Pride and the Anguish

by Douglas Reeman

  “This is the captain speaking.” His voice echoed around the upperdeck where the men already at their action stations crouched to avoid the rain, their faces now turned towards the bridge. “We are putting to sea in order to draw the enemy away from the Prawn’s departure point.”

  Trewin heard a hatch grate open, and when he looked over the screen he saw Nimmo staring up from his private world of noise and machinery, his eyes squinting in the downpour as he listened to Corbett’s steady voice.

  “There are three hours to darkness. Within that time we must endeavour to draw the enemy to the east, so that the Prawn may have the chance she so richly deserves.” He paused, and Trewin saw his face moving with emotion.

  “I know that you all hoped we might escape without further danger. You deserved to attain that, as you have all done more than any captain could have wished. I know you will do your best.” He was about to replace the handset. Then he added, “God bless you.”

  Trewin watched him, feeling the men around him and the ship around them.

  Corbett said suddenly, “Hoist battle ensigns!”

  He gestured towards the land, and Trewin saw a small group of motionless natives watching as they moved past.

  “Not much of an audience, eh?” Corbett tugged the cap down over his forehead and turned as first one then another of the big ensigns crept up to each masthead.

  Phelps made fast the halyard and muttered, “Gawd, they’re big!” His eyes followed the great ensign above his head. It looked very bright and clear against the dull clouds.

  Above the rear of the bridge the rangefinder turned slightly behind its steel plating, and Trewin saw Tweedie standing to get a better look at the streaming flags. Poor Tweedie, he thought vaguely. Bungalow and retirement had been his final goals in life. If he lived after today nothing would ever be the same. He had spoken out against the authority he had served and helped to fashion. He was now standing to watch a small, tired river gunboat sail to face an enemy whose power they could only guess at.

  “Port ten! Midships!” Corbett twisted in the chair, the rain bouncing from his shoulders and making the oilskin shine like glass. “As soon as we break cover I shall turn hard to port and keep close inshore amongst the shallows.” He looked hard at Mallory. “You’ll earn your keep today, Pilot. For the next three hours it will be up to you to guide us from one piece of shelter to the next, right?”

  Mallory met his eyes calmly. “The next group of offshore islets are twenty miles along the coast, sir.”

  “Good.” Corbett nodded. “They will do for a start!”

  Trewin swallowed hard. Do for a start! In three hours it might all be over.

  When he raised his head he saw that the channel had widened right out on either beam, with the low swell from the open sea already sweeping lazily to greet them.

  Every glass was trained above the screen as the Porcupine’s bows lifted contemptuously above the disturbed backwash of tide and river, but in the torrential rain it was impossible to see more than a cable’s length in any direction.

  “Port fifteen! Steady!” Corbett craned slightly forward and rested his binoculars against the screen.

  Unwin’s voice echoed up the brass tube. “Steady, sir. Course oh nine oh.”

  Several men glanced astern as the ship’s small wash boiled away in a wide curve and the inlet faded into the rain. They were probably thinking of the Prawn and that every swing of the screws was taking them further to the east. Away from safety. Away from hope.

  Then, as if the sea and sky had been waiting for just this moment, the rain faltered, and as the last of its downpour trickled noisily through the bridge scuppers the sun began to break through. It was a strange sunlight, which painted the sea like bronze and followed the departing rain until it touched the distant cliffs, so that the haze looked like steam rising from some subterranean fire.

  Tweedie’s voice shattered the sudden silence. “Warship, sir! Bearing green one three oh! Range one double oh!”

  Trewin ran across the gratings, his glasses pressed to his eyes, his mind empty as he stared back across the swaying screen. Then he saw it. The same low hull, the twin funnels almost overlapping as the destroyer completed a shallow turn and headed towards the shore.

  Corbett snapped his fingers. “Recognition manual! Lively there!”

  Masters said thickly, “Akikaze Class, sir. Four four-point-sevens. Thirty-four knots.” He closed the book with a snap. There was nothing else which needed to be said.

  “Full ahead together! Inform the chief that we have sighted the enemy!” Corbett swivelled round in his chair and peered back at the other ship. “She’ll be within accurate range in a few minutes.”

  Tweedie’s voice moved around the bridge like a threat. “Target’s course is now oh four five! Speed twenty plus!”

  Corbett said, “Four guns to our two. We must get him to draw nearer.”

  Phelps jumped. “He’s opened fire, sir!”

  The muffled explosion reached the Porcupine almost simultaneously with the sharp whine of a shell overhead. The waterspout rose ahead of the gunboat, between her and the shore.

  “Port ten!” Corbett swayed slightly as the ship tilted to the rudders. “We must keep him astern if we can. He can only bring one gun to bear then.”

  Another bang and another waterspout, some eighty feet from the port bow.

  Tweedie sounded tense. “Target’s range is oh nine two!”

  Corbett picked up the handset. “Open fire with ‘X’ gun!”

  Trewin craned round the funnel as the aft gun lurched back on its mounting, a long orange flash darting from the muzzle like a tongue. He saw the gunners ducking and grappling with the next shell and heard the shout, “Ready, sir!” The gun cracked again, and he felt the pain probing at his ears as the shell ripped back at the overtaking destroyer which now seemed almost in line astern.

  A giant column of water burst above the bridge and cascaded down over the screen, blinding and choking, and as Trewin staggered against the chart table he heard the ring and clash of splinters, the sharp cries from the deck below.

  Tweedie sounded very calm. “Up two hundred! Shoot!”

  “Starboard ten!” Corbett did not look round.

  Trewin felt the broken glass beneath his shoes and realised that the starboard screen had been shattered to fragments. There were some bright-edged holes in the funnel, but when he leaned over the wing he saw Hammond beside “A” gun giving him a thumbs up.

  “New course for the islets is oh seven five, sir!” Mallory stared at a drop of blood on the back of his hand and then dabbed his forehead with his fingers. “Bloody hell!”

  Corbett sounded detached. “I’m going to turn to starboard. We must bring ‘A’ gun to bear.” He snatched the handset. “Now listen, Guns, I want…” He waited as the aft gun cracked out again, the shock wave searing across the bridge like a hot wind. “I want you to get a straddle if you can. We must hold him off until we can find some shelter.”

  He did not wait for an answer. “Starboard fifteen!”

  With the screws at full speed the gunboat seemed to sway right over, and for a stark moment Trewin saw his own reflection staring back from the sea alongside before the boiling wave from the stem surged over it, cutting it aside in a bank of flying spray.

  Both guns fired together, the recoil shaking at the bridge foundations, the twin explosions making men cry out and clasp their ears while the cordite smoke drifted around them, acrid and blinding.

  Tweedie’s voice was magnified and distorted with excitement. “A hit! Jesus, a hit!”

  Trewin tried to hold his glasses still and saw the destroyer leap wildly into focus, her towering bow-wave making a white moustache beneath her stem as she charged in pursuit. But at one side of her bridge, just below the wheelhouse, was a bright orange light, and as the deck swung beneath his feet he caught sight of the smoke drifting back to join that from her twin funnels, the final evidence of a direct hit.

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p; Corbett shouted, “Hard aport!” He sounded stiff with concentration as he brought his ship swinging back drunkenly to her original course.

  But for those few, jubilant moments she had exposed herself to the enemy gunners. Not just a smoke-shrouded, end-on picture in their rangefinder, but her whole length.

  Trewin felt the shell explode, but heard nothing. One minute he was clinging to the voice-pipes and the next he had his face pressed to the gratings, with someone else struggling across his spine. Water was falling around him, stifling him with salt and the foul taste of burned cordite. He could feel the ship still turning, the power of her racing propellers transmitting through the water and steel to strike against his chest like frantic heartbeats.

  Pressing his hands on the warm plating he forced himself upright, and as his hearing slowly returned he heard the uninterrupted bark of gunfire and distant shouts which seemed to come from far away.

  Mallory thrust his face close against his and yelled, “Direct hit below the bridge!”

  Corbett had apparently fallen from his chair, but as Trewin moved to reach him he staggered to his feet and snapped, “Tell the chief to make smoke!” He shook his head sharply from side to side and then said, “Get below, Number One. See what has to be done.”

  Trewin nodded dumbly and clawed his way towards the ladder. For a moment he thought his legs would give way and he stood clinging to the rail, his eyes smarting in the gun smoke as he peered down at the men who were running along the exposed sidedeck. He saw Dancy carrying a long axe and others with red fire extinguishers. Savagely he thrust himself down the ladder, and all but fell to the deck as he realised that the steel rungs had been severed as if by giant shears. The enemy shell had ploughed straight through the chartroom and across to the opposite side before exploding inside the radio room.

  As he pushed past the crouching men he could see the sunlight through wide patterns of splinter holes, and beyond the buckled bulkhead of the radio room there was a steady glow of fire.

  He shouted, “Get those extinguishers up there, Buffer!” He stood aside as more men staggered by to seize the door, only to fall back cursing as they laid their hands on the hot metal clips.

  Trewin tried to think, but his mind seemed too crowded with noise and confusion. Men were shouting and swearing, and from above he heard Tweedie’s voice again, flat and impersonal. “Range oh seven oh!”

  The hull gave another great lurch, and the confined passageway filled with blown smoke and the stench of burning paintwork. Above the din someone was screaming. It went on and on, in the same terrible note, so that some of the men appeared too shocked and sickened to move.

  Dancy snarled, “Get back!” He swung the axe against the clips, and as the door burst open he waded forward, his sturdy figure soaked instantly by the extinguishers as he stood framed in the rectangle of leaping flames.

  Leading Telegraphist Laird was rolling and kicking below the remains of the smashed transmitter. He had no hands, and his blackened face was contorted in a mask of agony as he fought to escape the spreading fires. He saw Dancy and screamed, “Me mate! ’E’s back there!” He screamed again, and Trewin saw his blood spurt across Dancy’s legs in a bright fountain.

  Dancy shut his ears to Laird’s cries and protests and hauled him bodily into the passageway. He gasped, “Get those fires out, lads!” To Trewin he added thickly, “Telegraphist Mears is done for. He’s plastered across the bloody bulkhead like jam!” He retched and said fiercely, “Where’s the sickbay attendant, for God’s sake?”

  Trewin found his voice again. “Let these men carry on here. They seem to be holding it now.” He pulled Dancy towards the ladder. “We’ll get aft!”

  Like two drunks they swayed and staggered down the ladder and on to the other sidedeck. Nimmo’s engineers were certainly complying with Corbett’s order, and the sky was completely hidden beyond the dense smoke which poured back from the funnel and spread across the sea astern in an unmoving, choking fog. “X” gun had fallen silent, and Trewin heard the gunners coughing behind their blinded sights, and someone else yelling, “Stretcher party down aft!”

  As they reached the end of the superstructure Trewin and Dancy stared down with sick horror at the crater which spread across the small quarterdeck almost from side to side. There was no fire here, but as he peered down at the ragged-edged hole Trewin saw the faint gleam of water.

  Dancy muttered, “My God! We can’t take much more of this!”

  Something crawled from the smoke and made its way towards the sidedeck. Trewin gritted his teeth, holding back the nausea as he watched it.

  “Get that man below, Buffer!”

  Dancy ran across the deck and caught the crawling figure as it rolled on to its side. He looked up at Trewin, his eyes shining. “He’s dead, thank God!” He lowered the corpse to the deck. “How did he stay alive so long?” He looked away. “His face has gone!”

  Baker and his stretcher party came aft at the run, and Trewin shouted, “There’s another man by the guardrail! I think he’s still alive!”

  Baker skidded to a halt, and Trewin saw the blood-splashes across his white jacket. Like a butcher, he thought dully. He made another effort, “Are you managing, Baker?”

  The man looked remarkably calm. He nodded, “We’re doing what we can, sir. I can only drug and bandage them.” He stared at the mutilated corpse by his feet and wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Even a real doctor couldn’t do much here.”

  They ducked as another shell burst on the opposite beam, sending a small tidal wave of spray leaping up and over the battery deck.

  “They’re shooting blind now, thank God!” Dancy spoke between his teeth. A smoking shell-splinter clattered by his side and with a grunt he kicked it over the edge of the hull.

  Trewin looked forward and tried not to remember how far they were from those next islands. Not that it mattered. The ship had altered course so many times to avoid the enemy’s shells, distance meant nothing.

  But the screws were still beating the water into a mane of froth below the counter, and above the greasy smoke he could see the shadowy outline of the ensign. Porcupine was dying, but she was not giving in easily.

  A stoker petty officer ran through the smoke and stopped when he saw Trewin. “No real damage below, sir! Just a few plates down aft, but the pumps can cope for a bit!” He wiped his streaming face. “I’ve counted seven dead an’ wounded, so far!”

  There was a sharp crack followed instantly by one thunderous explosion. The petty officer’s face twisted in agony, but before he could cry out he was picked up bodily and hurled against Trewin.

  Dancy shouted, “The bridge! That one hit the bridge!”

  Trewin dropped the dead man on the deck. One jagged splinter had caught the petty officer directly in the back, ripping him almost in half.

  Trewin kept his eyes on the new pall of smoke above the battery deck and refused to think of his own fate. But for the petty officer’s shield he would have taken the splinter in his stomach.

  He dragged himself up the ladder, shutting his ears to the screams around him, ignoring the headless corpse which stayed strapped in an Oerlikon, its hands still training the gun towards the enemy.

  The starboard wing of the bridge had vanished in a trail of splintered planking and long strips of torn metal. The steel was folded and buckled like tinfoil in a great heat, and as he staggered across the bridge Trewin almost fell on top of Masters, the yeoman. Phelps rose from beneath his upended flag locker, shaking himself like a dog, apparently unhurt. He saw Trewin staring at him and tried to grin. Then he looked around the smoke-filled bridge, seeing it for the first time. His gaze fell on Masters, and with a quick cry he bent down and tried to lever the man away from the gaping hole above the leaping water.

  Trewin found Corbett clinging to the back of his chair, one hand reaching out towards the voice-pipes. He saw Trewin and gasped, “The wheelhouse! Is it intact?” He coughed and then added, “I’m all right, Numb
er One! I think someone must have broken the blast for me!”

  Trewin shouted, “Wheelhouse!”

  Unwin sounded near and very relieved. “All correct down here, sir! Both engines still full ahead, steady on oh eight oh!” He added, “I thought you was all done for up there! There was bleedin’ smoke comin’ down the tube!”

  Trewin looked down as something touched his shoe. It was Mallory. He was lying on his back, his eyes very wide, and for a moment Trewin thought he was dead. But the hand moved and gripped his leg, as if quite independent of its owner. Trewin dropped beside him and tried to push his arm under his shoulders. Mallory’s eyes moved slightly but refused to focus on his face.

  He said tightly, “Don’t move me, for Christ’s sake! My back’s busted!” He moved his mouth and then whispered, “I always knew the Pommies’d do for me!” His teeth clamped suddenly on his lip, and Trewin saw blood running down his chin. Mallory said, “Sorry we never got time to know each other.” He reached up and patted Trewin’s shoulder, the tired movement bringing his hard features out in a rash of sweat. Then the hand dropped and his eyes became suddenly blank and disinterested.

  Trewin stood up and looked at Corbett. “Dead.”

  Two shells exploded through the smoke, throwing up two tall waterspouts and hammering the hull with more splinters.

  From aft came a yell, “Heads below! The mainmast is going!”

  The funnel smoke was too dense to see from the bridge, but Trewin heard the crash of timber and the scrape and screech of trailing stays as the severed mast pitched overboard. He heard axes, too, and Dancy’s voice carrying like a trumpet as he urged his men to hack the wreckage away.

  Corbett looked up at the other flag above the bridge and said, “We can’t reach those islands! The destroyer must have hauled off to use another gun on us!” He stared at Trewin, his eyes blazing. “We can’t run any more!”

  Trewin became aware for the first time of someone sobbing. When he looked beyond the splintered chart table he saw Phelps on his knees rocking from side to side as he stared wretchedly at the yeoman.