There were several things in her favour, and God knows she needed them. No planes were launched: even if they had been in the darkness, the lack of visiblity would have prevented them from finding her, and thus bombing her to death. Apart from B-mounting, she would not need her guns, and so her motion did not come into it. Even the tubes were unaffected by her bucking, for the remaining four were already loaded, and it needed only the pulling of a lever to empty them.
These things, and her speed, she had. Everything else was against her.
Over a dinner which he'd had to force down, Sainsbury had perfected his attack tactics. This information had been passed not only to the officers but to all hands. Only a few of them would be directly concerned with what he meant to do, but the lives of all of them were hideously at stake, and men in that situation are helped if they know what is happening.
He wouldn't have had a hope without radar; but Petty-Officer Sanderson on his set kept him precisely informed of the enemy's position and range, so that Sainsbury knew the right moment to order:
"Fire starshell."
B-mounting was ready. Swept by lashing spray the loading numbers had their shells fused and then rammed them in the gun. It bellowed, a brief sharp sound that the wind carried instantly away. But those shearing starshell laughed at the wind; high up they rose, then burst into white incandescence above the carrier. The flares came swinging slowly down, revealing their enemy in all her mindstunning hugeness.
"Yeoman," Sainsbury said, in a flat quiet voice.
The signalman was already at his ten-inch signalling lamp, with the carbon arcs switched on and burning. He pressed a lever and a sword of light leaped out to fix itself on the Jap's bridge. Not to blind them - they had filtered night glasses against that - but to let them know where their enemy was. Close; in perfect position for firing torpedoes.
It worked.
"There!" Pilot shouted, uselessly pointing. "She's turning away."
"Some bear," Caswell said through his tight slit of a grin. Sainsbury heard him, but his words were for Smith.
"Port twenty."
This, too, was part of his tactics. If he turned to starboard he would take Spindrift down past the carrier's port-side guns. But as she was swinging to starboard, his turn to port kept him more or less ahead of her bow, and so clear of her guns' bearing. Only a few minutes, but at her speed that was all she needed.
The carrier kept on her swing away; she could not know that no torpedoes had been fired; she did have to assume they had been. Now, instead of heading southeast to get round the bottom of Malaita, her course was almost due west, straight for the coast of Malaita. She was losing time and distance, and must lose more as she turned to regain her original course.
If Spindrift could keep this up long enough, without being blown out of the water, then the American squadron, rushing south at maximum speed, should come up in time.
If...
"It worked, by God," Caswell exulted. "And not a shot in return! Y'know, sir, we might have got her with a torpedo that time."
"Maybe, maybe not," said Sainsbury, who had certain ideas about the use of his king-hitters. "Steady her up, Pilot, take her out again to five miles."
Out she went, with Sanderson keeping his electronic fingers on the target, telling the captain that she was beginning her turn back, and in she went again.
The tactics were the same as before, simply because the main equation, the position of the enemy's guns, had not changed, and could not be changed. A gun can elevate or depress, it can fire shorter or longer, and the carrier's could fire at both aircraft and surface ships. But a gun is fixed in a mounting, and the length of its training arc is fixed; in fact, limited by strong metal stops on its training rack. Otherwise, in the heat of action, a gun might be trained right round forward or aft and blow part of its own ship to pieces. Thus, as long as Spindrift came in from ahead, before the carrier could engage her with guns she would have to shift her bulk bodily round to allow the guns to bear. There was nothing, of course, to stop her doing precisely that. She had only to sight her enemy, and position herself accordingly. If she'd carried radar, Spindrift by now would be split open on the bottom of the Pacific.
"You'll still come in on her port bow, sir?" Pilot asked.
"He'll expect us to starb'd - I hope," Sainsbury answered. "Yes, same as before."
And it was. She came bucketting in, forepart awash with spray and her White Ensign stiff as a board at the mainmast; snapping like a wolf at her bear with starshell and the ten-inch light, alarming the Jap with his sudden nakedness, which was Sainsbury's calculated intention, and then swinging as before to port as the brute altered desperately to starboard. And out again, running for her life into the welcoming darkness, while the carrier headed again almost at rightangles to her proper course.
"Jesus," breathed Caswell, "this can't last. It's just a matter of the law of averages. I wish you'd never seen that bloody film."
Sainsbury was wishing he had never seen that bloody carrier. But he kept the dread and worry out of his voice.
"Speaking of averages, gentlemen... Pilot, would you say the Jap expects us to come in on the starb'd bow this time?"
"The third time? Yes, sir."
"Number One?"
"Definitely."
"How about you, Torps?"
"Hell, only a... Yes, sir."
"You were about to say only a fool would try the identical manoeuvre three times running. I think the Jap would agree with you. Pilot take her in as before, on the port bow."
"Jes... Aye aye, sir."
Pilot gave his wheel orders. The bridge was tautly silent. Sainsbury said:
"I agree with you, Number One, this can't last forever. Three times on the one bearing is asking a lot of even the kindliest fate. However, God helps those who help themselves, so this time, Torps, you can add your quota of assistance to the cause. Instead of altering away to port, we shall turn to starb'd. This will allow their guns to open fire, but it will also allow you to loose one fish. And maybe our altering away in a different direction will confuse their gunners."
He looked round their grim silent faces, and for a moment he thought What right have I to risk you all smashed to pieces? He said, quietly:
"We have to fire a torpedo this time, you see? We've bluffed him twice..."
Caswell started to speak, but had to cough his throat clear.
"Understood, sir. We might even hit the bastard."
"Thank you, Number One." The remark sounded formal, yet Sainsbury meant it. "Standby for torpedo attack."
Spindrift rushed into range. The starshell flared, the light shot out - and then there happened something which not even Sainsbury had anticipated.
"She's not turning!" Pilot yelled from above his bearing sight on the compass. "She's keeping a steady course!"
Christ. Galvanised, Sainsbury's mind had the answer in a flash of understanding. They had bluffed too well; so well that the Jap had caught on. He would not swing, he would maintain his ship steady, giving his gunners a steady instead of a reeling platform from which to fire! And Spindrift was rushing to cross those hungry muzzles...
"Quick, Torps!" Sainsbury shouted. Not impatience but a curdling fear for his ship gave the command a raw-edged rasp.
Yet Torps waited, his arse stuck out and his eye pressed to his torpedo sight. A second, two, four, while their flesh cringed. Then:
"Fire one!"
He might have spoken to the Jap gunners. They were not confused as Sainsbury had hoped. A full broadside of eight 5-inch roared at them in close blasts of yellow flame. A shell landed just under her port bow and exploded with hammering violence against the side. She shuddered as though she'd run her forefoot onto a reef. Another shell hit the base of A-gun on foc's'le. It wiped out the crew and sent splinters over the bridge.
Spindrift was already on her turn away. With a jolting shock Sainsbury realised that his manoeuvre would take her directly away from the Jap guns - giving them no
need for aim-off; increasing the accuracy of their fire.
"Midships!" he shouted. "Hard-a-port!"
Tortured, straining in every plate, the valiant little ship heaved herself upright from the starboard turn and then leaned far over on the port swing. A broadside whipped close overhead with a demoniac scream. But now she was running straight down the carrier's length at 35 knots, making a rate of change of bearing much too fast for the guns to follow.
"Douse that bloody..." Sainsbury started, and a deep wham of sound rode vehemently over his voice.
His head swivelled; his strained eyes saw the wall of water climbing beside her. "Torps, you bloody little beauty!" shouted Caswell, and Sainsbury said, "Douse that light, please, Yeoman."
The yeoman closed his shutters and the last starshell hissed into the sea. Darkness rushed in, and silence. Not total. Somebody over near the chart table was coughing convulsively, or vomiting. He was left alone; nobody felt like wet-nursing.
"Starb'd twenty, Pilot, take her out again. Let me have a damage report, Number One. Nice shooting, Torps - for a moment there I thought you'd become tongue-tied. Come down to twenty-five knots."
But all this was professional, automatic, and it was obeyed like that. All of them were waiting for the vital report. This, too, would come automatically, without orders, for that torpedo blast had shivered its evidence right through the ship, even down to the engine-room; more so there, being below water-level, and water being such a good conductor.
Then the phone howled. Already there, Sainsbury plucked it out.
"Captain speaking."
"Enemy speed, sir," Sanderson, "twenty knots."
Oh God... He wanted to shout, Are you sure? but knew that was stupid with a man like Sanderson on the set. He said, "Very well," and then told the bridge team.
"Sorry, sir," said Torps - as if it were his fault! "But along her sides she's probably got oil bunkers and anti-torpedo bilges. It'll take more than two to stop her."
Two was all they had left. And they had to be placed against the same, port, side. And this meant the same, expected approach. God Almighty, he thought, how much more is a man expected to do? Quietly, insistently, implacably, his training gave him the answer: Everything you possibly can do -regardless of the cost.
So Sainsbury went about doing it.
Chapter Twelve
He took her in and out again and again, aiming always for the carrier's port side, where she was wounded. And always the Jap turned away, unable to risk the chance that this time, or this time, the venomous little ship might be bluffing. So much their courage and skill had gained. But it was not enough. The American cruisers would be coming at maybe thirty knots, yet that meant a gain of only ten miles every hour, for the Jap was maintaining a steady twenty knots. Not altogether steady, considering her turns away, but it was sufficient to place her in position for flying-off her aircraft at dawn. She could launch all right, for Sainsbury's inspection on each run-in had detected no tilting of her flight-deck, therefore his torpedo strikes had given her no list. And certainly, due to his inability to get inside with his shells, she still had her full complement of sixty aircraft.
"If I had just one other destroyer," he said wearily to Caswell, "coming in on her blind side, catching her wide open as she turned."
"Yes, sir," was all Caswell could say.
There was something else, but this he dare not allow himself even to think of, let alone voice. He guessed, no he knew, that the captain must also have thought of ramming, but this action was so extreme that Sainsbury had not even mentioned it. Ramming should stop or slow the Jap. It also meant suicide, for to succeed she would be clutched by the big ship's steely grip, and then every close-range weapon would blast down and lacerate them to death.
"Time?" Sainsbury said suddenly.
Caswell shook his thoughts clear. "Repeat, sir?"
"What's the time, damnit!"
"Sorry." Caswell peered at his rain-spotted watch. "Just on three o'clock."
"Good Lord," Sainsbury said, and Caswell agreed with him. Their attacks had been so desperately fast and furious that he had lost track of the hours.
"It'll be dawn in an hour, sir."
They both knew what that meant. Just a couple of dive-bombers or fighters would do; the rain wasn't nearly heavy enough to hide them from low-flying aircraft.
Sainsbury shoved himself back from the binnacle; he had never felt so tired or drained in his life, not even in the Atlantic; but then he had never fought all night before. He hoped to God the Japs felt the same.
"All right, chaps, once more unto the breach," he said, and at once, "Sorry. One more time. Let him have both fish, Torps. Bring her round, Pilot."
She was tired, too, her body strained to the utmost by the enormous pressures that had been put upon it. But her great heart kept its strong steady beat, forcing her in against the forceful seas.
It may have been Sainsbury himself, wearied almost beyond endurance; or Torps, younger but not necessarily tougher, similarly drained. Or even Smith the Coxswain, getting his wheel on a shade later than normal, his remissness unnoticed in the general physical and mental weakness of the bridge team.
Whatever the reason, she missed. She plunged in as before and Torps croaked, "Fire one, fire two," and the last pair of missiles streaked into the water and went - God knows where. There came no thunder, no wall of upthrust water. The silence shouted of their defeat.
"Port thirty," Sainsbury ordered for the forgotten number of times, and again she heeled round to cross ahead of the enemy's bow.
"The bastard didn't even turn," Caswell said.
Sainsbury nodded numbly. That was the most telling cut of all. Even with torpedoes fired she hadn't turned. Maybe she hadn't seen them, or the starshell had burst too high in the clouds, or perhaps... What the hell did it matter why, he thought with fierce and sudden bitterness: only the fact counted, and the fact was that he'd run out of bluff.
"We're directly away, sir," Pilot said. "Straighten her up now?"
He'd said that how many times before during this endless night, and always Sainsbury had acknowledged and agreed with a lift of his hand; so why now did he hold his hand, delay his agreement with the correct procedure? Why was he letting her remain on her fast turn, circling like this so that if he didn't do something about it she would be right round and coming in again?
Pilot knew he had been heard. He waited, seeing the expression of strained thought in Sainsbury's face, its planes tight and hard in the dim upward glow from the binnacle. Sainsbury was thinking, striving to get hold of some fact or memory that was scratching at the back of his mind.
It came: even now, almost verbatim, so impressed had he been at the time by its logic. In whatever tactical decision you have to make, Buster Crewe had told him, you should judge the risk of it not by what you might win but by what you stand to lose.
If he persisted in this idiocy, if he did not straighten her up, then he would lose everything - his ship, his life and the lives of every man in her. Everything.
At this speed she was turning very fast. Pilot could wait no longer. "We'll be right round shortly, sir."
This time Sainsbury raised his hand. Queerly, a sense of relief moved in him. In an hour she would have planes up, and they would be finished anyway. So by going in now he was simply grasping the nettle, hideous though it was, and though he would lose so much, at least there would be something gained.
Then his relief was swamped by a following thought. Christ, you fool! In an hour, if he turned to the north instead of going in, then their combined opening speeds would place him more than fifty miles away by dawn, and running towards the cruisers. Once he'd cleared out, the Jap wouldn't bother about him; she'd keep all her planes for their devil's work ahead.
He was back where he'd started. The decision had to be made all over again. Yet this time it was easier.
"Straighten her up," he told Pilot, "aim her for the enemy. Clear all hands from the forepart, above
decks and below, including B-mounting." He paused, while they waited; knowing but not wanting to believe what they knew. When he spoke again his voice had all the iron of hell in it.
"Standby to ram."
* * *
Pilot steadied her up with automatic and unconscious ease, his obeying of the orders as involuntary as breathing. With the seas on her starboard beam Spindrift screwed in for the carrier at thirty-five knots; the sound of her engine-room blowers a hungry roar and her sharp forefoot tearing the water apart, arching bow-waves up level with the deck. She fired no starshell nor sword of light from the ten-inch; she must remain, as long as possible, invisible, for now she herself was the weapon.
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