South by Java Head

by Alistair MacLean

  Nicolson turned away quickly, looked at Farnholme and then nodded down at the Muslim priest. “My apologies, Brigadier. Is he dead?”

  “Thank God, no.” Farnholme straightened on his knees, his Sandhurst drawl temporarily in abeyance. “Creased, concussed, that’s all.” He looked down at the young soldier and shook his head in anger. “Bloody young fool.”

  “And what’s the matter with him?”

  “Laid him out with a whisky bottle,” Farnholme said succinctly. “Bottle broke. Must have been flawed. Shockin’ waste, shockin’.”

  “Get him outside, will you? The rest of you outside, too.” Nicolson turned round as someone entered the door behind him. “Walters! I’d forgotten all about you. Are you all right?”

  “All right, sir. Wireless room’s a bit of a shambles, I’m afraid.” Walters looked pale and sick, but purposeful as ever.

  “Doesn’t matter now.” Nicolson was grateful for Walters’ presence, his solidity and competence. “Get these people up to the boatdeck—in the passage, better still in your office or cabin. Don’t let ‘em out on deck. If there’s anything they want to get from their cabins, give ‘em a couple of minutes.”

  Walters smiled wryly. “We’re taking a little trip, sir?”

  “Very shortly. Just to be on the safe side.” It would hardly benefit the morale of the passengers, Nicolson reflected, by adding what Walters himself must have been aware of—that the only alternatives were cremation or disintegration when the ship went up. He went out the door quickly, then staggered and almost fell as a tremendous detonation, right aft, seemed to lift the stern of the Viroma out of the water and sent a shuddering, convulsive shock through her every plate and rivet. Instinctively Nicolson reached out and caught the lintel of the door, caught and held Miss Drachmann and Peter as the nurse fell against him, steadied her and turned quickly to Walters.

  “Belay that last order. No one to go to their cabins. Just get ‘em up there and see that they stay there.” In four strides he was at the after screen door, opening it cautiously. Seconds later he was outside on deck, standing at the top of the iron ladder that led down to the main deck, and staring aft.

  The heat struck at him almost with the physical impact of a blow and brought tears of pain to his eyes. No complaints that he couldn’t see this fire, he thought grimly. Billowing, convoluted clouds of oily black smoke stretched up hundreds of feet into the sky, reaching higher and higher with the passing of every second, not tailing off to a peak but spreading out at the top in a great, black anvil-head, spreading over the ship like a pall: at the base, however, just at deck level, there was hardly any smoke at all, only a solid wall of flame perhaps sixty feet in diameter, a wall that rose forty feet, then broke into a dozen separate pillars of fire; fiery, twisting tongues of flame that reached hungrily upwards, their flickering points swallowed up in the rolling darkness of the smoke. In spite of the intense heat, Nicolson’s first reaction was to cover not his face but his ears: even at a hundred and fifty feet the roaring of the flames was all but intolerable.

  Another miscalculation on the part of the Japs, he thought grimly. A bomb meant for the engine-room had exploded in the diesel oil bunkers, blowing aft through the engine-room bulkhead and for'ard clear through both walls of the cofferdam into number one cargo tank. And it was almost certainly number one tank that was on fire, its quarter of a million gallons of fuel oil ignited and fanned by the fierce down-draught of air through the wrecked cofferdam. Even if they had had firefighting apparatus left, and the men to man the apparatus, tackling that inferno, an inferno that would have engulfed and destroyed any man before he could have come within fifty feet of it, would only have been the suicidal gesture of an imbecile. And then, above the deep, steady roar of the flames, Nicolson heard another, more deadly sound, the high-pitched, snarling howl of an aero engine under maximum boost, caught a momentary glimpse of a Zero arrowing in off the starboard beam, at mast-top height, flung himself convulsively backward through the open door behind him as cannon-shells struck and exploded where he had been only two seconds before.

  Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, Nicolson pushed himself to his feet, clipped the door shut and looked around him. Already both pantry and passage were quite empty—Walters was not a man to waste time. Quickly Nicolson made his way along the passage, through the dining-saloon to the foot of the companionway leading up to the boat deck. Farnholme was there, struggling to carry the young soldier up the stairs. Nicolson helped him in silence, and at the top Walters met him and relieved him of his share of the burden. Nicolson glanced along the passage towards the wireless office.

  “All safely corralled, Sparks?”

  “Yes, sir. The Arab Johnny’s just coming to and Miss Plenderleith’s packing her bag as if she were off to Bournemouth for a fortnight.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed. The worrying kind.” Nicolson looked along to the for'ard end of the passage. Siran and his men were huddled round the ladder that led up to the chartroom, fearful and unhappy. All, that is, except Siran himself. Despite its cuts and bruises, the brown face still held its expressionless calm. Nicolson looked sharply at Walters. “Where’s Van Effen?”

  “No idea, sir. Haven’t seen him.”

  Nicolson walked to face Siran. “Where’s Van Effen?”

  Siran shrugged his shoulders, twisted his lips into a smile and said nothing.

  Nicolson jammed a pistol into Siran’s solar plexus, and the smile faded from the brown face. “I’d just as soon you died,” Nicolson said pleasantly.

  “He went above.” Siran nodded at the ladder. “A minute ago.”

  Nicolson swung round. “Got a gun, Sparks?”

  “In the office, sir.”

  “Get it. Van Effen had no right to leave this lot.” He waited till Walters returned. “No reasons required for shooting this bunch. Any flimsy excuse will do.”

  He went up the stairs three at a time, passed through the chartroom and into the wheelhouse. Vannier was conscious now, still shaking his head to free it from muzziness, but recovered enough to help Evans bind his arm. McKinnon and the captain were still together.

  “Seen Van Effen, Bo’sun?”

  “Here a minute ago, sir. He’s gone up top.”

  “Up top? What in heaven’s name—” Nicolson checked himself. Time was too short as it was. “How do you feel, Evans?”

  “Bloody well mad, sir,” Evans said, and looked it. “If I could get my hands on those murderin’—”

  “All right, all right.” Nicolson smiled briefly. “I can see you’ll live. Stay here with the captain. How are you, Fourth?”

  “O.K. now, sir.” Vannier was very pale. “Just a crack on the head.”

  “Good. Take the bo’sun with you and check the boats. Just numbers one and two—three and four are finished.” He broke off and looked at the captain. “You said something, sir?”

  “Yes.” Findhorn’s voice was still weak, but clearer than it had been. “Three and four gone?”

  “Bombed to bits and then burnt to a cinder,” Nicolson said without bitterness. “A very thorough job. Number one tank’s on fire, sir.”

  Findhorn shook his head. “What hope, boy?”

  “None, just none at all.” Nicolson turned back to Vannier. “If they’re both serviceable we’ll take them both.” He glanced at Findhorn, raised eyebrows seeking confirmation. “We don’t want Siran and his cut-throat pals in the same open boat as us when night falls.”

  Findhorn nodded silently, and Nicolson went on: “As many spare blankets, food, water, arms and ammunition as you can find. And first-aid kits. All these in the better boat—ours. That clear. Fourth?”

  “All clear, sir.”

  “One other thing. When you’re finished, a strap stretcher for the captain. Don’t get yourselves shot full of cannon holes—they nearly got me a couple of minutes ago. And for God’s sake hurry! Five minutes for the lot.”

  Nicolson moved just outside the wheelhouse starboard door and
stood there for two or three seconds, taking stock. The blast of fiery heat struck at him, fore and aft, like the scorching incalescence of an opened furnace door, but he ignored it. The heat wouldn’t kill him, not yet, but the Zeros would if they were given any chance at all: but the Zeros were half a mile away, line ahead and port wings dipped as they circled the Viroma, watching and waiting.

  Five steps, running, took him to the foot of the wheel-house top ladder. He took the first three steps in a stride, then checked so abruptly that only a swiftly bent arm cushioned the shock as he fell forward against the rungs. Van Effen, face and shirt streaked with blood, was just beginning to descend, half supporting, half carrying Corporal Fraser. The soldier was in a very bad way, a man obviously willing himself to hang on to the last shreds of consciousness. Beneath the dark tan the pain-twisted face was drained of blood, and with his right arm he supported what was left of his left forearm, torn and shredded and horribly maimed—only an exploding cannon shell could have worked that savage injury. He seemed to be losing only a little blood: Van Effen had knotted a tourniquet just above the elbow.

  Nicolson met them half-way up the ladder, caught the soldier and took some of the almost dead weight off Van Effen. And then, before he realised what was happening, he had all the weight and Van Effen was on his way back up to the wheelhouse top.

  “Where are you going, man?” Nicolson had to shout to make himself heard over the roar of the flames. “Damn all anybody can do up there now. We’re abandoning ship. Come on!”

  “Must see if there’s anyone else alive,” Van Effen yelled. He shouted something else and Nicolson thought he heard him mention guns, but couldn’t be sure. His voice didn’t carry too well above the roar of the two great fires and Nicolson’s attention was already elsewhere. The Zeros—there were only three of them—were no longer circling the ship but banking steeply, altering formation to line abreast and heading straight for the midships superstructure. It needed no imagination at all to realise what tempting and completely exposed targets they must be, perched high on top of the ship. Nicolson tightened his hold on Corporal Fraser and pointed urgently out to sea with his free hand.

  “You haven’t a chance, you crazy fool!” he shouted. Van Effen was now at the top of the ladder. “Are you blind or mad?”

  “Look to yourself, my friend,” Van Effen called, and was gone. Nicolson waited no longer, he would have to look to himself, and with a vengeance. Only a few steps, only a few seconds to the door of the wheelhouse, but Fraser was now only a limp, powerless weight in his arms, and it would take a Zero perhaps six seconds, no more, to cover the intervening distance. Already he could hear the thin, high snarl of the engines, muted but menacing over the steady roar of the flames, but he didn’t dare look, he knew where they were anyway, two hundred yards away and with the gunsights lined up on his unprotected back. The wheelhouse sliding door was jammed, he could get only a minimal purchase on it with his left hand, then it was suddenly jerked open, the bo’sun was dragging Corporal Fraser inside and Nicolson was catapulting himself forward on to the deck, wincing involuntarily as he waited for the numbing shock of cannon shells smashing into his back, And then he had rolled and twisted his way into shelter and safety, there was a brief, crescendoing thunder of sound and the planes had swept by only feet above the wheel-house. Not a gun had been fired.

  Nicolson shook his head in dazed incredulity and rose slowly to his feet. Maybe the smoke and the flame had blinded the pilots, perhaps even they had exhausted their ammunition—the number of cannon shells a fighter could carry was limited. Not that it mattered anyway, not any more. Farnholme was on the bridge now, Nicolson saw, helping McKinnon to carry the soldier below. Vannier was gone, but Evans was still there with the captain. Then the chartroom door swung open on its shattered hinges, and once again Nicolson’s face tightened in disbelief.

  The man who stood before him was almost naked, clad only in the charred tatters of what had been a pair of blue trousers: they were still smoking, smouldering at the edges. Eyebrows and hair were singed and frizzled and the chest and arms red and scorched: the chest rose and fell very quickly in small shallow breaths, like a man whose lungs have been so long starved of air that he cannot find time to breathe deeply. His face was very pale.

  “Jenkins!” Nicolson had advanced, seized the man by the shoulders then dropped his hands quickly as the other winced with pain. “How on earth—I saw the ‘planes—”

  “Somebody trapped, sir!” Jenkins interrupted. “For'ard pumproom.” He spoke hurriedly, urgently but jerkily, only a word or two for every breath. “Dived off the catwalk—landed on the hatch. Heard knocking, sir.”

  “So you got the hell out of it? Is that it?” Nicolson asked softly.

  “No, sir. Clips jammed,” Jenkins shook his head tiredly. “Couldn’t open them, sir.”

  “There’s a pipe clipped to the hatch,” Nicolson said savagely. “You know that as well as I do.”

  Jenkins said nothing, turned his palms up for inspection. Nicolson winced. There was no skin left, none at all, just red, raw flesh and the gleam of white bone.

  “Good God!” Nicolson stared at the hands for a moment, then looked up at the pain-filled eyes. “My apologies, Jenkins. Go below. Wait outside the wireless office.” He turned round quickly as someone touched him on the shoulder. “Van Effen. I suppose you know that apart from being a bloody fool you’re the luckiest man alive?”

  The tall Dutchman dropped two rifles, an automatic carbine and ammunition on the deck and straightened up. “You were right,” he said quietly. “I was wasting my time. All dead.” He nodded at Jenkins’ retreating back. “I heard him. That’s the small deckhouse just for'ard of the bridge, isn’t it? I’ll go.”

  Nicolson looked at the calm grey eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Come with me if you like. Might need help to get him out, whoever he is.”

  In the passage below they bumped into Vannier, staggering under the weight of an armful of blankets. “How are the boats, Fourth?” Nicolson asked quickly.

  “Remarkable, sir. They’re hardly scratched. You’d think the Japs had left them alone on purpose.”

  “Both of them?” Nicolson asked in astonishment.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Gift horses,” Nicolson muttered. “Carry on, Fourth. Don’t forget the stretcher for the captain.”

  Down on the main deck the heat was almost suffocating, and both men were gasping for oxygen before ten seconds had passed. The petrol fire in the cargo holds was twice, three times as fierce as it had been five minutes ago, and dimly, through the roar of the flames, they could hear an almost continuous rumble of explosions as the metal fuel barrels ruptured and burst in the intense heat. But Nicolson noticed these things with only a corner of his mind. He was standing by the water-tight steel door of the entrance house to the hatch, rapping on the surface with the end of the two-foot length of pipe that served as clip levers for these doors. As he waited for a reply, bent low over the hatch, he could see the sweat from his forehead dripping on to the hatch in an almost continuous trickle. The air was so dry and parched, the metal so hot—they could feel the heat of the deck even through the soles of their shoes—that the drips of perspiration evaporated and vanished almost as they touched the deck … And then, so suddenly that both men started in spite of their tense expectation, there came an answering rap from inside, very faint but quite unmistakable, and Nicolson waited no longer. The clips were very stiff indeed—some explosive shock must have warped or shifted the metal—and it took a dozen powerful strokes from the sledge he carried to free the two jammed clips: the last retaining clip sheered at the first blow.

  A gust of hot, fetid air swept up from the gloomy depths of the pump-room, but Nicolson and Van Effen ignored it and peered into the darkness. Then Van Effen had switched on his torch and they could clearly see the oil-streaked grey hair of a man climbing up towards the top of the ladder. And then two long arms reached down and, a moment later, the man was
standing on deck beside him, a forearm flung up in reflex instinct to shield himself from the heat of the flames. He was drenched in oil from head to foot, the whites of his eyes almost comically prominent in the black, smeared face.

  Nicolson peered at him for a moment, and then said in astonishment: “Willy!”

  “Even so,” Willoughby intoned. “None other. Good old Willy. Golden lads and lasses must, etc., but not superannuated second engineers. No ordinary mortals we.” He wiped some oil from his face. “Sing no sad songs for Willoughby.”

  “But what the hell were you doing?—never mind. It can wait. Come on, Willy. No time to lose. We’re leaving.”

  Willoughby panted for air as they climbed up to the bridge. “Dived in for shelter, my boy. Almost cut off in my prime. Where are we going?”

  “As far away from this ship as possible,” Nicolson said grimly. “She’s due to go up any moment now.”

  Willoughby turned round, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Only a petrol fire, Johnny. Always a chance that it’ll burn itself out.”

  “Number one cargo tank’s gone up.”

  “The boats, and with all speed,” Willoughby said hastily. “Old Willy would live and fight another day.”

  Within five minutes both boats had been provisioned and lowered for embarkation. All the survivors, including the wounded, were gathered together, waiting. Nicolson looked at the captain.

  “Ready when you give the word, sir.”

  Findhorn smiled faintly: even that seemed an effort, for the smile ended in a grimace of pain. “A late hour for this modesty, Mr. Nicolson. You’re in charge, my boy.” He coughed, screwed shut his eyes, then looked up thoughtfully. “The ‘planes, Mr. Nicolson. They could cut us to ribbons when we’re lowering into the water.”