this nature. They did not want to burrow in with armour-capped projectiles - the object was to lace the airstrip and its cargo with explosive force and white-hot splinters.

  Randall wished to discuss the mission further.

  "Once we find the strip," Bentley went on, only too willing to talk, "we'll open in rapid broadsides. Everything can join in pompoms, oerlikons, the lot." He nodded appreciatively, his mind eight hours ahead. "With full broadsides from the main armament we can drop 60 shells a minute on that strip. Training slowly from left to right we can lambast the whole area in a few minutes, then come back and do it over again."

  Randall picked up a cigarette slowly from the box. His stomach was beginning to churn, just a little. Bentley was right. Shells weighing 45 pounds and a little under five inches in diameter against a battleship's armoured hide were slightly more dangerous than flung potatoes: against parked aircraft they would be smashingly efficient.

  One shell, if it landed favourably, could completely destroy the nearest aircraft, and badly damage another two. Wind Rode could land six of these shells every six seconds, in a concentrated blast against which nothing on a hastily-built airfield could stand.

  A battleship or cruiser could fire much heavier projectiles. But a destroyer's were more than heavy enough for this job, and her rate of fire was immeasurably greater. Wind Rode -modern, fast, her guns radar-controlled - was the perfect weapon for this type of bombardment.

  Randall brought his thoughts back to practicality.

  "We'll need the weather with us," he warned.

  "No doubt about that," Bentley agreed. "The least promise of a moon and the whole thing's off. If they sight us snooping around they'll let go with everything. We must have a night like last night."

  "That's a pleasant thought."

  "What's that?"

  "Last night. There we were stooging around like a Manly ferry... Brother! If they've got there what you think they have, why the blazes didn't they get on to us?"

  "I've thought about that little possibility, too," Bentley grinned, "and promptly heaved the thought overboard! But I like to think the reason for our getting away with it is simple enough. First of all a patrolling aircraft's not much good, high up there on a dark night; second, the Jap boys would have been madly working, I should think-finishing the strip, servicing aircraft, stowing bombs, fuel - a thousand things. Third, and probably the main reason, is that from landward on a cloudy night we'd show practically no silhouette at all. The only thing visible about us would be a piled-up white wake."

  "Which means," Randall said throatily, "we go in there tonight at a bit under two knots!"

  "Message understood," Bentley laughed. He stood up. "We've got a hell of a lot to do. Pilot's on watch now. Get hold of the Gunner and bring him up to the bridge."

  For the next hour or so Bentley was closeted with his officers on the bridge. His first consideration was chartwork. Though he had been round the archipelago once, this time he would be setting different courses. He would need to take her in quite close - last night he had been looking for ships; tonight his object would be activity on an airfield. And the Louisiades were not one whit different from other coral islands in the Pacific in their possession of subsurface reefs running out from innocent-looking points of jungle-clad land.

  With Pilot laying-off courses on the white parchment and making notes of shoals and reefs, tidal currents and identifying features, Bentley turned to the gunnery side.

  He was a gunnery specialist himself, and Lasenby listened attentively to the captain's instructions.

  There was much to do. Now at the guns, and handy in the magazines, Wind Rode carried armour-piercing shell for ship-to-ship action and time-fused for aircraft. All this would have to be changed.

  She would be firing as fast as ever she'd fired in her violent young life, and the correct ammunition had to be ready in the ready-use lockers and close to the shell-hoists in the magazines. Her other ammunition had to be struck down out of the way, clear, and stowed securely against the possibility of her rolling under full helm.

  The other, more important, consideration was in the field of fire-control. The controlling table in the transmitting-station was now set up for ship action. It could be switched in a moment to handle aircraft. But bombardment was a different problem altogether.

  The most significant difference was that the target would be stationary. Enormous research and development had gone into the equipment which allowed the ship's mountings to compensate for target-speed, whether it was the thirty knots of another destroyer or the 400 of a diving aircraft.

  Now the bombardment procedure against an immobile target had to be drilled into the gunnery team. It was a long time since she'd bombarded, and the procedure for correcting fall of shot, perhaps barely visible behind clumps of trees, had to be brought out, studied, and learned with meticulous efficiency.

  These things were important. But the over-riding factor was timing.

  The ship had steamed more than a hundred miles since dawn, some of it to the east, lately to the north. At high speed she could cover the backward ground easily, but it was desirable that she commence her attack not too early - but not too late.

  Too early would find the enemy still busy, awake and alert; too late would catch him bedded-down, with no activity to reveal his whereabouts. Bentley had to try to find his enemy tired, but still about.

  There was another nice calculation he had to make: just how far he could run to the north, away from the target, with the minimum use of precious fuel, at the same time allowing himself time to get back to it before it was too late.

  It was not merely a schoolboy exercise concerning distance and speed; there were several other complicated calculables.

  He had to be back on-target at a precise moment which Would conserve his fuel and which would allow him sufficient time to bombard efficiently, at the same time as it allowed him enough to get well clear before dawn brought its retribution. He had to surround his ship with a large area of water to puzzle the searchers.

  Again, he had to try and estimate how long it would take him to pinpoint the airstrip. If he wandered round the islands all night he might discover his target too late for him to do anything about it. Then the whole purpose of the operation would be humiliatingly negatived; possibly producing the exact effects he was planning to circumvent.

  For half an hour after the gunner had gone about his business Bentley worked at the little chart-table on the bridge. Then he dropped his pencil and sat down on his stool for ten minutes, thinking, judging, striving to find the loophole he might have missed.

  Then he jumped down from the stool and at the chart-table checked his calculations again. Then he called Pilot over.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "We'll make our landfall at twelve-thirty tonight," Bentley said flatly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ABLE-SEAMAN BEURING'S EXPERIENCE of ships and the sea was not large, nor was it of long duration. He had been in the Navy two years, and he would leave it just as soon as Tojo's demise allowed him to.

  But Beuring's knowledge of men was very comprehensive indeed; especially of those types who frequented pool-rooms, two-up schools and similar gambling establishments, experts and suckers alike. And especia
lly of policemen.

  This last knowledge was simply a necessary requirement of his livelihood, as automatic as Rennie's experience of steering. And, as well as being a highly competent steersman, Rennie was the ship's policeman.

  So that Beuring wasted no time in setting-up his crown and anchor board that afternoon.

  He was guided in his decision by two factors - the ship was in tropical routine, which meant all work for the day ceased after lunch, and the men were idle; and Beuring was well-versed in the axiom that, being suspected of a crime, you repeated that crime quickly, while authority was congratulating itself that you'd been scared off.

  Hooky's apparent casualness on the messdeck last night had not deceived Beuring for a second. He knew several things from the Buffer's visit: first, the coxswain would have been told; second, sooner or later the axe would fall; third, he had to hop in and trap as much of this gold-mine as he could before that fall; fourth, neither Rennie nor the Buffer would suspect that he would begin operating again so quickly.

  In all of these assumptions Beuring was absolutely accurate.

  Bentley had not yet informed the ship's company of his decision regarding the airfield; whether they went back or not depended directly on the weather. There would be time enough to make his broadcast when the ship was committed.

  So that hot afternoon the men had their dinner at noon and, bored, sat around on the messdecks or tried to cool off on the upper-deck. The brief excitement of the air attack had worn off quickly - for Wind Rode it was a minor break in the routine. And they had not even the mild inducement to sunbake - there wasn't a man on board who through his long sojourn up north wasn't burned coppery brown.

  Sitting against the ship's side in his mess, Beuring knew all this. He knew also that his little game of last night would by now be common knowledge throughout the ship. So that he was not surprised, but secretly and cynically amused, when men in twos and threes began casually to wander into the foc's'le messdeck.

  Expecting a brisk trade, he had already posted his cockatoos at ladders and hatchways. No one in authority could now approach the foc's'le without his knowing about it. The minimum warning time he had was two minutes. More than enough for him to stand up and stuff the painted square of canvas into the ventilating shaft above his head.

  It mattered little to him if the crown and anchor board were found in its hiding-place. Nothing could be proved against him. The most minor of his worries was that one of his messmates would inform on him. A sailor's loyalty to an erring messmate might be misguided, but it was unshakable. Added to this safeguard was the fact that there was hardly a man in Wind Rode who did not want to enliven his routine-ridden existence with a little gambling excitement. That the diversion was illegal served only to savour it.

  Beuring was safe, and he knew it.

  An hour later he had won for himself a little over fifty pounds. The game was willing, and for high stakes. There were some 150 non-ranking ratings in the ship, and all had at least ten pounds compulsorily saved.

  Beuring sat behind his board, his saturnine face unsmiling and watchful, the competent banker; the dice rolled and the green notes changed hands. Some he paid out, and put more into his pockets. He kept most of his winnings out of sight - partly from the eyes of authority, but mainly from the sight of his victims. They might begin to wonder...

  A figure sidled on to the bench beside him and an envious voice decided:

  "You're doin' all right, Beuring."

  The big man's dark eyes glanced down at the sharp, avaricious face turned up sideways to his.

  "You did your roll last night, Pascoe," he said curtly, "terms here are strictly cash. Beat it and make room."

  Pascoe's face tightened. He said nothing, but put his hand on the scrubbed white of the table. The notes were crumpled, but they were legal enough.

  "All right," Beuring nodded, "but I don't want no whingeing if you lose it."

  "I ain't lost it yet," Pascoe snarled, "stow the gab and get on with it!"

  Beuring's face showed no resentment at the smaller man's tone. His money was as good as any other's... While it lasted.

  An hour later and the pockets of his overalls bulged. His face was composed, still watchful, and his mind was exulting. Never since the old days in the Canberra had he fallen amongst pickings like this.

  Two stokers were also winning. They were happy, and Beuring was happier. As in any other business, satisfied customers were good for trade...

  A voice, half-whine, half-snarl, spoke beside him:

  "You got the rest of it, you bastard - you might as well have this."

  Pascoe threw down a dirty ten-shilling note. The dice were picked up but Beuring's eyes were on Pascoe. All of the large group of players were interested, but Pascoe's face was intent - the waiting, dedicated expression of the helpless gambler.

  Once again he had lost all his stake. The warning twitched in Beuring's mind. He didn't like either the bulging of his pockets. It was time to pack up, to stash the winnings. It was a criminal shame to stop the plucking, but Beuring lived by another axiom - too much of a good thing...

  "All right, boys," he said crisply, and clawed Pascoe's note in with the others, "we'll break it up for now."

  "Like hell!" one of the winning stokers complained, "it's just getting interesting."

  Beuring played that cunningly.

  "I know it is," he smiled, and his nod took in the other heavy winner, "you boys have collected a packet there. Ah well, you've got to be in it to win. But this school's a bit big, fellers. Let's knock it off for half an hour. Don't want the cox'n smellin' around."

  "He's spine-bashing in his mess," someone called from the back. "Come on, I just got here!" Brother, oh brother! Beuring exulted. Aloud, he snapped: "Look, I'm runnin' this game. It's my neck, remember. I say we break it up for half an hour. Then if you want to have a burl, you know where to find it." He rolled up the canvas and edged his way along the seat. Pascoe's eyes followed him, staring at his pockets. The group dwindled away.

  "What d'you say, Pilot?"

  "No doubt about it, sir. That lot's up there to stay. I'd say it will get thicker during the night. There could be patches of moonlight, but I think the cloud cover will be close to a hundred per cent."

  Bentley liked the conviction with which the lanky navigator committed himself. He also agreed with him.

  Late that afternoon a sweep of air had come cooling up from the south. The temperature drop had been almost ten degrees. The sun had worked hard during the day, and now the result of its evaporation was cooling and condensing into thick banks of vapour.

  His head tilted back. Bentley conned the sky. He was thinking: I can turn round now; there'll be plenty of time for the weather picture to develop further. If the cloud thins and the moon shows we can still turn tail and get to hell out of it.

  In a destroyer you act quickly when your judgment has decided. He leaned over to the wheelhouse voice-pipe:

  "Starb'd twenty, Increase to 250 revolutions."

  The acknowledgment came back and the engine-room bells pealed. She began to lean almost at once. By the time she was halfway round she felt the increased thrust of her screws. Further she tilted, faster wiped the slim bow round the horizon.

  "Ease to ten."

  "Ease to ten, sir."

  "Midships. Steady."

  "Steady, sir. Course 205."

  "Steer 205 degrees."

  "Steer 205, sir." A moment, then: "Course 205, sir."

  Shaking, but not too much - she was held down to 25 knots - the ship sliced back over her wake. The sun was poised above the watery edge to starb'd, a huge orange ball whose almost level rays had lost most of their heat.

  Able-seaman Beuring was playing his board, a brief harvest before the pipe to supper would deprive him of customers. At the end of the table Pascoe watched the game, his tongue sliding between his lips, his mind full of avaricious envy and his pockets empty.

  In his hotbox of an office Renn
ie was checking over his predecessor's books, a necessary torture before the ship was darkened for the night and closed scuttles and darken ship screens made of her innards a sour, sweaty furnace.

  All afternoon he had waited for the captain's summons, for the conference with the chief bosun's mate and then the spate of unenforceable orders.

  Rennie knew that there were only two ways to fix a gambler. You had to catch him in the act, or you had to have an informer. The first method was impossible because of cockatoos, and the second was not the complete answer.

  You knew who your gambler was, but you had still to prove his operations. All you could do was to front him with the charge, which of course he would deny, and then warn him off. Sometimes it worked, but not, he was sure, with a man like Beuring.