J. E. MacDonnell - 114

by The Worst Enemy(lit)

  "What you mean is you're worried she might wear the pants."

  "It's happened before."

  "With you and Gwen?"

  "Like hell. That'll be the day."

  "Then don't worry about me. No," Bentley mused, "there was something got to me in there. Damn it all, I suppose I was proud of her. Yes, that's it. After all, she was doing things that would turn your stomach up, and not turning a hair. I don't want a pretty little mincing milksop for a wife."

  "So you've got a girl of steel. So why the hell don't you marry her?"

  Bentley was silent, pretending interest in the horizon ahead.

  "It can't be the war," Randall persisted. "God knows you told me often enough that waiting till after the war was a load of codswallop. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, you said, make hay while the sun shines. What's stopping you, then?"

  "Yes, I advised you along those lines," Bentley said quietly. "But that was before Dad went, and I saw what it did to Mum."

  "Oh." After a while Randall said: "You're forgetting the years she had with him, during the first war. The same applies here, to you and Merrie."

  A call from Nutty Ferris broke up the conversation, much to Bentley's relief.

  "I've raised the Port War Signal Station, sir."

  "Right." Bentley moved towards the binnacle. "Identify, and request fuel and water lighters."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Cable party, Number One. Clear away the starb'd anchor."

  When the buzzer sounded Dalziel answered it quickly.

  "Wind Rode's in visual, sir," the yeoman told him, "coming fast.

  Captain Bentley requests your presence on board as convenient after

  anchoring."

  "Very well."

  In Dalziel's lexicon "as convenient" meant "pretty damn quick, if not instantly". He told his messenger to have the motorboat called away; then, already clothed in freshly starched khakis, he put on his best cap and went out on deck to watch.

  It was pretty to watch. Wind Rode belted up with a flashing bone in her teeth, slowed for the reef entrance, and slipped through. It was a big harbour, with plenty of room to turn, but she swung swiftly and neatly, using screws as well as rudder, and when straightened-up she was in position at the head of the flotilla, with just sufficient way on to lay her cable along the bottom.

  She was directly ahead of Whelp. Clearly Dalziel heard the iron rattle of running cable. His face expressionless, he walked aft to the motorboat.

  The shrill of pipes welcomed him, and a smiling, respectful Randall. This attitude neither impressed nor fooled him; it was simply normal.

  "Good afternoon, sir. The captain's in his cabin. Would you follow me, please?"

  This, too, was normal, even though Whelp was identical with Wind Rode. Dalziel walked behind his "guide", noting the cleanliness of decks and superstructure; without surprise, seeing what ship this was, but his eyes noted as automatically as his nose breathed.

  They mounted a couple of ladders, walked along a passage which might have been the one he'd just left, then Randall knocked on a door.

  "Come."

  Randall opened the door and stood back. "Commander Dalziel, sir."

  "Thank you, Number One, that's all. Ah, Philip, come on in and take the weight off."

  Nor was Dalziel fooled here. How many times had he himself started off mildly with a defaulter, and ended with a whiplash? And this greeting was plainly for the first lieutenant's benefit.

  He stepped in over the coaming, hearing the door close, sat down and waited. Bentley frowned a little, then smiled.

  "Cat got your tongue, Philip?"

  "Sorry, sir. Welcome back."

  "That's better. For a moment I thought you hadn't missed me. Beer?"

  "No thank you, sir."

  "Randall's gone, for God's sake."

  Listening, Jarrett thought: So much for me, then...

  "Yes... Peter. I trust you had a pleasant spell in Brisbane?"

  Those pedantically formal words, the back stiff in the chair... Oh, Bentley knew, all right, the reprobate, but he wasn't quite ready, not just yet. The hot iron of worry had to burn a little longer; like it had with him.

  "Yes," he smiled, this other wielder of the whiplash, "very pleasant, in fact. Good weather most of the time, and then old McPherson-you've come across him?-He got the job finished ahead of time. That made you happy, I imagine?"

  Try as he might, practised as he was with men, Dalziel could find no cynical undertone in Bentley's tone or face; both were simply pleasant. But still he was wary, waiting. And two could play at this little game.

  "Of course, Peter," he matched the other smile. "It's good to have you back, not to mention Wind Rode. One from five doesn't seem much-until you're the bloke, and you think in terms of six four-point-sevens and ten tubes."

  "Yes," Bentley chuckled. "Well now, what's been happening up here?"

  Dalziel didn't flinch, not on the outside. "Surely you got my report on that night action? I had it repeated Wind Rode."

  "Oh, that. I was thinking more of... Never mind. Yes, I got your report. Good show. Three out of three, eh? As Ferris mentioned, one hundred per cent. But that attempt at ramming must have given you a few nasty moments. He got in close?"

  Dalziel very nearly said, I never knew you to be sadistic before.

  "Bloody close," he answered, suddenly uncaring. "I was hard-over, but if X-gun hadn't got into his boiler-room he would have carved my stern off."

  "I see. But he didn't, that's the main thing, eh?"

  Dalziel's worry flooded back; his wariness tightened.

  "There's just one point I'd like to be clear on," Bentley said, and Here comes the lash, Dalziel thought. "Why did you go out on your own?"

  Dalziel had had enough. He answered without thinking, harshly:

  "That's it. To be on my bloody own, to get away from the damned flotilla!"

  There was no lash. "So now you know," said Bentley.

  Dalziel heard the voice, but in his imagined guilt and definite anger he failed to distinguish the words.

  "What was that?"

  "So now you know," Bentley repeated in the same quiet tone, "what it's like."

  "Good God," Dalziel said lowly.

  Their eyes met, and held; a communion of understanding. The moment lasted, then broke. Jarrett came out of his pantry.

  "Excuse me, sir, was there anything you wanted?" he asked, blank-faced.

  Bentley damn near burst out laughing. Instead, he lifted an eyebrow in enquiry.

  "Yes, please," Dalziel nodded.

  "Beer, Jarrett."

  It came quickly. They drank, while through the vastness of his relief Dalziel thought: It's being back with the flotilla again, that's what mellowed him.

  Dalziel's diagnosis was, of course, spot-on.

  "Ah..." said Bentley, and put his glass down. "Now, as I was saying. What's been happening up here, if anything?"

  "Plenty. Nothing definite I've been able to get hold of," Dalziel amended at Bentley's sudden frown of interest, "but the staff ashore have been in a flap for days."

  "They were like that before I left."

  "It's hotted up since then. They're running round like headless fowls. The flotilla's been put on standby, with all leave expiring at 1800. It could be faulty Intelligence-or a big build-up somewhere. I saw no point in passing this on to you."

  Bentley shook his head, in agreement. His eyes had taken on that hard intentness peculiar to him when faced by a serious problem.

  "Intelligence up here has always proved pretty reliable," he muttered, "with our coastwatchers on the islands, even in the Philippines. I think we can expect trouble. That convoy of yours..." His voice trailed suggestively.

  "My appreciation is that the Japs landed a fair tonnage of supplies on the northern end of Dutch New Guinea."

  Bentley nodded slowly. "Supplies mean troops. We know there are Japs up there already, but the convoy could have landed men as well as supplies, and
from the destroyer, too. Maybe there were other convoys which we missed. If so, there's your build-up."

  "For an attack on Hollandia?" Dalziel said quickly.

  "Could be. After all, it's MacArthur's headquarters."

  "Agreed. But there's a lot of rough country between where I caught that convoy and Hollandia."

  "An Army that crossed the Owen Stanley Mountains and damn near reached Moresby won't be worried overmuch by rough country."

  "All right."

  Listening, Jarrett knew that the two men were acting as counterpoint to each other, one setting up the arguments for the other to knock down, if he could.

  "But Hollandia's not only MacArthur's headquarters," Dalziel went on, "it's a naval base as well. Japs attacking from inland could be bombarded from the harbour. God knows those Marines on Guadal Canal have learned that."

  "Yes," murmured Bentley.

  "So any land attack would require support from the sea. We have no battleships in Hollandia, but there's a cruiser squadron. They'd have to take care of that first, and with superior strength-at least eight heavy cruisers, I'd say."

  "Yes," Bentley said again. He was staring at the ship's side, but not seeing it; seeing instead a large-scale map of the southwest Pacific, ranging as far north as the Philippines and westward to the Indies.

  "You're right," he nodded, bringing his eyes back. "Now where would such a cruiser squadron come from, or from which direction?"

  "The Philippines, the Palau Islands, maybe Guam."

  "Hmmm. And the direction?"

  "Why, from the north, of course. It's the obvious direction."

  "Exactly."

  Dalziel frowned at him. "What have you got in mind, Peter?"

  Bentley gave a short laugh. "Nothing, really, except that I'm assuming the Japs will think as I think, and that's stupidly presumptuous as well as bloody dangerous. A man can be too clever, and find himself right up to his neck in it. Anyway, all this is supposition. An interesting exercise, but still based on theory, totally unsupported by factual knowledge. If there is a flap ashore, it could be concerned with Guadal Canal for all we know, or..." He laughed suddenly, at himself."... or just a large convoy we're being held ready to help escort. Here, have the other half."

  "Don't mind if I do," said Dalziel, and a knock sounded.

  "Come."

  It was Ferris; nothing of urgency about him, just with a signal. Bentley read it, then rose and took up his cap.

  "I'm wanted by Staff Officer Operations," he said to Dalziel. "Perhaps... yes, you'd better stay a while."

  Dalziel nodded his understanding. With Benson or Cartwright, Bentley might have said, "Mark the level on the whisky bottle, Jarrett." Now he said, "Look after Commander Dalziel, Jarrett," and stepped out.

  There are many things done aboard an experienced destroyer without need of orders. Randall had been told of the signal; the motorboat was waiting. It took Bentley inshore at full clip.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HE was back within the hour. The pipes met him, but Randall's eyes, under his saluting hand, were keen to detect some clue about that summons ashore. The hard browned face gave him nothing; the voice did.

  "What's the fuelling position, Number One?"

  "We should be finished in about fifteen minutes, sir."

  Here was evidenced the reward of Bentley's caution and prescience in fuelling at Townsville. From there to Moresby is six hundred miles; at economical cruising speed Wind Rode could steam for five thousand, and thus had topped up her oil bunkers quickly.

  "All hands aboard?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Secure ship for sea," Bentley ordered, then he sent for his captains.

  They, too, came quickly, their quarterdeck staff having seen and reported the flotilla-leader's trip inshore, and mustered in the cabin. Bentley's eyes trained from one to the other of the three faces; for some reason he failed to fathom just then, Dalziel noted that Bentley did not look at him.

  What Bentley saw in those faces-youthfulness of age matured by harshness of training and experience; respect and controlled eagerness-made him smile, inside, and feel warm there. His face stayed sober.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen. It's good to see you again."

  They smiled, openly, and waited.

  "I presume your ships are ready to sail?"

  It was more a statement; silence gave him his answer.

  "Good." Bentley took up the chart he had collected on his way past the chart-room. "Have any of you heard of Wetar Island?"

  Somewhat to his surprise, Lieutenant-Commander Newton, the junior of them all, answered:

  "It's in the Dutch East Indies, sir."

  "Quite right."

  Then Newton-he was just past his mid-twenties-had to spoil the effect.

  "Right at the eastern end of the chain, sir," he went on, "about fifty miles east of Alor Island and forty north of Timor."

  From these details it was obvious to their experience that Newton, quite by accident, had been browsing over a chart of the Indies. He heard Cartwright's chuckle and caught Bentley's quizzical look, and flushed.

  "Yes," said Bentley, while his nod added: In future don't open your flap so wide.

  He held up the chart, a finger tapping. "Here, as you will have already learned from Newton's remarkable navigational knowledge, is Wetar Island. It's about sixty miles long and twenty wide, but we're interested only in the small town of Ilwaki, here. The town stands on a sheer promontory halfway along the southern coast. The cliffs are steep-to."

  This meant that the cliffs not only rose sheer, but also went down that way, straight and deep under the sea; and this would allow ships, if for some strange reason they so desired, to get in quite close to the cliffs.

  Bentley turned and laid the chart on the table, against which he was leaning. "Commander Dalziel," he said, still not looking at him, "tells me he thinks the staff ashore are in a flap. He's dead right. Intelligence reports that an attack can be expected in the fairly close future on Hollandia, both from inland and the sea. The reason is obvious; not so the direction of the sea attack."

  There was an emphasis on obvious and direction, but so slight that only Dalziel caught it. Now he looked at Bentley, directly, with his dark, sardonic eyes. The others wondered why their captain, at that moment, seemed to be trying not to grin. Then their attention was held by more important things.

  "The Jap is no longer an imitator," Bentley continued, "but an innovator, as the Eighth Division in Malaya learned to their surprise and sorrow. Instead of from the north, as might be expected, his naval force will make its approach from the west. Jumping off, in fact, from Wetar Island. You're with me?"

  "Not quite, sir," Newton jumped in, apparently eager to negative his earlier gaffe. "They'll have to round the northern tip of New Guinea, and that will still bring them down from the north."

  "Quite so. However, there's a matter of mileage, Newton. Guam and the Palaus are about a thousand miles to the north, whereas Hollandia is only a couple of hundred from the tip of New Guinea. That distance can be covered by cruisers in less than one night." "Ah," said Newton, and then, leaning forward:

  "Cruisers, sir?"

  "According to Intelligence, yes. But not to worry," Bentley smiled, "we're on what the Air Force calls an interdicting mission. Our job is not to engage the enemy, but simply to delay him. Now, Newton, what d'you think might be the best way of doing that?"

  For the second time Newton wished he'd kept his mouth shut. But all of them were waiting, especially that big coot there with his mouth trying to keep itself straight. Newton felt nothing humorous in the situation.

  "Without engaging the enemy, sir?" he repeated, to show the impossibility of the mission. Then he laughed, to show he realised the impossibility of his coming suggestion. "There's only one other way you can stop a naval force, sir. Deny it fuel."

  Bentley stared at him, shaking his head in wonderment. "My God," he said, "I must be careful not to let the staff ashore he
ar about this, or they'll grab you away from us. Eh, Philip?"

  "Not a word, Newton," Dalziel warned, his eyes glinting, "you understand?"

  Newton flushed, his lips compressed. Bentley thought of a captain named Sainsbury, and how he himself had been treated like this, and how he'd felt, and sympathy moved in him.