J. E. MacDonnell - 030

by The Lesson(lit)

  They had jumped the Japs and they had suffered no damage whatever. Five of them took off after the fleeing bombers, and the remaining aircraft flew round Wind Rode, low, and for him, slow.

  "God bless the admiral!" someone said on the bridge. No one answered him. They were watching the Lightning. There he came, swiftly graceful, a helmeted knight of the sky. As he came level with the bridge a gloved hand was raised, and plainly they saw the thumbs-up benediction. His greeting was not par-simoniously acknowledged.

  Bentley brought her in close alongside Scimitar, but with his lookouts and his asdic alert. All sorts of undesirable maggots may have been put on to this possible feast by the Jap aircraft. Relief had them now fully in its enervating grip and they felt almost listless, a condition only slightly alleviated by the Lightning's news that the enemy attack had been beaten off with damaging losses, thanks to the timely warning from the destroyers. Wind Rode's men were too close yet to their own ordeal to be influenced by a success miles to the south.

  Yet the captain could not afford the luxury of listlessness. They were still deep enough in the wood, and the enemy formation, what was left of it, might pass over them on its way home. Bentley had slipped from the bridge and in his cabin treated himself to a stiff brandy. Combined with his natural resilience, the spirit helped him back to the alertness of normalcy. He could see Sainsbury's thin figure behind the binnacle. The sight bucked him. Through the R/T he spoke almost cheerfully:

  "How are you holding?"

  "Tolerably well," the acerbic voice came back, "forepart is holding a good deal of water but the bulkheads are staunch." Bentley's lips twitched at the old-fashioned word. "I shall put a collision mat over if you'll be good enough to watch out for submarines."

  "Wilco," Bentley obeyed. "Our Lightning friend will stay with us for as long as he can, also his friends when they get back. We'll make it."

  Once again his cheerful prognostication went un-answered. Captain Sainsbury was busy giving orders. Scimitar was stopped now, a sitting duck. Bentley took his ship round her as fast as he could relative to his asdic's efficient operation, about a mile clear. His asdic gave him another mile towards the horizon, so that Scimitar was fairly safe within a circle of two-mile radius.

  Nevertheless, Bentley watched the weather and the time anxiously. Luckily wind and waves were still astern, and so long as they remained there Scimitar could make more speed with the heavy collision mat pressed in against her wound and pumps keeping the water down. But it took him some time to complete the circle, and an interested submarine could easily slip in and deliver its messengers before he could get in position to stop her.

  But neither submarines nor aircraft came to interfere with the evolution hurrying along on Scimitar's foc's'le. Watching as he came up her port side, Bentley mused on the value of continuous drill. An undrilled team would have taken three times as long to get that big mat over the side on its steel chain.

  The train of thought led him naturally to remember how he had privately objected to Sainsbury's insistence on drill when they left Sydney. He pulled himself up sharply - too sharply. His men had just fought their guts out; it was disloyal and unfair to think that they could have done with practice drill. Collision mats? They could have had one over the side in a trice, equally as fast as Scimitar's men...

  The foc's'le cleared except for an officer and the chief bosun's mate who would watch the mat for the first few minutes of its tests. Sainsbury's voice pitched from the speaker.

  "I am about to proceed at ten knots. Take station my port beam. Course 185. From now on wireless silence will be observed. Over."

  The tone was curt, authoritative. In any case, Bentley could hardly commend his senior officer in public on an efficient evolution.

  "Roger," he answered, and replaced the microphone.

  By the time he had taken station, Scimitar's stem was carving a thin bow-wave. No further comment or information came from Sainsbury, and Bentley assumed the mat was doing its designed job. At ten knots, in line abreast, cripple and protector moved off to the south. The men of both ships were worried, but they were spared the realisation of their fears.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THEY CAME IN through the entrance to Manus harbour early the next morning.

  The opening was bounded on either side by low coral banks. Once, not long before, those banks had been beautiful, lush with green growth and topped with traditionally graceful palm trees. But the recapturing American Fleet had altered all that. Now the undergrowth was seared, and the palm trees reduced to shredded trunks under the deluge of shells which had poured against the harbour.

  There was other, more recent indication of explosive violence. A tank-landing ship was aground to their left, stern-first, so that its open mouth hung slackly in the water. The grey paint on its sides and super-structure was scorched into great bubbles.

  They moved slowly in and Randall pointed, wordlessly. It was an eight-inch cruiser, and its stern was very close to the scummy water. Along-side it tugs and other small vessels were moored, and from one they could see black water being pumped. A heavy bomb or torpedo smack on the stern was their unspoken and collective diagnosis.

  There was other damage - a wharfside shed was still burning but it seemed the harbour and the Fleet had got off lightly. They knew why, but it was nice to see their knowledge vindicated.

  "Flagship signalling, sir," Ferris reported, and a moment later he read out the message - the yeoman had a habit of doing that when the news was pleasant.

  "Welcome home," the admiral said, "nice job of reporting. Consider yourselves my permanent scouts." Bentley thought of two or three replies in the same relieved and jocular vein. But he was junior ship. It was up to Sainsbury. He read the senior ship's reply himself. It was brief, and it was typical.

  "Thank you," Sainsbury replied.

  A glance flicked between Bentley and Randall.

  "Fair enough," the big lieutenant grunted, "if I'd had my bridge buckled and my bow blown open..."

  "Coming on the bearing, sir," Pilot warned them, and Bentley forgot acid experienced natures and busied himself with bringing the ship to her anchor. Scimitar moved slowly on towards the floating dock. It was capable of taking a battleship.

  Wind Rode's damage was relatively minor. Bentley had had experience before of American get-up-and-go, and he was not surprised at the facility with which his funnel was restored and the damaged oerlikons plucked out and replaced with brand-new guns. An hour after he'd anchored, with everything well under control, he stepped into the motorboat and was taken to the dock.

  Sainsbury had not sent for him. In earlier times, when they had shipped or sailed together, Bentley would have felt no qualms whatever about his mentor. But lately there had been in Bentley's mind an altered impression of Sainsbury, and adjectivally that feeling was composed of the words old... cautious... tired. The old chap had been through a bad time. Bentley wanted to see him.

  He disembarked at the stern end of the huge dock, in which the naked body of Scimitar lay cradled like a toy boat in an empty bathtub. Above him as he walked along the wet steel floor were the two screws and the rudder. He knew - he had for years devoted himself to knowing - the precise potentialities of those instruments of propulsion and control. Yet involuntarily he stopped, and his eyes moved with appreciation over the destroyer's stern equipment.

  Nearest him, the starb'd screw was large, bigger than those of many 15,000-ton merchantmen the 2000-ton destroyer had escorted. Its four blades were of tough phosphor bronze, and the sunlight gleamed dully on the powerful pitch of the clover-leaves. Even stilled, clear of the water they had known so long, the blades shouted to a seaman's eye their tremendous gripping strength.

  The shaft which spun the propeller and drove Scimitar's tonnage at more than forty miles per hour was solid metal, as thick as his thigh. It was supported by its strong A-bracket a short distance from where it disappeared through a water-tight gland into the hull. From there it ran to the
reduction-gearing, and beyond that was the turbine.

  Whenever his own ship was in dock, Bentley sneaked down to look at her revealed symmetry, under the pretext of an official inspection. Now, yesterday's violence was still vividly in his memory, and he stared up at the rudder with un-mechanical but absorbed interest.

  How many times yesterday morning had he ordered the mate to that rectangle of metal to be swung hardover? Every time it had swung, and every time its designed function had been performed and had saved the ship.

  It looked simple enough, just a steel face secured to a thick metal rod which ran up into the tiller flat inside the hull. But Bentley knew that its reducing thickness and its size and position had been meticulously calculated to give the maximum effect in the shortest time. Perhaps the position was most important of all. The rudder was sited, and the hull was designed, so that the rushing water at thirty knots could find easy access to its angled face: just ahead of the rudder the hull sloped upwards to allow this. There was also the consideration of the rudder relative to the screws. This had been worked out to a fine degree of perfection, so that the fierce back-thrust of water from the eight big blades would effectively beat against the rudder.

  No wonder that she swung like a cat at high speeds, that a destroyer never needed a tug when coming alongside. No wonder, he thought, that we missed those bombs.

  He looked about him. He caught himself in that surreptitious act. He grinned, a twisted malforming of his mouth, and he dropped his hand to his side. He had been about to reach up and pat the lower blade of the starb'd screw.

  A man's in his dotage, he thought, quite without convincing himself. Even as he derided his sentimentality, he knew that he was standing on the bottom of this dock, unharmed and alive, directly because of the designed efficiency of a pair of screws and a rudder-face. He moved with purposeful steps towards the stairway which led to the top of the dock, and the gangway.

  He had almost reached the stairs when he remembered that though Scimitar was whole and healthy down aft, it was a different condition up forrard. He changed direction, and a moment later was standing under the bow.

  The dock had not long before been pumped to the surface, and workmen had not yet started on her damage. He approached from the starb'd, the whole, side. He looked up, and he caught his breath at the perfect beauty of that line of slim stem and flaring bow which reached high above him. Then he crossed round the bow and saw what had happened to her.

  Even to a war-experienced mind the contrast between smooth symmetry of design on the one side, and the savaging on the other, came as a shock. It was like seeing a beautiful woman, all grace one moment, and the next cruelly injured. He stared at the gaping hole, its edges jagged and punched inwards, the once-clean grey paint now scabrous, and shock gave place to anger. It was a terrible thing that a craft as graceful as this one should have been subjected to such barbaric injury.

  Once again he hauled himself down to earth from his flights of sentimental fancy. He had caused some injury himself. Those bombers and fighters had been graceful machines also, and now they were lying on the dark bottom of the Pacific, torn to pieces. Which only went to prove the insensate stupidity of the cause of all this - war itself.

  Quickly, deliberately, this warship captain veered from that line of thought. He returned the salute of two asdic-operators who had come down to examine their dome, and then he walked directly back to the stairway.

  His visit was unexpected, and the officer of the day had barely time to muster up one bosun's pipe to welcome him on board. Bentley declined his offer of assistance and walked forward by himself.

  Passing the pom-pom he stared up at the mounting with what was now a wholly professional interest. In any case, the blackened ruin on top of the platform did not lend itself to sentimentality. From his own experience of exploding ready-use ammunition he was sure that every man of the pom-pom's crew had died. That gun would have been, before they died, a private and unendurable hell.

  His face grim, he climbed the ladder, turned into the narrow: passageway, and knocked on the door at its end.

  "Come," invited Sainsbury's voice.

  Bentley opened the door. Sainsbury was at his desk facing the door. He looked up at his visitor. Bentley's foot was raised to clean the coaming. It came down and met the deck of the cabin, and there it halted. For perhaps five seconds Bentley remained immobile, staring at his old friend's face. Then Sainsbury pushed his chair back and stood up.

  "Good morning, Peter. This is a nice surprise. You may come in, you know."

  Bentley recovered his shocked wits. He moved on in and took the chair Sainsbury indicated. The older captain sat down again.

  "I... thought I'd come over and see how things were," Bentley said huskily. Sainsbury nodded, and lowered his eyes while he shuffled a sheaf of papers before pushing them to one side. Bentley was free to study his face.

  He seemed uninjured - he had risen easily enough. That length of sticking plaster on his forehead obviously hid nothing but a graze, a flesh wound. But his face... The expression was strained, the skin carved into channels of worry. Bentley had expected that. He had seen younger commanders more physically affected after a gruelling action. It was the colour of Sainsbury's face which rivetted his attention and his concern. The skin, normally and naturally sunburned, was now a sickly grey - a pallid diffusion which must have originated from some tremendous strain to force its discolouration up through that tough patina laid on by wind and sun.

  Sainsbury looked up. Bentley hoped he covered his feelings in time.

  "You've had a look at her?" Bentley nodded.

  "We came out of it rather lightly, don't you think?" Bentley looked straight into the tired eyes.

  "Yes," he lied.

  "These chaps here work quite swiftly. I should say not much more than a week before we're at sea again. The admiral seems to have taken quite an interest in his - ah - permanent scouts. The base engineer has been on board and he tells me we're to receive top priority. Damned nice of them."

  "Yes," Bentley said again. It was all he could say. He wanted to talk, about anything, so that his friend would not notice the commiseration which he felt was naked in his eyes and face. But all he could think of was - Sainsbury's obvious eagerness to get to sea again. The will was still oaken, but that sort of intangible strength was not of any use when allied to an old, exhausted body.

  "Your damage, now. You made no mention of it, so I assume it is minor?"

  Even through his shocked concern Bentley recognised the incongruity of the restrained words and the pendantic tone. His damage was minor, but not through any fault or intention of the vultures they had battled against for so long. He nodded.

  "A few holes in the funnel, two oerlikon out of action. I shouldn't be surprised if she's not completely whole by the time I get back. As you say - they work fast."

  "Good. Then you'll be able to enjoy your rest. From a... private message the admiral sent me," he answered Bentley's querying look, "I understand that he intends to keep us together as much as he can. You will wait for me."

  Sainsbury looked down at the desk, and his eyes blinked. He was still looking down when he said, in a soft voice that Bentley had never heard him use before:

  "I'm rather glad about that. About our staying together, I mean. You and your ship fought quite well out there."

  Shock compounded on shock. My God, Bentley thought, the old chaps about to break...

  Quickly he stood up. Sainsbury glanced up in mild surprise, then he rose too.

  "Well," Bentley said in a tone meant to be hearty, "now that I know everything's under control I'd better be getting back. These Americans are smart boys, but they mightn't take to young Randall being on their backs. He takes his gunnery-officer title pretty seriously. Well, sir..."

  Sainsbury nodded. Bentley's hand went out to his cap on the desk. He was still looking at that grey face and his nervous hand, sweeping towards the cap, knocked it off the desk on to the deck
at Sainsbury's feet. Automatically, the captain bent to pick it up.

  It was a natural gesture, and it engendered no implications in Bentley's mind. That was too full of what he had heard and seen. So that he did not see Sainsbury's face twitch, nor did he notice that as he was bent over the older man remained there for a second or two.

  Then Sainsbury came upright and Bentley took his cap.

  - J.E. Macdonnell: The Lesson Page 80 -

  "Thanks," he murmured, "maybe I can return that dinner invitation...

  His voice died as abrupty as though a hand had been clamped over his mouth. His eyes swung away and trained blankly on the bulkhead wall. They came back, and they flicked off again. He turned, bemused, for the door. The eyes of Captain Sainsbury were watering.