J E MacDonnell - 070 - Under Sealed Orders
CHAPTER ONE
"Why you?" said Rear-admiral Truman, with the rising inflection of his words matching the downward stretch of his mouth. He tamped the tobacco down with an adequate forefinger and over the tip of the match flame shot at the man opposite him a quizzical look which came close to affectionate. "Because I recommended you," he ended on an expulsion of grey.
"Why?" persisted his visitor.
Truman took his time. You might have thought he was gaining pleasure from question and answer. If so, this was unusual, for the man across the desk was a Lieutenant-Commander, and rear-admirals do not make a habit of dallying with such inferiors; certainly not a rear-admiral with a face and bearing as experienced as Truman's. He flagged the match slowly from side to side till it went out and then he opened his fingers and dropped it into the tall brass ashtray beside him which once had held other igniting properties.
"Because," he said at last, "this job requires a fox. An old cunning fox who knows all the traps. A pirate," said the admiral, mixing metaphors carelessly, "a sneaky hound who knows when to bite and when to run, a lone wolf. You, Dutchy, are the only man I know who qualifies."
"Thank you," said Dutchy Holland, without expression. "Thank you very much."
You think you have seen a tough face. You think, perhaps, your own facial state is not exactly babylike after those Saturday afternoons on Bondi, or Cottesloe, or Caloundra. Do not, unless you are a good loser, stack your face against this physiognomy.
Human skin consists essentially of two layers, the epidermis and the corium. The epidermis is composed of four main layers of stratified epithelium. The outermost, the stratum comeum, is formed of several layers... Enough. Medical science has been proved wrong before. Human skin can be formed of a marriage between mahogany and granite, and-in some of the more soft parts-of rawhide which has been exposed to the desert sun for a year or so.
Of such elements was the epidermis of Lieutenant-Commander John Benedict Holland. He owned rather a hard face.
Dutchy himself, the whole of him, was something of a legend. At least he was to the young and impressionable aide, the Flag-Lieutenant standing in respectful quiet behind the admiral's chair. He did not know of another officer who had lost two ships in not much more than two months, and certainly he knew of no other Lieutenant-Commander who had been admitted three times to the Distinguished Service Order; nor one, in command of a ship, who was so old. Dutchy was pushing forty.
A fox, a pirate, the young Flag-Lieutenant was thinking as he looked at the back of the admiral's iron-grey head and the weatherleathered face of Dutchy Holland. You're both pirates, a couple of old buccaneers together. His gaze lifted, and he smiled a little. Down there, below and out through the window, there shouldn't have been that U.S. cruiser and those trim grey destroyers. They should have been ships of the line, canvas furled on the yards on the lofty spars, and Garden Island should have been a palm-edged say somewhere in the West Indies. Then these faces would have fitted. And that, the mental relation between these two, was the real reason why Truman had insisted on Holland for the job. Pirates of a feather. Truman would have gone himself if he'd been younger. They understood each other perfectly. That was why he'd given Dutchy another...
"I think of them as electronic officers," the admiral said, breaking into his aide's fanciful reflections. "All these bloody gadgets... Necessary, of course... time marches on. I'm not a blind old barnacle yet. But they tend to rely too much on electronics, for navigation as well as gunnery. They've been trained in a different mould. They haven't the mental outlook for a job like this. You, now... Even in a war like this there's still a place for an anachronism like you. The job's made for you."
"For God's sake," Dutchy said, "what blasted job?"
The contents of Truman's bowl were glowing. The tobacco was projecting a little. Idly he laid the tip of his forefinger on the cherry red and tapped it down. He did not wince. He might have been using a miniature furnace rake. He might not have heard Dutchy's expostulation.
"It's not all science, you know." Truman aimed the stem of his pipe at Dutchy like a gun. "In England commandos are trained to use bows and arrows. Did you know that, now? Swift, silent killing. Right. Up where you're going some of the old sneaky tactics can still apply. Well, for God's sake, look at it!" The gun trained and jabbed. "Hundreds of islands, scores of deserted anchorages, reefs to run behind where a cruiser wouldn't dream of following. Here."
Truman pushed himself up. Dutchy rose with him. Even physically, the Flag-Lieutenant thought; both short, both built like barrels-a couple of old boars. Dutifully he followed his master to the big chart rolled down on one wall.
"You see what I mean?" Truman said.
Dutchy saw. The chart covered almost the whole of the Philippine Islands, from the Sulu Archipelago and Mindanao in the south up to Luzon in the north. Even apart from the many large islands the chart was crowded; it looked like a white magnetic plate on to which had been flung handfuls of iron filings. All the fleets in all the world could hide unseen in that lot.
But Dutchy did not need a chart to tell him that; he knew the Philippines from before the war. There was something he did not know.
"Why?" he said again, as though his vocabulary had become suddenly limited. With the same economy the admiral said: "Raider."
Dutchy did not jump with surprise, nor did he gape. His face remained closed. Only his eyes, alert and grey, were considering. He trained them from the chart onto Truman.
"My idea," the admiral confessed. "Back to the old days of raiding." His finger flicked at the chart. "Never mind squadrons of cruisers and fleets of carriers. A single ship. One ship up there could be in and out like a terrier. Bite-then back into a hole. Remember the Emden. No need to go back to that war. Look at the Kormoran in this, all the other German armed raiders. There's one vital difference. Where they hid in the wide open spaces, you'll hide in deserted bays, handy. Take your pick. Holes galore. What d'you think?"
"The idea's wonderful." Dutchy picked out a cigarette and lit it. He inhaled so deeply that his cheeks pinched in. "On paper," he said.
"In fact," Truman amended. "Up there not all supply ships are in convoy. Naturally you'll keep clear of large formations. But scores of Jap landing areas have to be supplied, by single ships. The country's too rough for overland supply, it all comes by sea. That's where you come in."
"Fine," Dutchy nodded. Unheeded, ash dropped from the cigarette jerking in his mouth. "I sink a ship, the first ship, and as soon as the crew's picked up, up goes the balloon. And down goes good old Dutchy. He wasn't a bad old bastard," he grinned his own epitaph.
"You flatter yourself," Truman said. "And you're wrong." The pipe pointed. "In the middle of that clutter the Japs won't be running large naval forces, but they are running supply ships. If a crew gets ashore they'll be jungle-bound, possibly for weeks. That's not the coast of England, you know. I estimate that by the time you're discovered you'll have just about expended ammunition and you'll be on the way out anyway. With a bit of luck you might get ten or a dozen supply ships. Anything up to sixty thousand tons. When the Japs do wake up they'll have to divert badly needed warships to convoy even single ships, a sort of cumulative continuing effect. But you'll be out by then. It's a damn good idea," the admiral said, without pride or modesty, but flatly. "It will only work once, but you could do a hell of a lot of damage. Now what d'you think?"
Truman knew already. Standing behind them, the aide could not see Dutchy's face. But Truman was looking directly at that oaken dial he'd joined with so long before, and he could see its eyes, snapping as they roved over the multitudinous islands on the chart.
/> "Mmmmm," Dutchy said.
Normally that is a considering, thoughtful expression but to Truman it was definite.
"Fine." Without turning he held out one hand. The aide placed in it a manila envelope stamped TOP SECRET. "Here are your sealed orders."
Dutchy took the envelope. "You've told me everything." What the hell do I want sealed orders for?"
"Because I was told to give you sealed orders..."
They looked at each other, and for that moment between them was the communion of complete understanding. Then Dutchy looked away. He smiled faintly.
"Y'know, I think you'd like to be in this yourself."
"Could be," the admiral murmured.
Dutchy's voice became brisk. "All right," he said. "I know my sealed orders... but there's the small detail of what I'm going to carry `em out with. Not," he said belligerently, "another old ship. Not up there."
Truman smiled at this junior warning.
"That's taken care of. It's accidental, of course, but I couldn't have picked a better bloody name. Your new ship," Truman said, "is Jackal."
Again, Dutchy's eyes fastened on him. Then he looked away and through the window, down over the berthed destroyers. His voice had a grin in it, but his face, turned aside, was distant.
"I don't believe it. Jackal's no more than four years old."
"You wanted one straight off the slips?"
"No." Dutchy shook his head. Jackal will do fine."
For a moment silence hung in the big map-lined room. Truman was thinking of the fight he had put up. Holland had lost two ships- old or not, the figure was two, in only a few months, and regardless of the reasons-and there were some in high authority who believed the idea was hairbrained anyway, and that a comparatively new ship should not be risked on such a foredoomed mission. But he said nothing of his thoughts. Jibingly, he said:
"Don't lose this one, old fellow."
"I won't lose her."
Dutchy spoke calmly, and his heart was jumping. Jackal was four; old Pelican had been twenty-five. After his leave, after his loss of the aged Utmost when he'd rammed her into a fleeing Jap destroyer, he had not even dared to hope that they would give him another ship. Neither loss had been his fault-in fact, the ramming had brought his third D.S.O.-but that record of two in so short a time was something to live down.
Why then, this Jackal, so young, and him so old? There was no doubt whatever where lay the answer to that. Not turning his head, still looking down on the dockyard, very lowly Dutchy said:
"Thanks, Tom."
Truman coughed, an embarrassed bark of sound. He jammed the guiltless tobacco down in the bowl. He turned and walked back to his desk.
"Sailors are a wet bunch, y'know," he growled.
Dutchy followed him to the desk. "Oh?"
"Almost every man from your last ship, Utmost, has put in a request to be drafted to your next. I can't understand it. They didn't even know you'd get another. This smacks of connivance, a get-together. Bad. Unheard of with matloes. I don't like it," Truman grinned, "it's unnatural..."
He stopped. Here was something else unheard of. Surely... ? Yes, he was sure. Those damned gimlet eyes were misty.
Truman wet his lips. Then harshly he coughed.
"But we've wasted enough time," he growled. "You've got a ship, get down there."
Dutchy kept his face turned away a moment longer, blinking rapidly, cursing his stupidity. A moment, and he had control again. He swung back and his voice was rough.
"Matheson, Baxter? I've got them?"
He leaned on the desk and his eyes were not misty. They were as hard as the contours of his face.
"My God," Truman muttered, "I bet they were glad to get rid of you in the Med."
"Have I got them?"
"You have."
The hardness cracked into a smile.
"Fine. Then I'll say good-day. When do we sail?"
"Look in your blasted sealed orders!"
"Yes, sir."
They shook hands.
The Flag-Lieutenant was largely inexperienced. Yet somehow the understanding glimmered in him that he was in a privileged position right then, watching two men like these shake hands, the way they did... a brief communion, looking into each other's eyes, the grip short and hard. Then Dutchy was rolling to the door, and quietly it shut behind him.
"Holmes," the admiral snapped over his shoulder.
The Flag-Lieutenant stepped forward. "Sir?"
"Jackal, She's to get everything she wants. Pass the word."
Lacking experience, especially of men like these, the FlagLieutenant frowned.
"But there's Quiberon, sir, and Matchless. They're top..."
"Everything, I said!"
Not so inexperienced that he didn't recognise a tone like that.
"Aye aye, sir!"
The Flag-Lieutenant hurried out a few seconds behind Dutchy, and was thus privileged, or at least fascinated, to witness an odd meeting.
In the passage beyond Dutchy's barrelled body a Lieutenant was waiting. He was about the same age as the Flag-Lieutenant, but nowhere near as smartly dressed, nor as smart in his attitude. His attitude, in fact, was decidedly lax. He was leaning against the wall when his captain appeared. But though he shoved himself up casually, his glance was keen enough.
The glance of Bertie Matheson was directed at Dutchy's face. He saw no expression in that granitic dial, and so he knew. He voiced his knowledge.
"You've got another ship."
"Says who?"
The Flag-Lieutenant moved in exalted circles. He knew, of course, that Lieutenant-Commander Holland was a Commanding-Officer, just as he knew that the Lieutenant was not. He was therefore astonished at the tone of his voice, at the absence of a title, and at Dutchy's easy response to that heretical address. The Flag-Lieutenant should have gone into the door nearby. Instead, intrigued, he stopped in front of it, took out a piece of paper and busily scribbled nothing on it while he listened to further heresay.
"I'm with you?" said the erstwhile First-Lieutenant of Utmost and Pelican.
"That's right. I've got a base job. You're my second-dickey."
"You're a ruddy liar."
"How dare you talk to me like that. You realise you're in a naval headquarters?"
"I realise if you were in a base job you'd have a face like thunder. Now, for God's sake, what ship?"
"Jackal"
"Jackal! But she's not old!" Now there was thunder, sudden and belligerent. "So?"
"Ah... nothing. Nothing at all, sir. Congratulations, sir! Let's get down there."
"Ease your revs down. You've got Baxter's home number?"
"Sure."
"Ring him, tell him to get in here at the rush."
"Hold on a minute."
The Flag-Lieutenant was about ten paces clear. The other two men were facing the passage entrance, not in the slightest interested in him, even if they were aware of his presence. He saw the Lieutenant look towards a door marked MEN.
The door opened. A man came out. He was young, and his white drills were even more immaculate than the Flag-Lieutenant's. But here Holmes' inexperience could not be blamed. No man would have suspected the dapper Mr. Baxter of being an engineer. He joined the other two, his eyes searching, and the Flag-Lieutenant heard:
"I rang him and told him there might be news when I knew you'd been sent for."
"Cocky little bastards, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir."
Dutchy turned to Baxter. "What d'you know about a Rotherham-class destroyer?"
"Not a thing."
"Great. That makes three of us. Just how I like it," Dutchy said sourly, "no man able to lord it over his shipmates. All hands equal. Great. Come on."
The Flag-Lieutenant had got over his astonishment.
His face as he watched the trio hurry towards the door was wistfully envious. He went in, passed on his lord's instructions, and returned to his own exalted, dull domain. He found the admiral at the chart of the
Philippines. The Flag-Lieutenant thought he saw an odd expression on Truman's face, but that might have been simply the extended mirror of his own feelings.
"Lieutenant-Commander Holland, sir," he said, "seems rather an unusual officer. With an unusual crew..."
Rear-admiral Truman was not inexperienced. He could read more complex natures than his aide's. For an instant level grey eyes studied the young face, and then,
"You're a bloody young fool," Truman growled, "wanting to get into anything like that. Don't worry, the war will last long enough for you."
"I hope so, sir."
"My God... All right," the admiral said, and there was the briefest hint of malice in his eyes when he added: "Let me have that guest list for tonight's party."
J. E. MacDonnell - 070 Page 1
