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J. E. MacDonnell - 021

Page 13

by The Coxswain(lit)


  Not till afterwards did he reflect that Bentley must have been waiting at his end of the pipe. His voice came back at once.

  "Yes, I think we've done what we came for. All right, `Swain-stand-by to get under way."

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  The coxswain could not know that his captain had a small, tight smile on his face; nor that Bentley had recognised in his voice an appreciativeness which came very close to pride.

  But the captain had put thought of his coxswain from his busy mind.

  "Let's get out of here." he grunted to Randall. "Starb'd twenty! Full ahead both engines!"

  This time the engine-room bells clanged, triumphant, uncaring.

  There were other eyes engaged apart from Rennie's while he was staring out the porthole - searching eyes.

  When Beuring had broken up the crown and anchor game that afternoon, and had walked off with his pockets bulging, Pascoe had quietly followed him. He knew the gambler would not hide his takings in his kit-locker, but he was disappointed when he saw Beuring step into the bath-room. He waited at the canteen, and his cunning little eyes lost their disappointment when he saw the big man emerge, minus bulges. Beuring's pile, then, was hidden somewhere in the bath-room.

  Pascoe was too experienced in his craft to step into the bathroom at once. Now that he knew the compartment, he could afford to wait. His chance, the perfect chance, came as soon as the fighters had been disposed of and the captain ordered "Cease-fire".

  The rest of the oerlikon's crew clustered to the guardrail, exulting among themselves, their eyes riveted on the destruction ashore. Pascoe had slipped quietly away.

  Now he was in the bathroom, and his eyes went at once to the ventilating shafts. There was not a soul within a hundred feet of him, and those who were below decks were closed-up at ammunition-supply posts. But he had to be quick, for to be missed, and reported, at a time like this would very definitely mean his neck.

  Swiftly his eager eyes scanned the white-painted shafts. In all of them, spaced regularly through each compartment, were fitted small access doors, about four inches square. There was one directly above the mirror.

  Pascoe reached up and twisted the handle. He knew he had struck pay-dirt when on the inside of the handle his groping fingers found tied a piece of small, strong cord. He pulled. A moment later and the white cotton bag was in his avaricious fingers.

  He had stuffed most of the notes into his overall pockets when he froze. Quick footsteps sounded outside in the passage. Desperately he glared about him, but there was nowhere he could hide. He was trapped.

  The steps came closer, right up to the door, and passed He blew out his restricted breath. Some seaman sent on a mission, he judged. Shaking, he emptied the bag and flipped it back in the shaft. Half a minute later he was back on the oerlikon platform. He would not need to steal again on this commission.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ONCE DURING THE REST of that exultant, apprehensive night, they heard, somewhere to the south of them, the sound of aircraft. Bentley closed the ship up again, but when radar reported the contact opening the range to the south he fell the gun-crews out.

  He remained on the bridge till dawn, and when he finally went below for a shower and breakfast she had put 150 miles behind her. Now, to find her, a Jap aircraft had more than twenty thousand square miles as a haystack for this needle.

  They did not find her. She made her Guadal Canal landfall on a clear, hot morning and every man who could gathered on the upper-deck to stare at the huge concourse of shipping.

  Rennie stood outside the chiefs' mess, waiting for special seadutymen to be piped to close-up. Hooky Walker came up beside him and leaned his good hand on the rail.

  "Strike me purple!" he invited in a wondering tone, "look at that lot, will you? Wouldn't those Jap mongrels've liked to get in amongst it!"

  "They would have-only for Bentley," Rennie said quietly.

  Hooky glanced at him curiously, then up again at the row upon row of transports.

  "Oh, I dunno," he grinned, "we lent a bit of a hand, y'know. Ah... what'd you think of the old bucket now?"

  He felt he had been too obvious, too soon, when the cool grey eyes looked back at him.

  "What I've always thought," Rennie said evenly, "as far as I'm concerned she's a good ship-to be out of. By now I should be pulling into Brisbane, not this forsaken dump!"

  The words were plain enough, but the tone lacked something of its earlier acidity. Hooky thought: You're all right, Rennie, but you're not with us-not yet. He said:

  "Yeah. And tonight you'd have blown all your dough on some floosie. Speakin' of dough... The messdeck's been quiet since we put the heat on. And is that slob Beuring ropeable!"

  "Eh?" Rennie turned his head to look at him.

  "Yeah. You don't see him like I do. Ever since we beat it away from the island he's been goin' round like a bear with three sore heads. I reckon we've hit that gent bloody hard."

  Rennie was silent a moment.

  "I don't know about that," he said thoughtfully. "I know that bird pretty well by now."

  At least you're willing to talk about it now, Hooky reasoned. He asked:

  "What d'you mean, Jack?"

  It was the first time he had used the Christian name. Rennie did not show if he noticed it.

  "Beuring's been at this game a long time," he said, "he must have felt the heat on before. He's had the board out at least twice, and you can bet he's made a nice packet already. Even if he hadn't, that boy's the sort who'd bend with the storm, lie low till the panic died down. No," he shook his head, "he'd be going about as usual, the willing seaman to our faces and grinning his great head off behind our backs. If something's bothering him now, it's not our efforts on the messdeck."

  "Then what the hell is it?"

  "Search me. But you can bet your deferrers something, or somebody, has got at Beuring."

  Rennie stopped. He turned his head from the shipping in the harbour and he looked at Hooky speculatively.

  "I wonder..." he said, softly.

  "Eh?"

  "Nothing.... Just thought."

  Hooky waited. When Rennie did not add to his words, he said:

  "You want to clobber this business, don't you?" It was more a statement.

  "Damn it all! Of course I do! I'm the ruddy cox'n, aren't I?"

  Well now! Hooky thought, that's more like it. I dunno what's changed you, cobs, but something's got under the old skin. He said, warmly:

  "Don't worry, Jack-we'll trap these birds!"

  When he had moved off to the foc'sle, Rennie lingered a moment at the rails. Hooky's attitude of friendliness was not lost on him, and the knowledge started a train of introspective thought. Most men in authority are self-analysts, and Rennie's mind went smoothly and subconsciously into the process of dissection.

  There was no doubt, he acknowledged to himself, that a good deal of the earlier bitterness had watered down. Why? His heartfelt outburst against Beuring, probably, and almost certainly because of the effect the ship's superb shooting had had upon him last night.

  His mind went back to the scene he had witnessed through the porthole, and, diagnostically, he found something about that porthole to exercise his curiosity.

  It wasn't the flames, or the shell-bursts, or the sustained rate of fire. There'd been not a week when he hadn't been in action in any one of three ships himself, No, it was the porthole itself which held the odd element.

  And then he had it. Never before had a captain granted permission to open the deadlights: first, he had more to do in action than think about a triviality like that, and second the deadlights were shut for a very good reason-to keep light in and flying splinters out.

  And now the whole reason was clear in Rennie's vitalised mind. The captain's action had been deliberate. He had planned to have him see just what the ship could do. Of course he was right in this judgment-hadn't Bentley been ready and waiting at the voice-pipe for his comment?

  Anger shar
p and bitter twisted in Rennie's guts. He had been treated like a child, like a raw ordinary-seaman; shown the working of the ship with a paternal pat on the back and a "Now, sonny, you must try and be as good as the other boys."

  For a moment he let the anger rise unchecked, enjoying its righteous fierceness. But the diagnostic analysis went on also unchecked. And with rueful honesty he admitted that his anger was against himself more than Bentley; that his lack of interest had been so apparent that the captain had been forced into a tactic like that.

  His self-analysis did not go deep enough to make him wonder at the change which had made him admit his fault; instead his thoughts ran on to encompass another interesting point-Bentley was a very clever officer indeed. He could have come his rank and ordered him to buck up- with sullen results. Instead he had chosen the subtle method. With-and an inward grin twitched-solid results.

  There were only two flies in the healing ointment- Beuring and Pascoe. With them out of the way, off his mind; with a ship as good as this one, commanded by an intelligent, perceptive man as well as a skilled officer, he could put in his time comfortably enough. Sooner or later they must be sent south for leave. And with a bloke like Bentley deciding what they would get into, shell or bomb damage might make it sooner than later...

  He gazed out over the sun-sparkling water towards the shell-riven island and suddenly he felt more content than at any time since he'd joined the ship. Unthought of, there was another element working on Rennie's mind-the peculiar fatalism of sailors, the knowledge that whatever "they" do to you, it's not worth a fried frankfurt trying to kick against it. You're in the outfit, you do what you're told. As simple as that.

  A pipe shrilled and the bosun's mate called:

  "Special sea-dutymen close-up. Cable party muster on the foc's'le."

  The coxswain put aside his soliloquising and mounted the ladder to the wheelhouse.

  The interview with the Admiral aboard his battleship was pleasant.

  It could hardly have failed to be, with what Bentley had to tell him. But it was not his professional prospect which had made the destroyer commander's heart lighter that morning.

  They had anchored, and the coxswain had come to the bridge to make his usual report. Bentley had listened, and then he said:

  "That was a nice come-to, `Swain. You seem to have the hang of her now."

  Rennie had smiled back into the lean burned face.

  "She's a pearl to handle, sir."

  That was all. The words were not even vehemently, or enthusiastically, delivered. But Rennie had said them with a little appreciative sideways nod of his head, and he had spoken completely naturally. No forced respect, no disciplined agreement-and no wariness, or withholding; simply the easy maturalness of a man pleased with his work and his tool.

  "Well," said the Admiral when his visitor had finished, and tried to keep the wonder out of a face which he had thought had seen too much to feel that sensation ever again, "you seem to have done what I'd call a complete job back there. I guess you're mighty pleased with yourself?"

  His voice was pleasantly nasal, drawling. His uniform was different from that of the British admirals Bentley had met, but his weathered face held the same stamp of surety and experience and wisdom.

  "I'm pleased to have got out of it sir," Bentley replied truthfully.

  "I guess so, I guess so," the older man chuckled. The smile eased away and the voice changed.

  "You think you got all of them?"

  "I can't say that for sure, sir. They may have had some stowed in dispersal bays. We counted fifteen aircraft burning, and there was a hell of a fire from the fuel dump. I think this, sir," he ended definitely, "there certainly aren't enough serviceable aircraft left to mount an attack on Guadal Canal."

  "M'mm. Trouble is, they could fly in reinforcements."

  "Even when they know we're on to them, sir?"

  "Even then. This target here is tempting enough for `em to take all sorts of risks." He slowly took up his pipe. The lined face was thoughtful.

  "What I expected, actually, was a seaborne attack. I know there's a Jap cruiser force operating somewhere in the area. But the monkeys have avoided my reconnaissance." His eyes flicked up to Bentley's face-quick, probing, seaman eyes. "You sighted nothing of surface craft?"

  "No, sir. There are a couple of harbours, but I was right round the area night before last. And if there'd been anything there last night I think they might have made their presence known."

  "They sure would have," grinned the Admiral. The gesture again was brief. "All right, then," he ended crisply, "there's nothing else?"

  There was certainly something else. Bentley wanted to ask for a relief, for his ship and his men to be sent south for leave. He could imagine how the waiting face before him now would change if he asked for a favour like that, especially after an action on which it would be assumed he was trading. There were many ships out through those portholes which had been out here longer than his own.

  He wanted to ask this favour, and he said:

  "No, sir, nothing else."

  "Good. Now I have something for you, Bentley. You've earned a few days' leave. I'm sending you back to Moresby."

  "Thank you, sir." Moresby was better than nothing- shore-leave, fresh milk and food, mail.

  "It's a busman's holiday, young fellow," the admiral said shrewdly, reading correctly the expression on Bentley's face, "you should know by now you get nothing for nothing in my outfit."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I have some important despatches I want delivered personally in Moresby. And I want you to take another look at that airstrip. They won't expect you back so soon." The short grin came again. "Only a damn fool would do that. But I want to know if there's any build-up activity going on there. And remember this, young feller- if you do sight anything in the way of a build-up, get to blazes out of it and then signal me. Understand? You won't bring it off a second time."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right, then." The Admiral nodded and Bentley stood up. A hand came out and Bentley's fingers were taken in a hard grip. "Nice work, son. Damn it all! You brought off a brilliant action! Now get on your way!"

  "Yes, sir," Bentley grinned, and got on his way.

  The sea about them was beautifully and monotonously blue. Guadal Canal was an hour astern, its shattered palms dropped below the liquid curve.

  "This is the captain speaking."

  There was no urgency, only curiosity, as they settled down to listen. They expected this-Bentley, like all sensible captains, believed in putting his men into the picture as soon as he could. He gave the important news first.

  "We are bound for Moresby. I can't tell you, of course, how long our stay will be, but you can count on shore-leave-and mail, and cold beer. Perhaps even a dance."

  He paused, and if he could have seen them he would not have been surprised at the unsmiling faces on the messdecks. Twenty mails a day, bathing in cold beer, would not make of Moresby anything but what it was-a steaming dump.

  "We have a little chore to do on the way across. It is possible, though not very probable, that the Japs have begun already to buildup their aircraft on the base we visited last night. Naturally the Admiral is interested in proceedings there. So we have been ordered to joke around and see what we can see. However, we..."

  He was about to tell them that they would not this time engage the enemy. But Bentley knew better than most that a destroyer looking for trouble usually found it. There was no point in establishing in their minds an expectation of running from danger.

  "... we should not be long on the job. I doubt very much if the Japs have the aircraft so quickly available to reinforce their stocks, even if they wanted to, now that they know the game's up as regards their secret strip. We should make Moresby in the afternoon of the twentieth. Incidentally, the Admiral was more than slightly pleased at last night's effort. So was I. Good work. That's all."

  The crackle in the speakers died and Pascoe sneered:<
br />
  "So that's all we get! `Good work, boys!'"

  "What are you griping about, mate?" a voice jeered, "he wasn't talkin' about you."

  Pascoe muttered obscenely and got up from the mess-stool. He had little fat on his frame but he was sweating as profusely as the others. The wind had changed to dead astern, and Wind Rode was running under the sun wrapped in her own heated miasma.

  The time was two o'clock, and work had ceased for the day. Scowling with his own unlovely temperament and with the humid heat Pascoe made his way into the passage, heading for the upper-deck. Men came behind him, for there was some shade on deck, and the wind might change.

 

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