J. E. MacDonnell - 070

by Under Sealed Orders(lit)

  "Yessir?"

  "We're in strife, Robinson," Dutchy started. "I want to confuse the Jap's radar. Any ideas? It can be done?"

  "Yessir, it can be done all right."

  "Well, now..." Dutchy grinned. "They're doing it all the time over Europe," Robinson told them. "Our planes drop this sort of tinsal stuff and it..."

  "Planes."

  Yessir. Bombers. Small patches of stuff, I think it's aluminium, something like that, good reflective properties, `window' they call it, darned if I know why. Anyhow, it confuses the German radar, they range on it while the bombers slip through."

  "Marvellous," Matheson said, sourly.

  "We don't have a bomber, Robinson," Dutchy said. "Come down to earth. How can we throw those blokes back there off the scent?"

  "Dunno, sir. Never thought about that before."

  And all your thinking now won't do any good, Dutchy thought. And the radar man gave him the lie.

  "The thing is to give them something else to range on, sir."

  "Fine. Like what?"

  "Well, like a boat."

  "At this range? They'd never pick it up."

  "They pick up bits of aluminium, sir. The whaler, say. Drop the boat, hoist the sail, square it off so that it sticks out at right-angles, like she was running goosewing before the wind."

  "Canvas," Matheson said, "low down. They wouldn't get any sort of an echo from that. Certainly not enough to throw them off us."

  "Canvas," Robinson nodded. "Laced with metal strips. That'll give `em an echo."

  Dutchy thumped a fist into a palm. "Robinson," he grinned, "you're a bloody genius."

  "Yessir," said Robinson, modestly.

  "See to it, Number One. Aluminium strips. Kit-lockers. Chief'll have tinsmith's cutters somewhere. Hang `em all over the mainsail. Secure `em with sail-maker's twine, sew the things on. Make it a sort of metal shield. The bastards will echo from that. Well? What are you waiting for?"

  "Just a small thing, sir, but I don't want to be the instigator of a mutiny... Whose kit-lockers?"

  Dutchy almost laughed in his relief. If it worked, they'd gain time, maybe an hour, while the Japs crawled up cautiously and investigated this second contact. And in that time he could alter to port in through Basilan Strait, throw the mongrels right off the scent, and then scoot southeastward down through the Celebes Sea for home...

  "Kit-lockers? Mmmm, I see what you mean. Well now, this is a democratic service. Let's show we don't differentiate between the mighty and the offal. We'll use the chief petty-officers' lockers. The Cox'n, the Buffer, the chief gunner's mate. That should be enough."

  "I'd like that order in writing, sir."

  "Get moving!"

  Desperate men work swiftly. In less than an hour the job was done. Strips of shiny aluminium were caught to the whaler's mainsail by tight loops of sailmaker's twine. As they hoisted the sail it rattled like a coat of chainmail. Braced outboard with guys, the sail projected at right-angles to the boat, a shining reflecting target twelve feet wide at the bottom and more than twenty feet high. The boat was lowered carefully to just above the water, with the ship still at full speed. Dutchy eased her down to a few knots. They could not afford the refinement of having a man in the boat to slip the disengaging gear; the falls were cut. The boat hit with a small splash and drifted astern, and even near the davits Dutchy's bellow was heard:

  "Full ahead both engines!"

  "Y'know," Matheson said from beneath his night-glasses, trained on the dimly-shining shape astern, "I think this just might work."

  "It bloody well better work," Dutchy growled. "Just the same, I think we'll make a general signal for help."

  "But we have no friends round here."

  Dutchy gestured impatiently. "I know that. But it can't do any harm."

  No harm at all, Matheson thought-the Japs knew where they were...

  The signal went out and so did Jackal, still at high speed down the coast of Zamboanga. They were closing the western entrance to Basilan Strait, with not much of darkness left, when radar reported that contact astern was lost.

  Inexcusably, the captain punched his first-lieutenant on the back. It was a heartfelt contact, and young Matheson staggered forward against the windbreak.

  "All right," he snarled. "You want to break my blasted spine?"

  "We're home and hosed, Bertie. There's cunning in the old hound yet, eh? Make a note of that radar trick. I'll mention it in my report of proceedings."

  "You'll mention, no doubt," Matheson sneered, "the name of Robinson?" And then grinned with his own relief.

  "When you're ready, Pilot," Dutchy said, "bring her round for Basilan. That'll fox the bastards."

  She came back through Basilan Strait faster than she'd gone in. She slipped past the doused light on Sibago Island, its structure just visible in the early dawn, and then Dutchy gave her her head again. Anticipating Baxter's call, he took up the engine-room phone.

  "Just a while longer, Chief. We're into the Moro Gulf and we're heading for the Celebes Sea. We've slipped those two destroyers but we have to get well clear of land before full light. How are things down there?"

  Flatly, Baxter said:

  "I'm worried stiff. You can't have more than half an hour at this speed. You don't seem to understand, sir. We've been running flat-out damn near all night! No fuel tanks can stand that, not after the time we've been up here. At this speed she's... oh, what's the bloody use!"

  "All right, Chief," Dutchy said quietly, "take it easy. I understand. Half an hour will be fine. Then we'll drop back to fifteen knots."

  "Ten, if you want to get home."

  "You mean that?"

  "I never meant anything so much in my bloody life!"

  "We'll make it."

  Baxter was a practical man. He made no reply to that theorism.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They ran on fast until the island of Basilan sank below the horizon astern. Compromising between the engineer's advice and the danger of a submarine's torpedoes, Dutchy dropped her back to twelve knots. The extra two knots might make all the difference between swinging in time.

  They moved on across a glassy, glaring sea, burned by the sun's equatorial fierceness, not noticing it, their attention solely for the unbroken weld of sea and sky astern. All hands knew of the radar trick, just as they knew that the Japs would not be forever fooled by it.

  No man laughed that morning. Compared to the night's run she seemed to be crawling. They were at twelve knots. Unworried by fuel shortage, the Japs could be at thirty-four. She was a ship taut with tension.

  Just after stand-easy, a little before eleven o'clock, the tension broke.

  You're sure?" Dutchy said, his voice tight with concern.

  Robinson himself was on the set. "No doubt about it, Sir. Two contacts right astern. We've had them on the plot only a few minutes but I'd say they're closing fast."

  "Destroyers?"

  "Looks like it, sir."

  "Very well, Robinson," Dutchy said, and it took all the will of the man to keep the wearied resignation out of his tone. "Stick with `em."

  "Will do, sir."

  "It's them?" Matheson asked.

  Dutchy nodded, once. "Our old friends. Sticking like burrs to a blanket."

  "It's not fair," Matheson exploded. "We gained time, we got through the strait. Only for that bloody fuel we'd be clear to hell by now! It's too much to..."

  "All right, Number One." Quiet, incisive, Dutchy halted him. The bridge team looked away; agreeing with Matheson, they still felt embarrassed by his revelation of their feelings. He was an officer.

  Matheson shook his head. "Sorry Sir." He firmed his voice. "What do we do now?"

  "Simple, Bertie." Dutchy turned his head a little. "Pilot."

  "Sir?"

  "Bring her round to face the enemy. Close the ship up for action, please, Number One."

  For a moment, for a long significant moment, Matheson looked back into the tired, strained, tough face.
For a moment he drank of its strength. Then:

  "Aye aye, sir. There's just a chance we might thrash those bastards."

  Then Matheson stepped forward and pressed the brass gong of the action alarm.

  There was no lucky shooting this time. The sea was calm, the sky was clear, the visibility was unlimited. There was only guts and toughness, and desperation and, perhaps most vital of all, training.

  Clever, the Japs fanned out one on either side of her bow, so that Jackal was at the juncture of their fire. Between them they mounted twelve five-inch guns against Jackal's four four-point-sevens, and Dutchy was unable to have his whole armament bearing at once-he was forced to twist continually to escape the savage deluge of shells.

  An hour passed. An hour at high speed, using their precious fuel; an hour which saw Jackal's men, strained already, closer to exhaustion, and which brought two hits near the tubes and a fire which luckily was doused in a few minutes. So far as they could tell they had scored no hits on the enemy.

  And as Dutchy squinted his reddened eyes into the sea's pitiless glare, watching for the orange tongues of discharge and swinging his ship to escape the arrivals, feeling the weariness clamp upon his limbs and his brain, he felt another sensation. Red and full the rage mounted.

  This was no good. This long-range dancing about was begging the issue. This was sparring, when every minute was telling against them, in the oil bunkers and in their bodies. Matheson was right. They were clear through the strait. They'd be clear to hell out of this-only for those two blocking the way. Cats playing with a mouse.

  The redness in his mind spilled over.

  "Cox'n!"

  "Sir?"

  "Open your scuttle. There's a destroyer right ahead. Steer for her. You hear me? Steer for the bastard!"

  It was the most unusual reply ever to have come up that wheelhouse voice-pipe, perhaps any voice-pipe.

  "Steer for the bastard," answered Toddy Verril.

  He steered well. He took her in a straight undeviating line for the enemy's smoke-wreathed greyness. The sea spouted all about her but Jackal bored on, careless and desperate and vengeful. The rage of the captain's intention communicated itself electrically to the crew. They had little fuel but they had plenty of ammunition. Broadside after broadside roared.

  The Jap was at first unalarmed. To him it looked like simply another of the hundred manoeuvres the target had performed that morning. When she did not alter course away he was a little surprised. By the time he realised that she would not alter course it was too late. The range was four miles.

  Quite calmly, the rage still forcing but controlled, Dutchy ordered:

  "Starb'd twenty. Rapid broadsides."

  They caught the Jap hurrying round on the avoiding turn, showing his stern. This halved his offensive capacity. Jackal's full broadside was bearing. She sank her claws in and savagely she kept ripping.

  A yellow wall burst from the quarterdeck. Deep, the thunder reached them. When the smoke drifted clear they saw nothing of her stern. Through binoculars they looked directly into twisted pipes, the entrails of her engine-room.

  "Depth-charges," Matheson breathed. Dutchy's voice was louder. "Hard-a-starb'd! Steer for the next target!"

  But not this time. The lesson had been learned. Easily at her speed the Jap destroyer heeled away and opened the range, losing shells at them from her after part as she swung. A gout of red broke from the foc's'le and in that explosive instantJackal's main armament was reduced by a quarter.

  "Midships," Dutchy croaked. "Port thirty."

  Weary, she followed her elusive enemy, dodging the returns, firing more slowly now after that supreme effort, stumbling from the ammunition hoists to the reeking breeches-but still firing.

  Another hour passed. All the time she had been at high speed.

  But nothing came up from the engine-room. Baxter's silence was a measure of his resignation.

  Quietly so that no one else could hear, Dutchy said to Matheson:

  "We've had it, Bertie. We can't run and we can't finish him. He's playing with us, waiting for his friends to join in."

  "What do we do, then?"

  "God knows," Dutchy said, and closed his eyes.

  He wanted to keep them closed; to rest from the glare, the constant need for watching; to sleep, to escape the mind-numbing roar of the guns and the scream of shells overhead. Urgent and hoarse, a shout opened his eyes.

  "Enemy altering towards!"

  Galvanised by some untapped reserve of strength Dutchy thrust himself up from the windbreak. His glasses whipped up. There was no doubt about it. Elusive, taunting them with distance, drawing them up to the north, the Jap was now heading directly for them. Straight and fast he came, bow-waves spuming below the spaced stabs from his forrard guns.

  "He's crazy," Matheson muttered.

  "He's woken up," Dutchy amended. "He suspects we're down on fuel, which he should have done long ago. He knows we're down one gun. He's tired of playing. He's in for the king hit."

  Matheson stared at him with eyes watering from strain. "Then alter round! We've only got one gun bearing!"

  Without hurry-he could not have hurried-Dutchy walked to the wheelhouse voice-pipe.

  "Cox'n, you've still got your scuttle open?"

  "Yessir."

  "You see that destroyer?"

  "I've got her."

  "Then steer for the bastard."

  Verril was less surprised this time. "Aye aye, sir."

  Dutchy plucked out the microphone of the ship's address system. His voice was hoarse, but neither he nor any of his hearers cared about that.

  "This is the captain. Our target is tired of his little game. He's heading straight in to finish us off. We are now both on a collision course. I have no intention of altering. If he does, I want every weapon in the ship in action. Rifles, tommy-guns, everything. Open the gunner's store. Rake the bastard. You hear me?"

  They heard. Dutchy paused. He looked not at his enemy but at his friends, the faces turned towards the bridge all down the upper-deck. "You're a bloody good bunch," he said huskily. "God bless you. That's all."

  He replaced the microphone and then he looked at his enemy.

  The destroyers were approaching each other at a combined speed of close on seventy knots. The Jap seemed to leap for them. All about them the air was torn but the rate of change of range was tremendous and most of his shells landed over. Yet the same applied for Jackal, Both untouched, the hounds jumped for each other.

  "He's not going to, alter," Matheson said.

  "That makes it simple," Dutchy answered. "I never fancied muck made in Japan. We'll see how good his bow is."

  Neither man wondered at the calmness of their voices. Weariness and shock were in it, but mostly it was the calmness, the resignation of the imminence of an awaited finish.

  "Give me the microphone," Dutchy said.

  Matheson handed it to him. Dutchy held it without speaking. The range was less than a mile. He could see the men round the Jap's forrard mountings; could see them staring, instead of loading. Dutchy glanced down at his own foc's'le, and as he saw the gun crew absorbed in their job, not staring, loading, the first flicker of hope rose in him.

  So that on the sweating leather of his face there was a savage grin of vindicated belief when Matheson flung out an arm and yelled:

  "He's giving way! Altering to starb'd!"

  Training, Dutchy thought, with some incredibly free section of his consciousness; training and guts and national character. The difference. Then he was speaking into the microphone, and the three big guns were swinging on to the port beam, and the oerlikons and the eight-barrelled pom-pom.

  "Now," Bludger Bent was muttering to himself, "now... now... NOW."

  His target was a blurred streak, so close. Bludger cared not. It was big, and all he had to do was keep his trigger pressed. Eight of them, the red claws raked down the Jap's length.

  As fast as they could be loaded the big guns were firing, with e
very single shell a hit. Bludger cared not. All he knew was that the Jap skipper wasn't worth a bucketful of garbage compared to their own, that he hadn't warned his gun crews to stand-by for close range action. Bludger knew this quite certainly, for there, as his claws raked, were the big five-inch mountings still trained ahead, with their crews beautifully exposed in the rear. And there they were flinging in all directions, arms flailing, guts ripped out, being torn to pieces.