Bentley came back to them. He had not given a second's thought to Rear-Admiral Palesy's orders regarding the Liberty ship. Nor did he stop to think of the background to the situation. The forces which had brought a new battleship from Kure and a new destroyer from Sydney more than four thousand miles to meet each other outside a speck of land in the Pacific were as natural as they were inevitable. Sooner or later the Satsuma had to meet an enemy ship-that was precisely why she had been built. It looked as though it was merely unfortunate-tragically unfortunate-that the enemy ship had to be Wind Rode, a fraction her size.
Bentley said:
"It might work, Torps. Get two warheads up and lower them into the whaler. You can connect them? Right, hop to it! Pilot! Get the whaler lowered and under the torpedo davit. Bosun's mate-tell the torpedo-gunner's mate to report to the torpedo-officer. Tell him he'll want a coil of wire, detonators and a demolition generator."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
You could feel the excitement on the bridge. It swirled there as tangible almost as fog. Randall said:
"How about this? We don't know the depth in the entrance. If we drop those mines to the bottom they might be a hell of a long way underneath her-and she's so big we can't afford to waste any explosive power. The whaler's wooden. Right-how about we secure the warheads to her sides, take the plug out of the boat, and let it sink to water level? Then we'll be almost certain of getting what'll amount to a direct hit with those warheads. Eh?"
Bentley nodded, three quick jerks of his head. He said:
"You'll go ashore again? I can't afford a miss with those things."
"Of course. But I'll take some clothes this time." Randall grinned tightly. "You'll take a Tommy-gun as well. And some food. Stuff you don't have to cook. You might be there all day, you know?"
"A year, if we get that big b---!"
Bentley looked at his friend's big, tough face, thrust forward eagerly in the dim light. But his thoughts were not of affection-that would come later. His mind was too busy with calculations.
"What'll you do if I cripple her?" Randall asked, with his eyes watching the quick work around the whaler.
"Leave that part of it to me," Bentley promised grimly. "If we do get her, I won't be far away. Don't you start swimming back until I give you a signal." He thought quickly. "I'll send you one flash on the signalling light. Our presence should be known by then, anyway," he ended with a hard grin.
"Have got," Randall said crisply. "The whaler's on the way down. I'll get some clothes."
Bentley did not watch him go. He turned instead to the voice-pipe and eased his ship in as close as he dared to the harbour entrance, careful always not to cross in front of it. Then he stopped his engines and waited.
"Easy with those oars, blast you!" Randall snarled in a vehement whisper. He turned his head a little. "Bear right a fraction. See the white on the reef? That's it. Keep her steady on that."
His stomach curling, Petty-officer Gellatly gripped the tiller with knuckles that showed white under his skin. But his stare was steady, and he kept the whaler headed in a straight line for the nearer end of the reef. It was not easy, for she was dragged against the pull of the muffled oars by the two heavy warheads which were slung from either gunwale. They bumped their red noses continually, and Gellatly was glad they were not yet armed. There was close on two tons of high explosive nudging the thin planks of the boat.
Another minute and they were inside the entrance. On either side of them, not more than a hundred yards apart, the two jaws of the reef glistened and flashed with catspaws of white water as the ocean swell broke over the jagged ends of coral. That would help drown any noise they might make.
"Hold water!'' Randall whispered. "This'll do fine. Now-let's get cracking!"
It did not take long. Gellatly pulled the wooden plug out himself. The water welled in and spread over the bottom boards of the boat. Then he lowered the anchor down and made sure it had taken hold in the sandy bottom. While this was going on, Randall had called up the second whaler, which had followed them in, and was busy laying out his waterproof electric wire to the left-hand shore. He allowed plenty of slack, so that the swell would not chafe it against a coral nigger-head, and jumped ashore with the generator. This was a small instrument in a box a foot square, actuated by forcing down on a plunger. He laid his instrument at the foot of a large tree-he would choose his spot later-and quickly connected the wire to its terminals.
"All right, beat it," he whispered to the whaler's coxswain. The whaler backed water away from the reef, and pulled over to the warhead-laden boat. The torpedo-officer was the last to leave. He leaned over each warhead, and in the hole where the firing pistol usually fitted he inserted a detonator above the primer. These he packed in very carefully, checked again that all wires were connected to Randall's wire running ashore, and then clambered into the waiting whaler.
"Right! Back to the ship!" he ordered. The boat pulled on careful oars out into the darkness. The hours passed. Neither Bentley nor Randall were likely to forget them. Both had more than enough time for introspective thought. In the calmer light of slow reflection, Bentley realised that he was basing his whole plan on whether the battleship would come out that night; and that was based again on his belief that she would choose darkness to emerge and begin her cruise to wherever she was destined.
Also, as the hours dragged by on shackled feet, he began to be troubled about his earlier cursory dismissal of his admiral's orders. It had seemed the natural thing to do then, with the whole bridge hot with excitement at Randall's astonishing discovery. Now, he realised his action for what it was-deliberate ignoring of superior orders. Nelson had put his telescope to his blind eye and ignored orders not to attack-but Nelson had brilliantly won his battle.
Bentley swallowed in his dry mouth and looked at his watch. Twenty-five minutes to three. He had decided to leave at four. Perhaps that would be cutting it too fine. He took a turn across the silent, waiting bridge and bumped into the yeoman coming towards him.
"Signal, sir."
Bentley took the message. He was so worried about the horrible risk to which he was subjecting his ship and her 250 men that he hoped for a moment his delivery from the dilemma lay in this signal. Then he knew that nothing short of a cease-fire order would turn him from his purpose. He took the message to the chart-table and read it.
It was from Rear-Admiral Palesy, and said:
"Ship Jacksonville reported sinking. Proceed at your utmost power and pick up survivors. Ends."
That was explicit enough. Palesy obviously assumed he was by now close to the stricken Liberty ship, whereas he had not moved a yard towards her. He looked at his watch. Two minutes had passed since the last time. He would give it another half-hour, three o'clock, and then he would clear to hell out of it, make his signal, and hand the show over to Palesy.
Randall had found an ideal place for his vigil. He was surrounded on all sides by a brake of cane, thick stuff which would warn him of an approaching enemy. Yet through the stalks he would be plainly able to see the juggernaut battleship if she tried to creep out. He, too, now that the initial rush was over and the hasty plans implemented, had time to think. He looked at his waterproof watch, A quarter to three. If she was going to make any use of darkness, she would have to come out pretty soon.
He sat back, longing for a cigarette. Instead, he went over in his mind for the hundredth time just when he would press his plunger. Let her bow get a little past the warheads, so that her side would take the full force of the explosion. Then he would blow them. What he had to do was simple enough, and barely exercised his excited mind. He fell back on thinking how he would spend tomorrow if she failed to appear tonight. It might not be easy. He knew there were soldiers on the island, and it was quite possible that they...
The thought struck him like a blow from a fist. The sentries! The two men he had killed and left lying in the clearing. The men he had forgotten to tell Bentley about in the haste to improvise
a plan to cripple the battleship. He half-rose to his feet in his anger at his remissness and in fear of what could happen. If they were discovered, Wind Rode could be crushed like an egg-shell under a hammer. One broadside from those monster guns and she would be burst into a tangle of twisted iron. Even now the Japs might be watching her, signalling back her position to the battleship. And at first light...
He had no torch, he could not signal the ship. He stared at the entrance, half-hoping, half-praying that the big ship would appear. And as his gaze fell on the whaler, wallowing to her gunwales, he realised with a sudden sickness in his guts that their hastily improvised plan had another flaw-the whaler and its cargo would be sighted by the first fishing boat which left the harbour at dawn.
He could do nothing about signalling the ship-if he left his post and swam out to her he might jeopardise the whole operation. It was faintly possible that those Jap sentries might not be relieved for some time-that they had just come on duty when he had killed them.
But he could do something about the whaler. Cautiously he crept from the cane and entered the water on the inside of the reef. It took him only a minute to swim to the boat. As he gingerly hauled himself aboard, and felt the warheads surge against the gunwale, his mind was full of thoughts of detonators. He was gunnery man, but he knew that electric detonators had a thin fuse wire running through fulminate of mercury. That wire would glow and burn when he pressed his plunger, and so fire the detonator. But he was still not sure whether or not a sudden blow could have the same effect. He forced the thought from his mind and made his way carefully to the stern of the boat, praying that some conscientious seaman had not stripped her of her gear before she was sunk.
He grinned tightly when his groping hand found the boat's bag- a canvas bag containing implements for making temporary repairs to boat and sails. He gripped the big steel marline-spike and then knelt down before the galvanised-iron buoyancy chamber right in the stern. He struck with the point of the spike, and again, knowing the sound of the surf would drown the noise, feeling the water splash up into his face each time he struck. By the time he had done the same to the forrard tank, twisting and forcing the spike to make the holes larger, the stern was appreciably lower in the water. Satisfied, knowing that the weight of the heavy warhead would overcome the buoyancy of the wood, he dropped the spike and slipped over the side.
He was glad to get ashore again-he would remember the knocking of those warheads, armed with their detonators, for a long time. As he crept from the water, he automatically glanced at his watch. The time was two minutes to three.
Back in the cane, the generator beside him, Randall stared out at the water. Where the boat had wallowed, the surface was clear. The depth might reduce the explosive force slightly, but in return he had put right one of their main blunders. As to the other one, only time would...
He tensed, his head turned back towards the inner harbour. He listened with every faculty strained, thinking he had heard a shout. His immediate thought was that the sentries had been found. But surely that would have been followed by more excitement? He had decided his nerves were overstrained, and was about to settle back, when, clearly through the still night, he heard a grinding rumble. The noise rose and fell, now and again sharpening to a metallic clank.
Randall passed his tongue across his parched lips. He had heard that noise too many times to ever mistake it-no matter what the size of the ship.
The battleship was heaving in her anchor cable.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BENTLEY HAD MADE UP his mind. His jinx was still with him, perched malevolently on his shoulder. He had made another mistake. He had wasted most of the night, when by now he could have been well clear, wirelessing for help-battleships and aircraft carriers. The assumption which had kept him here on guard, which had probably negatived the punitive action the Fleet could have taken, had been false. The battleship was not coming out tonight.
He walked purposefully from the edge of the bridge, where he had been staring at the dim line of shore, to the wheelhouse voice-pipe.
More from habit than anything, a habit he indulged whenever he made an important order, he looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past three.
He bent down to the mouth of the voice-pipe, but his eyes were looking up, in line with the top edge of the windbreak opposite him. So that he saw the distant orange flash spew from just inside the harbour entrance, throwing flame and white water high into the air. Then the sound of the explosion came, a soft, brushing shock-wave felt on the forehead and cheeks.
"Hell!" said the torpedo-officer.
Bentley shouted "Stand-by torpedo tubes!" and then strained back to the wheelhouse voice-pipe. The engine-room bells were clanging before the torpedo-officer had reached his firing buttons on the side of the bridge.
"What speed, sir?" he shouted back over his shoulder.
"Nil," Bentley returned, and was surprised to hear his voice so steady.
The other understood at once-if they crashed past the entrance at high speed they would have only a moment to loose their torpedoes, and then they would probably all hit the shore.
The torpedo-officer turned his head back to stare at the waxing flames, and his guts were churning beneath his belt. Bentley was going to fire his messengers with his ship stopped.
As she slid forward, and then stopped, Wind Rode was in full view of the battleship's bow, which seemed to fill the entrance with the plug of its size.
But no flare of flame spat at her, no shells whistled overhead or smashed with explosive force into her thin sides.
A midget facing a monster she stood there, spunky, magnificent in the audacity of her challenge.
The torpedo-officer pressed his ten buttons.
Someone was still in possession of his senses on the Satsuma.
Before the shoal hit, a single gun, probably of Bofors size, opened fire. The tracer curved out towards them from the stationary ship and beat in a vicious tattoo against the bridge.
In that almost unbearable pause while the torpedoes were running, two impressions remained printed on Bentley's memory-the torpedo-officer, the engineer of the Satsuma's fate, coughing up floods of blood at his feet, and, quite unrelated to this intimate tragedy, the enormous size of the ship facing him.
Then the eager torpedoes ended their short run against the battleship's side.
She had turned to port a little under the force of the mines' exploding, so that her starb'd bow was exposed to seaward. The torpedo-officer had aimed there, because it was all of her length that he could see. That section of bow was where the armour-plating ceased, the part which had caused Captain Yamato momentary concern on the dockside in Kure. And now it took the full force of a broadside of ten torpedoes.
Satsuma had received the ultimate in destroyer attack-the complete discharge of a complete set of tubes. It would not have mattered, even along her massive length, where they had hit-so long as they all hit together. This they did, for the distance was too short to allow of any spread spoiling their running.
Close on four tons of specially-designed high-explosive burst against a steel side already breached and weakened by the whaler's warheads. The disruptive effect was frightful. Bulkheads which were designed to stand, and would have stood up against salvo after salvo of battleships' shells were flattened under the concentrated blast which lifted her bodily from the water. She was a great ship, and she took in a commensurate tonnage of water. Her vast bow dipped, down until the four giant screws were spinning almost clear of the water, gripless. With no power to guide or force her, she drifted sideways and came to a grinding stop against the resistant reef.
Bentley glared round and up to the director. The steel box was trained on the enemy, but Wind Rode's guns were silent. Even Mr. Lasenby had been jarred out of his customary vigilance by the magnitude of the tragedy unfolded before his magnified eyes. Bentley grabbed the phone from the windbreak and snarled:
"Lasenby! Open fire, damn you! Aim at the sta
rb'd bow!"
He heard the gunner's startled reply, and let the phone fall on its wire. Then he lifted his glasses again and stared at his enemy. She had taken a frightful punishment, but she was still afloat. The task he had set himself was so huge that nothing but complete success would justify its initiation. Inside those huge spaces which his torpedoes had opened up there should be in-flammables-petrol, perhaps. Wind Rode's shells would bounce off her upper-deck armour, but they might find an eager ally in those forward spaces.
They did. The destroyer had hauled off a little after the despatch of her torpedoes, but the range was still short for her guns. And it was one of her shells, a comparatively puny messenger weighing a mere forty-five pounds, which spelled the end of the mighty Satsuma. The forward side of her A-turret magazine had been blown inwards by the torpedo blast. Now, fifty feet below the upper-deck, a distance no bomb could have hoped to penetrate, one of Wind Rode's shells hurtled in and ended its flight against a case of cordite.
They had felt the explosion of the warheads going up as a soft brush against their faces; the torpedoes bursting had been like a slap; the Satsuma's forward magazines igniting unleashed cataclysmic displacement of air that heeled the destroyer over until her guardrails were awash. A wall of solid fire leaped upwards to the resounding heavens and a stunning roar beat against their eardrums. When it was over, inspection showed that the ears of every man on Wind Rode's bridge were bleeding from the lash of that explosion.
J. E. MacDonnell - 012 Page 14
