J. E. MacDonnell - 139

by Death Of A Destroyer(lit)

  "Captain, sir!" the yeoman shouted. "Wireless-office has picked up a close transmission, almost certainly from the Zero!"

  Sainsbury nodded. "He's telling his friends that he's now alone." He clicked a glance towards the bomber formation. It was now off Spindrift's port quarter, still plainly visible in the sun's westering light, and still heading for the New Guinea coast. Only its position relative to the ship's present course had changed, for not much time had passed since the first attack.

  "He's through," Caswell said, and more sharply: "Barrage short, short, short."

  Quick to learn, as well as quick-witted, that pilot. He came speeding towards the new, closer barrier of exploding shells and with a movement of his control column he shot up and over it. Then down again; but instead of maintaining his previous line of approach he banked sharply to his left.

  "He's aiming to come in directly astern," said Caswell, eager to remedy his earlier remissness. "Cutting our fire-power in half."

  "Let's see about that," Sainsbury said, and leaning down he spoke a few quick words to Smith on the wheel.

  Almost at once, so fast was she moving, Spindrift started to swing to starboard, to keep her length and her four big guns still presented to the enemy. The course alteration showed plainly in the curve of her wake. At once Zero altered back, the intention being to negative the destroyer's manoeuvre. And now, without seeing the plane, without further order from Sainsbury, Smith obeyed his captain's earlier instruction and swung Spindrift back towards her original course.

  The range was too close. Both ship and aircraft were committed: with the ship's four big guns bearing.

  "Bloody lovely" Caswell muttered, but if he heard the admiring words Sainsbury gave no sign.

  He stood on the wooden grating near the wheelhouse voice pipe: this was Pilot's normal position, but now he could not afford seconds to be lost by having his orders passed through a middleman. He was leaning down with his mouth close to the pipe's open mouth, but with his head craned sideways and up, so that not for a moment did he lose sight of the Zero. Caswell had never seen a captain in that position, and while his guts churned under the menacing snarl of the approaching fighter his mind admired the captain's odd but wholly practical gesture. This bloke had been around!

  So had Leading-Seaman Carella. You get to travel quite a bit in a circus. Now layer of the pom-pom, Carella had been born in a shooting gallery; quite literally. There had been no time, that rainy night in Bendigo, to get his mother to the hospital, and so the tattooed lady and the lady motorbike rider of the Wall of Death had done their midwifery task behind the racks of moving ducks in the show tent. Luckily rain had cancelled the show for the night, and thus there had been no curious rubber-neckers to hear young Carella's squalling entry into a wet world.

  For years afterward he had travelled with his mother and father wherever there were shows, from Ballarat in Victoria to Barcaldine in Queensland, and many many places in between. And at every opportunity, before and after the show, he practised with a.22 rifle on the ducks. A natural talent made him into an expert. When his mother died of food poisoning - once again she could not be got to hospital in time - and his father developed a penchant for wandering on his own, young Carella developed his expertise with the rifle into a professional act in a circus; shooting, night after night, cigarettes from the mouth of a blossomy blonde and apples from the top of her peroxided head.

  Then a man named Hitler pulled the biggest firing lanyard of all, and set the world on fire.

  Carella, of course, should have joined the Army, which his peculiar skills would have been most useful in the desert round Tobruk and the jungle of New Guinea. But he had had more than enough of living hard, and carrying his food and equipment and weapons on his back seemed to him to be the hardest life of all. So he settled for the King's Navy, which carries you as well as your weapons. Lovely. To say, as some Servicemen do, that a man who in civilian life made radio sets would in the Services automatically be made a cook, is not true. Well, not wholly. On the firing range at Flinders Naval Depot Ordinary-Seaman Carella achieved a "possible". That is, for you non-gunnery types, a mark of one hundred per cent. Instead of being made a supply-assistant or a torpedoman he was awarded his marksman's badge - being one of the very few ordinary seaman to achieve this distinction - and marked down for the gunnery branch.

  Now, on the bland warm face of the Solomon Sea, he was layer, and firer, of a four-barrelled pom-pom firing two pounder shells; and within seconds of having to fire for his life.

  Like his shipmates, Carella had been fascinated by that Zero's death; but he had not needed the captain's castigation to make him understand why he had missed the second Zero. Nor, with his target coming straight at him, did he have to worry about his trainer allowing for the correct aim-off. Carella knew he would get this bastard.

  Of course he would. With his background - born within arm-reach of a rifle - and training and proven skill, why not?

  Trouble was, the Zero pilot also knew more than a little about guns.

  So far on this run nothing from the ship's close-range armament had opened at him; he was still a few seconds of time beyond their maximum effective range. But his guns, and the shells waiting in them, already possessed an initial velocity of four hundred miles per hour. He knew he had nothing to fear from her big guns, being too close even for the 3-inch, and so this time he aimed for her midships section instead of the bridge, for it was from there that the challenging fire would come.

  Engine pounding, nose steady on the destroyer's deck amidships, he pressed the button on his control column.

  The plane shuddered; satisfyingly. Unseen, a stream of empty cartridge cases cascaded from the rear edges of the wings. Unseen, and now uncared about, the destroyer's wake started to curve as she began her avoiding swing. Brightly seen, a pattern of vivid red splashes sprang into life around the base of the target's funnels.

  Carella saw, through the concentric rings of his webbed sight, the leading edges of the Zero's wings break into flame and smoke.

  Too soon, he exulted quietly, he's lost his nerve. Just a few seconds more. Let him in real close. With almost 500 rounds a minute from four barrels you can't miss. Wait... wait.. And then, Now, his mind silently screamed, and his fingers squeezed the big brass trigger.

  At least, that's what his mind told his finger muscles to do. They never made it. There was a sound, barely heard above the clamour, heard only because it was so close to his ear - a sodden sort of sound, like an axe going into wood. In the sectioned parts of a second his upper left arm was jerked abruptly backward, and then the upper part of his body, which took the fingers of his right had away from the trigger.

  Christ...

  He felt no pain. It was just as if some invisible force had twisted his body round. But it was round, away from the gun, so that he was staring at the rear platform. And there his eyes, widened in shock, saw a man on the deck, struggling like a headless hen. It was one of his ammunition supply numbers. Bill Walters, his mind registered numbly. He saw the man stagger to his feet, and the mess of bloodied pulp that had been his chest; then Walters fell sideways, striking his temple on the ready-use locker, and then he tumbled to the deck in a lifeless heap.

  "Ernie... Ernie... For Christ's sake, Ernie, what's up?"

  With the hammering of the shells finished and the plane's noise dying, Carella heard that urgent shout clearly. It came from his trainer. Involuntarily he put his left hand up to wipe at his dry mouth and suddenly his mouth was wet - horribly, stickily wet. He spat, and stared at the redness of his hand. Then, like a plumber tracing the source of a leak, his eyes went up his arm and saw the welling gash near his shoulder. Jesus, he'd caught one! But still, no pain, not even weakness.

  "I'm right, Ernie," he croaked, then coughed his throat clear. "I'm right! Where's the Jap?"

  "On the port beam," the trainer shouted back over the gun, "coming in for another run."

  And so he was. A quick close-range
run this time, to catch those close-range weapon crews while they were still bemused, striving to reload their guns.

  "Then get on to the bastard!" Carella yelled.

  Being mounted on the middle of the ship, the pompom could train to both port and starboard. The trainer whirled his wheel and she came round swiftly. And she was fully loaded.

  "Trainer on!"

  Carella could see he was. Staring through his sight he forced himself to forget his arm; forced calmness on the riot of his mind; forced everything out of his head but the need to keep the winged shape of the Zero in the centre of his sight, like a fly in a web. His left hand moved the laying wheel slightly, depressing the four silent barrels just a little as the range shortened, while his right hand curled round the smooth brass of the trigger.

  Now, now, shouted his fear, but Wait... wait... cautioned his skill and experience. And then the Zero was firing, and the whole of him screamed NOW, and this time his fingers squeezed.

  The four barrels coughed and spat.

  He saw the tracer of lesser guns, and ignored it. He knew his own, larger red meteors streaked out, and depressed a fraction to bring the fiery stream into contact. Now he was hitting; some sparks shooting off at an angle, ricochets, but others winking out as they hit the Zero, and these he knew had penetrated inside.

  There was not much time, but with 480 explosive shells a minute converging into a cone, and that cone laid on the target, you don't need all day. The two-pounder shells hit and exploded and ripped the Zero's unarmoured body apart. It came on, out of control - yet still a fuel-laden menace, a bomb.

  Sainsbury had already ordered the wheel hard-over.

  The plane came hurtling in with a rush and a roar and Spindrift leaned her slender body over and slipped her stern clear by about five yards. The plane hit the water in a flaming streak and exploded. It was this harsh sound that told Carella he'd won, for his target had flashed out of his sight. Then the trainer yelled, "Got the bastard!" and Carella got up from his seat. He stepped off the mounting, smiling. He meant to smile, he thought he was smiling, but what the loading numbers saw was a blood-caked grimace of his upper lip through which his teeth looked out. He started to walk round the rear of the gun to share congratulations with his trainer. But suddenly he couldn't see; understandably, for loss of blood had brought unconsciousness. Luckily one of the ammunition supply numbers was quick, and caught him on his crashing way to the deck.

  Chapter Eight

  Long range naval action, firing perhaps over ten or fifteen miles of sea, with more than a minute between the despatch and arrival of shells, is somewhat of a slow motion affair. There is fear, of course, even in such relatively languid activity - - the atomising of battlecruiser Hood by one shell from Bismarck will forever linger in the memories of naval men. But that was a devilishly evil strike, penetrating to a magazine, and normally a long-distance battle imposes no great physical hardship; warships that can fire so far mount big guns, which are loaded mechanically, by the movements of levers.

  But the action between fighters and a ship, even if she be a battleship, but especially a destroyer, has nothing to equal it in the matter of ferocity, intensity, and harsh immediacy. This comes close to being man-to-man fighting. You sweat your guts out to load and fire the guns by hand, over ranges that can come down to a matter of yards instead of miles, and you sweat with fear. There may be a threat more menacing than a dive-bomber or fighter screaming in at you, but I have yet to meet it. This sort of attack is the personification of malevolence: intimate, direct, and medically shocking. That shell-blasting bat out of hell is coming straight for you. Here is no projectile rising from almost below the earth's curve and lifting into the stratosphere before coming down... where? Here is that snarling bastard of a fighter, right here in full and horrible view, and it's you and him. Of course, that pilot's not too happy about your muzzle flaring at him, or the other dozen or so doing their best to claw him out of the sky, but you'd never bloody well know it! And you don't think overmuch about his feelings...

  Though the men on Spindrift's bridge had in no way exerted themselves physically, like the men at the guns and in the magazines, they had still been drained by the close ferocity of the attacks; for unlike the actual gunners, these men had been free to see it all, from the commencement of the attack to its near-disastrous end, and thus were more mentally affected than the men busy at their weapons.

  And so there was no cheering or throwing-up of caps on the bridge, nor even exultation. Just quiet and private thankfulness that they still lived. And, gradually growing, hatred against an enemy who had tried so viciously to kill them, and who had caused them such fear.

  Perhaps half a minute passed before Sainsbury, who had saved the ship and borne most of the responsibility for the whole action, let out a long slow breath and turned to his navigating officer.

  "Come down to twenty-five knots, Pilot, put her on-course for Jomard Passage." "Aye aye, sir."

  "Damage report, Number One." Now, with the spell broken, it was time for just a small joke. "Luckily he hit the starb'd side of the bridge. My cabin should still be intact." Caswell smiled dutifully. "I think there was at least one man killed on the pom-pom. Check that, please, and let me know how the layer is."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Caswell went off and Sainsbury took out the director phone. "What's happening with the main bomber formation?"

  "They're almost out of range, sir, still heading for the coast."

  "Excellent. Keep tracking them. We'll remain closed-up until you lose them."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  And that was that. There was nothing more he could do. The ship was on-course, at a fast clip for home. Caswell was checking the damage, which should be slight. Below him at both gun mountings men were busy clearing away the empty cordite cylinders and restocking the ready-use lockers. Spindrift had fulfilled her function of reporting an enemy attack. She was still alive. What he really wanted to do was to get down to his cabin for a couple of headache tablets; the continuous roar of guns, the continuous tension, had given him a beauty. But other men seemed to be unaffected - youth, he supposed - and while those bombers were still in radar range he must remain on the bridge. The power and the privilege... Pilot said:

  "It'll be moonlight tonight, sir. Do you think they'll have a crack at us on the way back?"

  "I doubt it. First, they'll have to fly quite some way to the south of their homeward course, and second, they should have expended their bomb loads."

  "Let's hope so."

  Pilot started to turn away. As he did so Sainsbury noticed him squeezing his eyes shut. On impulse, he said: "Anything wrong, Pilot?"

  "Ah... not really, sir. Just a bit of a headache. In fact, a bugger of a one. Those damn guns..."

  "Well, now, we have a deal of foul ground ahead of us. Can't have my navigating officer squinting at chart soundings, eh? Send the bosun's mate down to the sickbay for a couple of headache tablets."

  "Thank you, sir. Bosun's mate!"

  Sainsbury hesitated. Then, Damnit, he thought. What good was the power without some of the privilege? "Bosun's mate."

  "Sir?"

  "Bring me a couple, too."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Captain and navigator looked at each other; a smile from eye to eye. Sainsbury's pain seemed to easing already; Pilot must be a good eight years younger than him.

  * * *

  Unusually, but thankfully, the weather had stayed calm for the whole of the mission. Spindrift slipped through the jaws of the reef entrance and came to her anchor. The town itself seemed to have suffered no special damage - probably concentrated on Jackson Strip and the other landing areas, Sainsbury thought - but at Pilot's gesture he saw that some attention had been paid to the harbour. Over to their left the merchantman was resting on the bottom, masts and upperworks showing.

  "The old MacDhui," Pilot said. "She used to bring our supplies up. Our early warning didn't do her much good."

  Sa
insbury tensed a littled, before he recognised that Pilot had simply made a truthful observation; he wouldn't make so crass a comment on the captain's decision to continue with the patrol after Mack's loss. Yet this suspicion, even so momentary, had Sainsbury reflecting that he was still nervy. Why? came the automatic self-analysis. It wasn't the action, nor the natural fear it had surfaced: he'd had plenty of both, without this residual tautness of mind. It was the ship, he knew. He had just taken her, and he'd almost lost her. Like Seamew... He had to stop this nonsense. "We have nothing to fear but fear itself," President Roosevelt had said on his election. Spot on.

  "On the bearing," Pilot said, and Sainsbury returned his mind to its proper job.

  "Let go starb'd anchor."

  A hammer swung, the cable slip fell free, the anchor plumetted down, the ship moved slowly on and laid out her cable along the harbour bottom. Sainsbury put her gently astern, to take the way off, and presently the Sub reported form the foc's'le, "Ship has her cable, sir."