J. E. MacDonnell - 021

by The Coxswain(lit)

  All down her length black barrels fingered the sky as the pompom and oerlikons trained on to the target bearing.

  From captain to ordinary-seaman supply-number, the ship was one tensed and watchful brain. The time was forty minutes past midnight.

  Bentley had allowed himself two hours for cruising round the island in search of betraying activity. He was not concerned about last night's failure to sight any of it - then he had been looking for ships, and he had kept his own vessel well off the coast, and the glasses of his lookouts concentrated on the shoreline.

  This time he would be much closer in, looking for a different target.

  He had allowed himself two hours, but he was not surprised when the first sign came within twenty minutes of the beginning of their patrol. Destroyer warfare was full of surprises - what you had to do was not to waste time marvelling, but instead grab Lady Luck fervently by both hands.

  Every man on the bridge heard it at almost the same time. The sound was so clear, and sudden, that only the starb'd lookout made a half-hearted report.

  They waited on the bridge, every head turned to the land, listening-the sound reached them in a pulsing drum of noise: the rhythmic thunder of massed aircraft engines. Bentley heard, and acted.

  "Stop both engines!" Then, "Anything on radar?"

  "No radar contact, sir," the answer came at once.

  It those aircraft were air-borne he was taking a risk in stopping her. But he had to weigh the risk against the chance of a pilot spotting their white wake. She eased to a stop, and in the next second they knew the position of those aircraft.

  In the middle of the large, eastern island, off whose coast they lay, a fairly high hill rose, clothed to its peak in thick jungle. From behind that hill, exhaust pipes glowing like red meteors in the dark sky, surged suddenly a large group of aircraft.

  "Radar office, bridge!" the voice sprang from a pipe, "large formation aircraft, coming towards!"

  Somebody answered that report, but all eyes were on the thundering group. Radar was a precious ally, but it was never more unneeded than at that moment.

  "Heavy bombers!" Randall said huskily, "almost certainly flown in from Rabaul."

  "At least twenty," Bentley answered from under his glasses, "twinengined Bettys. They're coming in..."

  His voice broke off abruptly. The second sign was even more vehement and obvious than the first. And once again nobody reported it - the double line of flares which sprang into red life directly opposite the ship.

  Nobody commented on their luck. Good fortune was mingled with the most critical danger. It needed only one of twenty pilots to pick out the long grey shape.

  "Those flares will help us," Bentley said suddenly, "they won't be able to see a thing to seaward from the strip."

  "First aircraft coming in to land," the signal-yeoman reported flatly.

  Bentley swung his glasses. He could see the plane clearly, every detail of it in the upflung light of the flares, and the sight confirmed what he had already guessed-the Japanese working parties who had built the strip had cleared most of the trees from this, seaward, side. The reasons were obvious, just as was the advantage the clear line of fire would give to his guns. He picked up the director phone.

  "Keep your eyes on that first aircraft, Guns. It should taxi up to the right-hand end of the strip. That will be your aiming point."

  He juggled the phone back and Randall said, raising his voice against the multi-engined thunder:

  "You're going to wait till they're all down?"

  "Yes." Bentley clipped. He knew what Randall was getting at, and he had made his decision. It would be spectacular to catch each aircraft as it touched down-and suicidally dangerous. First, they would be firing at a speeding target; second, it was not hard to guess what the rest of the bomber flight would do to the revealed firer.

  "I'll wait till ten minutes after the last one's down," he went on. "If they've come from Rabaul they'll be low on fuel. The ground-crews will service them right away. That means the planes will be inoperable, plenty of petrol about."

  "A very nice set-up," Randall nodded.

  Neither man spoke of what was foremost in his mind - there would be another very nice set-up if the ship were discovered. But, Bentley was thinking, projecting himself as he always did into the enemy's point of view, it was highly probable that every pilot of those circling planes was watching the flare-edged landing strip. As well, there would be no suspicion amongst them. The strip had been lit, therefore it naturally followed that the area was safe from intruders.

  Bentley took up the engine-room phone. The engineer answered it.

  "Chief? Captain here. About twenty aircraft are in the process of touching-down." He paused, but Mr. Fry made no comment. His silence was comment enough, Bentley thought grimly.

  "There's a slight set here, drifting us in towards land. I'll have to make a few engine movements, but until further notice all orders will come down by phone. It's possible the bells could be heard ashore."

  "We're that close in?" Mr. Fry grunted.

  "We've got to be. Every shell must count."

  "Mmmm. I suppose you'll want full power once we start to run?"

  "You're so right! Every ounce you've got."

  "You'll get it!" The gruff voice paused. Then: "Happy hunting with those bloody bang-bangs!" He hung up.

  The next fifteen minutes were as queer a space of time as any man on that quiet bridge could remember. They were used to danger, but not this sort - here a Damocles bomb hung over their heads, and their chief aid, their speed, they could not use to avoid it. There was no doubt that any sort of wake would be spotted instantly from the air. They might as well burn a searchlight.

  They had to sit there and wait; and every aircraft had to be down before they could take a hand in the game. But, spicing the tension, making a familiar sensation unique, was the exultant thought of what they could do to those parked machines once they did start to fire.

  Another aircraft bellowed in. They were so close they heard plainly the abrupt screech of rubber as the tyres bit, and spun. The bomber slowed, then taxied on up to the end of the strip. The engines spluttered, died.

  Silence. No one spoke. Eight pairs of binoculars on the bridge were scanning the sky. The signal-yeoman broke the quiet.

  "I think that's the last one, sir."

  Randall stepped to the radar voice-pipe. He spoke into its mouth, listened, then came upright.

  "No further radar contacts, sir," he reported to Bentley.

  "Right."

  Still the captain made no move. He had a few minutes before he irrevocably committed the ship. The doubts came back again: there were at least twenty bombers on that strip; could one ship handle a force like that? Should he get to hell out of it, organise reinforcements? Was this a calculated risk - or suicidal stupidity?

  And would those bombers be still there tomorrow night? Or would they take-off at dawn for Guadal Canal?

  He took up the director phone.

  "Guns?"

  "Sir."

  "We'll open in divided control. A and B mountings will take the aircraft, under director control. I want X-mounting to crater the airstrip. No need to hole the lot of it - a line of craters across the strip half-way down will hold them on the ground. When that's completed X-mounting will revert to primary control. Clear?"

  "Have got, sir. That's a damn good idea."

  "I hope so," Bentley said drily. Then he added, in a different tone of voice:

  "Stand-by to open fire."

  He put the phone back and the flares went out.

  At once his eyes went to the right-hand end of the runway, the target area. And he knew that the Japs could do what they liked with their flares-just so long as those half-a-dozen pin-points of light among the parked aircraft remained to show him where they were.

  "What's the ship doing?"

  "No forward movement, sir," Pilot answered - he had kept continual watch on his bearing points. "We're bein
g set inshore very slightly. Almost negligible."

  "Watch it," Bentley ordered automatically.

  His gunnery mind was judging - you've got your targets, nowind across the line of fire, no enemy speed, no own-ship speed, range near enough to point blank. A gunnery picnic.

  Now... But a matter of seconds after he opened fire? What if he failed? What if his ship was crippled, even if she were not blasted to pieces? What would be the Admiral's reaction to that? You commanded a destroyer, you were encouraged to take calculated risks. Wonderful - providing you brought it off.

  He could still swing the ship's head and sneak safely away. If he gave the order to fire he would be staking his career, his life, his ship on the accuracy and efficiency of his gunners.

  That, he knew with absolute certitude, was the really vital point of his doubts. Could he trust the training and morale and plain guts of his men?

  Abruptly he swung to Randall. His voice was a curt snap in the silence of the bridge.

  "Open fire!"

  There was no radar control in this shoot. Radar is uncannily accurate, by day or night, but the system needs a distinct target to echo from. Here the target was a flat strip of beaten coral, the aircraft it held, with trees to confuse a radar-aerial's function.

  It was Mr. Lasenby, Gunner, who controlled the shoot. Visually, personally, as he had been trained to do under the Navy's insistent maxim that you never know when your complicated instruments might fail.

  He was firing his four forrard guns in almost the same way as his bearded predecessor had done at the Battle of Jutland nearly 30 years before: staring through his powerful monocular sight at the ranks of silver wings and the lights of the servicing-parties, sighting his fall of shot and ordering verbal corrections.

  These last were few. His range-finder had for the past ten minutes been ranging on the target, and the layers and trainers at the guns were following with meticulous attention the director's guiding pointers.

  The first broadside of four shells landed, abrupt stabs of red, a few yards short. Lasenby ordered "Up two hundred, rapid broadsides!" and the next quartet of messengers burst smack in the middle of the parked planes.

  At first, no petrol flamed. It took three broadsides before a sheet of red leaped vividly into life. The fiery wall lit the target area beautifully. Through his glasses Bentley could see men striving to shift the doomed aircraft, some shackling tractors on to undercarriages, some with desperate intent trying to push the bombers bodily.

  But you can't move an aeroplane very far in six seconds, and that was all the time it took for Wind Rode's sweating gunners to ram fresh food into the guns' hot maws.

  He knew then that he would bring it off; knew that his doubts were wrong and his careful calculations correct. All they had needed was to remain undetected while the planes were landing. The Japs had failed to sight them, and now they were paying for their omission.

  Bentley had known his fire would be effective against a target like this, but he was grimly pleased to see by how much his expectations had fallen short.

  It was slaughter. The big aircraft were as helpless under the ship's flail as if they had been stranded on the sea from which destruction was plunging upon them.

  Not even an answering shot challenged the sea-raider; the surprise was complete and numbing. And it was doubtful, he decided, if the Japs had had time to mount any sizeable guns - they would naturally rely on aircraft to beat off an attack.

  Those aircraft were now almost wiped out as a recognisable threat. The whole target area was aflame, and still the forceful deluge poured ashore. He transferred his glasses left, to where X-mounting's shells were bursting in a steady line across the strip. It looked as though he had been overcautious there - he would bring the two after guns back on to the main target.

  He spoke to Randall and the gunnery-officer gave the order to the director phone-number. There was no appreciable diminution in Wind Rode's bellowing but the red bursts on the strip died out.

  Bentley leaned to the wheelhouse voice-pipe and gave the order which would swing the ship slightly so that X-mounting could bear on the end of the strip. He came upright and the signal yeoman's voice came, unemotional, efficient:

  `Two fighters taking off, sir."

  Bentley saw at once the two moving shapes-gleaming, reflecting in the waxing firelight. His reaction was immediate.

  "Burn the searchlight on those fighters! Close-range weapons engage!"

  The fighters, low and squat, were moving slowly clear of the holocaust, but shortly they would pick up speed down the runway. No one thought, or had time, to light the flares. The aircraft were heading into darkness.

  Then a great yellow eye opened from the destroyer's midships and the shining finger was laid upon them. The pom-pom opened fire in a staccato snarl of sound which pierced through the deeper roar of the big guns.

  It was long range for a pom-pom, but the target was clear and comparatively slow. The stitches of red tracer curved out over the sea and shore and bit into the leading fighter's fuselage.

  "This will be good," Randall said viciously, "if X-gun did its work properly!"

  X-gun had. The leading plane was on fire, a few yards in front of its companion, when its nose dipped abruptly and its tail flung skywards. The second pilot must have seen the shell craters in the light of the bright beam. He jerked back on his column. His nose, the propeller a spinning arc of silver in the searchlight, lifted-and the next second smashed forcefully into the upflung tail of its mate.

  There was a splatter of chopped pieces, clear in the light, then the second fighter thumped back to earth and rocketed on in a slewing rush of spurting coral and petrol-driven flame.

  "Close shutters," Bentley ordered, "close-range weapons cease fire."

  The big eye winked shut and the pom-pom stuttered, to silence. There remained the timed crash of the ship's full broadsides.

  Then Bentley put into operation a small facet of his plans, one he had decided on well before radar had made its landfall.

  "Cox'n?" he said into the voice-pipe.

  "Sir?"

  "You've got your deadlights closed down there?"

  The coxswain hesitated a second - of course the shutters were down over the wheelhouse portholes. Wondering, he answered:

  "Yes, sir, they're down."

  Bentley kept his voice normally crisp - he must not reveal that his next words had been planned.

  "We're pretty safe now, I think. Open the deadlights for a moment and let your team have a look. It's worth seeing."

  He knew he had succeeded when he recognised the controlled eagerness in Rennie's voice.

  "Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir!"

  Bentley straightened behind the binnacle, staring at the inferno off the port bow, hearing the slam of each broadside and feeling the blast of displaced air like a hard slap on the face.

  What he was doing was perhaps as dangerous as anything he had planned for that violent night. He had succeeded completely in his mission. Now he was deliberately jeopardising that success. It would not take the Japs long to fill in a few craters and make the strip operable; he should be taking the ship out at top speed, making the most of every second left to him of their disorganisation.

  Yet still he waited, letting the guns loose off more destruction.

  Below him Rennie had the deadlight unscrewed. He leaned forward past the mouth of the voice-pipe and stared with concentration at the sight before him.

  He could see the shells bursting, and in the lurid light the broken, twisted remains of many aircraft. But the most spectacular effect was a little to the right of the strip. A shell had found the fuel dump. A solid sheet of flame fluxed a hundred feet into the air, and from its lofty peak the smoke poured continuously at the sky.

  Rennie too could hear each regular broadside, and feel the concussion against his face, and the jerking of the ship. He was quite close to B-mounting, and clearly to him in the loading intervals come the stamp of feet, the meta
llic clang of the power-rammers, the shouted "Ready!" and then the warning note of the fire-gong.

  He was not gunnery-trained, but he had been at sea more than long enough for him to know that this ship was drilling faster and firing more accurately than most he had known.

  The telegraphsman said, "Let's have a gander, `Swain," and Rennie came back to his wheel. He said into the belled mouth of the pipe:

  "Some sight, sir. We're really doing `em over!"