J. E. MacDonnell - 030

by The Lesson(lit)

  The guns kept firing, but the remaining five aircraft had altered course while the shells were in the air. They burst well behind them.

  Bentley knew he should keep his eyes and his mind on that quintuple threat, but his stare was drawn with fascinated interest to the falling bomber. He felt no sickness in his guts now. That first stick of bombs had shaken him badly; the men who had aimed them were much more personal enemies than the crews of those destroyers in the night.

  He watched with a quiet exultation as the aircraft neared the sea. A few hundred feet up the other wing tore off under the enormous strain. But it made no difference to that hurtling descent, except that the body met the sea a few seconds before the wing. White jetted from the blue, and hung in lacy curtains for a few moments before falling back and forming a frothy circle ominously similar to those left by the bombs.

  "Fighters coming in, sir," said Ferris.

  Bentley turned to study them. The pattern had not changed then. Bombers almost ready to drop, fighters strafing to keep the gun-crews down. It would have worked, except that the ship carried her own special weapons for dealing with fighters. She was now divided into two separate parts so far as fighting was concerned. The crews of the big guns were lining up their sights on the bombers while the pom-pom and oerlikons and machine-guns snarled their challenge at the Zeros.

  From foc'sle to quarter-deck she was wreathed in cordite smoke. Her deck plates shuddered under the 40-ton recoil from each big gun and the multiple roar of her defiance crashed out across the sea. Above this fierce uproar the ensign whipped and snapped at the gaff, and below it the turbines spun with a powered whine in their casings and the two huge propellers drove her on over the ridged sea.

  She was - fighting magnificently, a panther clawing at the same time as it twisted to avoid its host of enemies. It was the forrard oerlikon's claws which clutched down the next victim. An oerlikon shell is smaller than a pom-pom's, but more of them spit out every minute. Almost nine inches long, the shells flew at thousands of feet per minute and slammed into the fighter approaching at three hundred miles per hour. They struck, and the layer held them fastened there.

  These were the few seconds which determined whether a ship lives or dies. The layer was hitting, and all he had to do was to keep his trigger pressed. Now it was up to the gun. If Lasenby or the gunner's mate had been lax in their training and inspection, the gun could have jammed. The fighter's shells, unimpeded, could have lit a fire on her quarter-deck which by the grace of the devil might have blown her stern off. But the gun did not jam, nor misfire. Its trigger was back, its bolt was free to slide back and forth, it kept on coughing, and recoiling, and the line from its flaring muzzle was extended out to join its explosive potential to the Japanese fighter.

  Many eyes were fastened on that fighter, until they saw, expected and sudden, the flash of flames spring from its back and whip under the wind into an enveloping carapace of fiery disaster.

  The oerlikon's gunnery had been excellent, but it was luck which really saved her. The Zero was out of control, heading for the quarterdeck. If it had hit there it could not have missed splitting open at least one depth-charge. Amatol, like T.N.T., requires a naked flame to explode it. There would have been all the flame required.

  For all his alertness and ship-handling competence, Bentley could not have swung his ship in two directions at once. He had her under full rudder to escape the covey of bombs plunging to meet her. It was pure luck that he had turned her to starb'd. The blazing fighter hurtled closer and the quarter-deck slipped to port to meet it.

  It was very close, so close that as the quarter-deck slid in under the flaming threat the Zero's starb'd wing clipped the top of the depth-charge loading derrick. Every man on the stern was flat on his belly, hands clasped in token protection over his head. So that they did not see the wing hit. But there was little effect to be seen. The Zero was so low that an instant after its contact with the ship it was in the water, a few yards from the ship's side, and the burning petrol was darting its tongues in all directions over the sea. A few seconds later and the whole mess was well astern.

  Physically, Wind Rode had barely felt the impact of that critical escape. The Zero carried no bombs and its entry into the water did not disturb the ship's two thousand tons. But there was something heading for her which held a deliberate and much greater capacity for disturbance.

  The sound of falling bombs was not a sound-effects whistle, but a harsh sort of tearing noise. She was still swinging to starb'd, towards Scimitar. Then... one, two, three, four, five, six, the stalks of flung water erupted in succession from the sea close on her port side.

  Under the inertia of her turn she was heeled over to port, towards the explosion area. The force of the blast met her bilges, under the surface. It was so fierce, that it acted on her like resistance against the drop-keel of a yacht. She heeled even further to port. For the fraction of an unbearable second she remained clubbed over on her side, trembling and still, with an immobility more awful than the wildest motion.

  Then Bentley, hanging with both hands to the binnacle, shouted. The wheel came off her. The rudder moved fore and aft, then over in the opposite direction. Gratefully she felt the relief. She heaved her wave-washed flanks upright and drove on. She would need an almost full outfit of new crockery, but she was alive and under full control.

  "Four bombers left, sir," Ferris reported through the welcome silence of the cease-fire, "one heading to the north."

  They were temporarily safe, and Bentley's eyes trained round to check on that departing aircraft. The sky was still blue and smiling, and he picked up the smoke trail easily. It was already distant, and he knew it was caused by Scimitar's guns. Then Randall spoke, in a hard, curt tone, and no one on the bridge saw the smoke descend to meet the sea, nor the small, remote splash on the horizon which marked the bomber's grave.

  "Scimitar hit," Randall had said.

  In that moment of crisis, when they became aware that half of their defensive strength might have been denied them, it was understandable that every face should turn towards Scimitar. Every face except that of the signal-yeoman. His telescope was still trained on the quartet of bombers above them to the south.

  Bentley stared through his glasses and his brain was using every faculty of experience to tell him the extent of the destroyer's damage. Because of the smoke his eyes were drawn to her bridge. The smoke was not thick, nor was it very black there was little to burn there. But the even line of the wind-break was broken. Its edge was crumpled, like an empty water-tank subjected to heavy pressure.

  The bomb might have penetrated the bridge structure on her far side and blown upward. Or it might have landed right on the compass-platform. But she was still steaming fast, still holding a steady course. But then the cox'n could be responsible for that...

  His mind compassed these possibilities in a second. He had to know. Ferris's lamp was too low. Bentley reached forward and jerked out the microphone of the radio-telephone.

  "Scimitar. Are you badly hurt?"

  He stood braced against the ship's movement, the black instrument in his hand and his eyes on Scimitar, waiting. The next few seconds were so pregnant with cruel possibility that he was to remember them for a long time. It was quiet on the bridge, the silence barely disturbed by the drone of the distant bombers and the hiss of water down her sides. Over them wafted the heat and stench from the funnel, borne on the following wind; and up to them came the harsh bite of burnt cordite.

  Then the silence was broken. The voice was strained, but still vinegary:

  "No. Bomb exploded beside the bridge. You look after yourself. Out."

  Bentley leaned forward and slowly replaced the microphone. He was not sure whether Sainsbury's injunction had been benediction or testy instruction. But he was sure the old chap was still alive, and kicking. His grin at Randall was faint, and relieved. The next instant it was gone.

  "Bombers turning, sir," Ferris called.

 
They watched the ominous alteration of course for a moment, then Randall growled:

  "How many bloody bombs do those swine carry? I thought we'd had our full dose."

  Bentley shook his head slightly in negation. Not more than twelve bombs had been unloaded in the two runs, and those fully-equipped carriers up there would have cargoes to spare. A moment later they knew they had additional worries.

  It was radar this time, from the search aerial which had remained in contact with the main force now well to the south. The information from the voice-pipe was concise:

  "Three aircraft right ahead. Moving fast, towards. Probably fighters."

  So they've been stung, Bentley thought grimly. Not so much now a matter of strategy in sinking two enemy destroyers, but a more significant question of national prestige. Two bombers down, two fighters, with no visible damage to either destroyer. It looked like a long fight. They could not hope to shoot down every aircraft which came against them; but there was the other consideration that if they could hold out long enough, the leader of the main force might withdraw his detached units for the main objective to the south. Already a good deal of time had been wasted, and he would need every aircraft. There were more than two lonely destroyers down there to challenge him.

  These equations slipped through Bentley's consciousness while he was stretching forward to take up the microphone of the Sound Reproduction Equipment. His men had fought well and steadfastly, and now, with a brief respite allowed them while the rescuing fighters came up to join the bombers, was the time to give them a shot of confidence.

  "D'you hear there," his voice reached throughout the ship, "this is the captain. We have held them off so far - well done. Scimitar has been slightly damaged, but as you can see she is still very much with us. Her captain is also very much still on deck. Radar has contacted three more fighters sent back from the main force. Apparently the other didn't like what was dished out to them. I believe that if we can hold out long enough, the enemy leader will have to recall these pests in our vicinity. Also, I want you to know that a signal has been passed to the admiral. He knows what we're up against. There's the chance that he may not be able to send us any help right now. But I want you to remember that we've come through before without any outside help. We have a few minutes yet before the fighters get in position. Gun positions are to be cleared at once. Heave all empties over the side. We'll leave the gunner to explain his lack of cartridge cases to the armaments officer in Melbourne when we get back to Sydney."

  He paused, knowing there would be no hilarious laughter at his humour, but knowing also that his men would realise the situation was not so grim that the captain could not attempt his weak jokes.

  "One more thing," he went on, "fire-discipline. It is absolutely essential that the fighters are engaged efficiently while the main armament takes care of the bigger pests. Close-range weapons hold your fire until your targets are in maximum effective hitting range. Each time you open fire I want to see at least one little yellow bastard get his. That's all."

  Once again in precise formation, bow level with bow, but well apart, Wind Rode and Scimitar forced on to the south towards their base.

  Regulations required that all empty cylinder cartridges be stowed after use and returned to the first available armament store, which in Wind Rode's case would be Brisbane or Sydney. Those heavy brass containers were valuable, and they could be used over and over. But there was something more valuable at stake now.

  Bentley's decision had been wise. The guns had fired fast and continuously, and the area behind each mounting was cluttered with cylinders which rolled everywhere as the ship heeled. Some of them were still hot, but that did not deter willing hands. From the three mountings, as well as from pom-pom and oerlikon platforms, a cascade of brass poured over the ship's side. Shortly the loading areas were cleared.

  The ready use ammunition of the big guns had not been touched: their shells and cordite came up on hoists from the magazines below. But on the close-range weapons articulated belts of shells and magazines for the oerlikons were sent up swiftly, and stowed ready in the lockers.

  Before the fighters had joined their big brothers Wind Rode was in the same state of cleared readiness she had been an hour before, when the action commenced.

  There was little to do elsewhere. But though the guns had been fed, her men had not. Without orders, there issued from the galley great aluminium kettles filled with strong coffee, and mess-deck fannies crammed with sandwiches. Men at the guns gulped the scalding liquid and stuffed roast meat and bread in after it. They'd no breakfast, but they had not realised how hungry they were until they saw the food and drink being handed up to them.

  It was a quick meal. It had to be. The fighters were orbiting round the bombers, and it was not difficult to understand that the fast black specks were receiving their instructions - keep the upper-deck gunners down while we fly over and finish this business.

  No word had come from Scimitar. There was no need of instructions between those two battle-wise ships. Her windbreak was still oddly out of line, but the smoke had ceased. Distantly from Wind Rode's bridge they could see the white-capped heads of their comrades moving on the leader's.

  She made a splendid picture. At thirty knots the stem chiselled a graceful arch of white from the blue; it lifted in a watery curve up level with her gunnel, and dropped down again to meet the sea back near B-mounting, so fast was she moving. The arch was constantly renewed, as though its symmetry was a permanent part of her. From its point of re-entry, and from the wider bilges further aft, other ridges of white ran out in the same continuous birth and movement, until the appreciative eye was drawn right aft to the boiling at her stern. This propeller induced turmoil reached up close to the edge of the quarter-deck, and astern for miles over the sun-glittering blue - a frothing origin leading back to a wide long sword of smoothness. Halfway to the horizon the wind and sea began to win over this smooth wake, nibbling at the edges with small curling waves of intrusion. A mile further back the elements were completely victorious, and the sea stretched to the horizon, trackless.

  She was a beautiful thing, sailing in her element on a colourful ocean, and only the buckling of her bridge and the presence of the covey of vultures above her spoiled the picture.

  The thought brought Bentley back to harsh reality. Now as he looked at it, the sea was still colourful and friendly, bearing them back towards their base and safety; but the presence of his enemies reminded him that that same sea was also waiting to draw them down to deep death.

  The mental image troubled him. In the face of action he had never thought like this before. Normally his whole mind was engaged by professional considerations. Into it slipped the memory of his earlier thoughts about what Sainsbury had said. Because his mind was so edgy, tight with tension, he came straight to the point -was he wrong? In all the years of his success had he come to the point where he had acted with less judgment and accuracy of decision?

  Deliberately, he pushed his imaginings down. There was a time and place for introspection, and this was the time for inspection - of those separating black shapes pinned up there against the blue.

  "The fighters have broken off," Randall commented, his voice steady. "I'd say any minute from now." Bentley's hand stretched out.

  "Stand-by," he said into the microphone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WIND RODE AND SCIMITAR were projected into an action which in strain and savagery surpassed anything either ship had undergone before.

  They had been in bigger actions, with ten times the ships and aircraft engaged here. Here were two ships and eight aircraft. By world standards, a minor affair. But in those other fights each ship had been part of a large whole, units included in an overall and collective strategy of defence. There the enemy threat had been general, its fierceness dissipated over scores of ships.

  Here the threat was concentrated. Separated only by a distance wide enough to permit manoeuvring, the two destroyers were in e
ffect one unit subjected to the focused and determined intention of eight aircraft They had no help, they were miles from base. It was a private fight, with no Fleet to draw off attention and allow them respite. They were gladiators in a ring in a fight to the death, with no end-ofround bell.

  Aboard Wind Rode they waited for the first on-slaught to fall upon them, and they received it and beat it off and then they stumbled and scrabbled for foothold as the ship shuddered under the blast of bombs.

  They were seasoned fighting men and they had met the first attacks with experienced and forced calm, manning their weapons in a disciplined fashion. But then their calm had been bolstered by hope - hope that they would be merely attacked in passing, before the attackers flew on to rejoin the main body.

  Now they knew that they were to be sunk. Too much time had elapsed for the fighters and bombers above them to be of any use over the prime target. The Japs would stay there until either ammunition was exhausted or their target sunk. Wind Rode's men knew what they were in for.