J. E. MacDonnell - 030

by The Lesson(lit)

  Bentley grabbed the door handle and pulled the door half-shut behind him.

  "Don't bother about the gangway, sir," he said huskily. "I'll let you know about that dinner."

  "All right, my boy," came the strained voice through the opening, "try and make it soon."

  Then Bentley was outside in the glaring sunlight and jamming with pitying helplessness and frustration his cap upon his head.

  By the time he reached the funnel his brain was functioning normally. His analytical dissection of what he had seen and heard in the cabin was swift and decisive, brooking no argument in the certitude of its accuracy. The poor old boy was finished. He has the V.C., and the D.S.O. and Bar. He had been driven to the absolute end of his endurance. They had no right to keep him in command, of all things, a hard-fought destroyer. With what he'd gone through it would be bad enough if he were in a cruiser or carrier, where responsibility would be shared. For the whole of a savage war he'd driven destroyers. That was a young man's job. The dear old fellow had burned himself out. That last action was the final, breaking straw. It was unfair, cruelly unfair. Hadn't he done enough, for God's sake!

  At the gangway he barely noticed the salutes. He hurried across the lofty plank to the dock's side. Randall. Under that tough unimaginative exterior lay a well of commonsense. He had to talk this over with Bob Randall, shipmate and solid friend. Together they would decide what to do.

  He jumped into his waiting boat and he did not see the great, still screws nor the saving rudder. He saw only a pair of strained eyes. Watering, wet with broken-willed tears...

  The boat carved a furrow across the blue harbour. In his cabin, Captain Sainsbury leaned back against the desk. His face was almost white. He was breathing shallowly, his eyes closed, and his tongue came out to wet his lips. His hand was laid gently on his right breast.

  Slowly, with his mouth compressed into a straight thin line, the fingers loosened the shirt buttons. He pulled the shirt open, gingerly, and looked down. It was as he had expected after that crippling bend to the deck. The bandage was wide and thick, but not thick enough to stop the redness oozing through.

  He walked slowly and carefully to the door, and pulled it open. His messenger straightened from the passage wall, his eyes enquiring.

  "Ask the surgeon to come, please," said Captain Sainsbury.

  The sights and sounds of the busy harbour made no conscious impinging on Bentley's intelligence as the boat took him back. His brain was meshing smoothly, as it always did when confronted with a problem which required thought before decision.

  The action both ships had just fought had produced a more important result than the loss of several Japanese aircraft and the saving of two Allied warships. That fight, or the recent and apparent effect of it, had crystallised his mind on a subject which had given him thought over the past days. Natural sentiment regardless, he was sure now that he was right, and Sainsbury wrong.

  He was right to have jumped those two Jap destroyers, and Sainsbury in his rebuke was wrong - his judgment had been influenced by tiredness, and strain resulting in a caution of action which had no place in destroyer fighting. You saw them, you hit them. It was as simple and uncomplicated as that. Years ago, Sainsbury would have acted the same way. His present reluctance... no, it was not reluctance, it had not degenerated to that. His present prudence, or discretion, his safety-first tactics, resulted palpably from a will and a body driven to the edge of exhaustion.

  It was not his fault, Bentley reasoned; it was nowhere near his fault. You didn't win the right to wear a bronze Cross through the exercise of discretion... It was the system, the lack of ships, the fierceness of this whole bloody war which had brought a once-brilliant destroyer driver to his present state.

  Paradoxically, there was a brightness to his worry and misery. Now he could stop worrying about the correctness of his tactics. Now he could fight his ship as he had always handled her - hard and swift, knowing that the doubts Sainsbury had cast upon his methods had no foundation in reality.

  And now, with his own worries resolved, he was free to think about what should be done with the old chap. He thought of the admiral, he though of Navy Office; and the other thought slipped in, was rejected, and slipped in again. He despised himself for owning a character which would allow a thought like that to be born, let alone surface. The thought persisted.

  All right, he reasoned, almost aloud. Jump out, let's have a look at you, and then you can bloody well jump over the side!

  This was the insidious thought he examined. Scimitar and Wind Rode had been subjected to precisely the same number of attacks, by precisely the same number of aircraft. The attacks were the same, both ships were the same. But his ship had escaped almost untouched. His ship...

  The sternsheetman, coming aft to get his boathook, glanced casually at their august passenger. He was astonished to see a twisted expression of the most complete disgust on his captain's face. Automatically and apprenhensively the seaman ran his eyes over the stern-sheets. But he found no fouling scum polluting the boat. He took up his boathook, and the motorboat swept in alongside. The seaman would never know the reason nor the origin of his captain's expression.

  His face a disciplined mask, Bentley ran up the gangway and returned the salutes. Randall was there as well as the officer of the day, as Bentley knew he would be. The first-lieutenant was also anxious about the state of the old master's ship. He would, Bentley thought grimly, be a damned sight more anxious in a minute.

  "Cabin, Number One," he said curtly, and they walked off and the quarter-deck relaxed.

  There was that in Bentley's expression which held Randall from speaking as they walked along the iron-deck. In his cabin Bentley glanced at his watch. The sun was over the yardarm, but his gesture had been purely automatic - he wanted a drink, and he meant to have it, time regardless.

  "What'll you have?" he asked.

  "Same as the boss," Randall grinned. The smile did not reach his eyes.

  Bentley pressed the teat and when the steward came in he said: "Whisky. You can leave the bottle here."

  "Yes, sir."

  Randall sat down slowly. He made no comment on Bentley's choice. But he knew him better than he knew any man, and this was the first time in his experience that his friend had drunk anything but iced beer towards the end of a burning morning. Whisky had been reserved for the relaxation of the pre-dinner hour. Randall waited, curious, a little apprehensive.

  The whisky came, the steward departed, they murmured the conventional "Skoll," they drank. Randall put his glass down. He pretended not to notice the low level in Bentley's. But he had known this captain a long time. He said, levelly:

  "All right, let's have it. What's wrong?"

  Bentley took up his glass and swilled the amber liquid round with a slow movement of his hand. Then, without touching the drink, he put the glass back. His eyes stayed on the table.

  "He had tears in his eyes," he said simply.

  Randall's big body swung forward. For several seconds his stare was magnetised to Bentley's troubled face. Then he eased back in his chair.

  "Go on," he said, very quietly.

  Bentley told him. Randall moved only once, and that was when he gulped down half a tumbler of whisky. Still talking, Bentley automatically filled the glass. "There's no doubt about it," he finished the unhappy story, "the old feller's had it. He's ready to break. God, it was horrible...!"

  "It's bloody horrible that he's been driven to this!" Randall growled savagely. "I remember when he was..." He broke off, and clutched up his glass. "What in hell can we do? We've got to tell somebody about it. I don't give a damn about the ship! We've got to get him off there, fast!"

  Bentley nodded in reply, but it was a movement of only half-agreement.

  "We have," he conceded, "but not right now."

  "What!"

  "Now just hold on a minute. He's got a week, possibly more, in harbour. If we start shooting our heads off now about him he certainly won't t
hank us! Give him time to recover a bit. Damn it all, he only got in this morning! What if the admiral were to go aboard and see him like he is?"

  You're right, as usual, Randall thought. He said: "Okay, then. But if we wait too long he might recover enough to believe that he's really all right. He could take her out and God knows what might happen in the next attack. Surely you agree that it's better for him to be taken off her here, in harbour, than to break while he's in command at sea!"

  This time Bentley's nod was definite.

  "No argument there." He was thoughtful. Randall's presence and reaction had stimulated his own mental processes. "How about this? I'll give him a day or two, to get hold of himself, then instead of talking to anybody else, I'll go and see him myself."

  "Good!" Randall reacted at once. "He knows you, he'll respect your judgment."

  "And intentions, I hope," Bentley said worriedly. He had suddenly realised that though the idea seemed sound it would be far from easy to implement.

  "What's up now?" asked Randall.

  Bentley gave a short grunting sort of laugh.

  "Funny thing," he said, and his glance flicked briefly up at his friend, "but I feel like a schoolboy advising his master. He's years older than I am, and I've got to go over there and tell him that he's finished. Any other captain but Sainsbury would heave me out of his cabin."

  "Maybe, maybe. But you're not a pupil any more, y'know. There are a few bods aboard here who reckon you've reached master's rank yourself. Damn it all, Peter, it's not the sub-lieutenant going over there. You've got a command yourself. I've never known you," he ended wrily, "to forget that fact before."

  Bentley looked at him. Burned, nuggety face, honest blue eyes and nature as dependable as the compass. And unimaginative...

  "I suppose you're right," he finished the discussion. He could not tell even Sainsbury how he felt about him. There were some things locked deep in privacy.

  "When will you do it?"

  `The day after tomorrow. A couple of nights' rest will do him

  good. How are the oerlikons coming along?"

  Randall began talking. The two philanthropic plotters picked up their third drink.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE JAPS AFTER THEIR MAULING left the harbour alone for several days.

  It was hot and peaceful under the tropic sun. Moored all over the blue polish of the harbour, the grey ships at anchor floated in complete stillness on the unruffled water. Against the backdrop of jungle green hills their masts rose in slender and steely tracery, a complementary forest which, instead of leaves, sprouted radar aerials and signal halliards and fighting lights on yards.

  The reef-bound harbour held a great weight of metal. Anchored well in lay the battleships and carriers, ponderous units of power and destruction. Then came the heavy, but more graceful cruisers, most of them almost as fast as destroyers, mounting eight-inch guns as well as torpedo tubes. Nearest the exit were anchored the destroyers.

  The greyhounds were there for two reasons. They could get to sea twice as fast as the big ships, and whenever the Fleet sailed they had to be out first, to conduct a preliminary sweep for interested sub-surface observers.

  The harbour was not attacked, but it was not idle. Every hour almost would see destroyers or a brace of cruisers slipping out on some offensive or convoy business. A few days later they returned, as quietly and unheralded as they had left, and sometimes from Wind Rode's decks they could see a funnel leaning drunkenly, or an area of superstructure blackened. And once a cruiser came through the reef, listed so that they could see the whole of her high upper-deck. The torpedo hole which had caused the list was invisible under water. Hurt, and defiant, the cruiser moved slowly past them towards the dock.

  The Battle Fleet sailed one day, leaving the harbour looking strangely empty. It returned the next day, apparently undamaged, and they were secretly glad to see the great ships and their attendants back. The word got around that the battlers had been after a big prize, but had sighted only a few enemy aircraft, which had thought better of tackling the imposing mass.

  That "big prize" was a fairly constant topic of discussion. A Navy is rife with rumours, but sometimes a buzz is based on fact. This one was. No one except the Admiral and his staff knew for certain, but it was generally accepted among the minions that somewhere, a Japanese Battle Fleet was out.

  The rumour was easy to believe. The Jap Navy was in considerable strength all about them - the Indies and the Philippines to the west. Truk and Yap and Saipan Islands to the north, the Gilberts and Tarawa Island to the east. Sooner or later it could be expected to react violently towards this American prong of advance. The last bombing raid would have given the enemy precise information regarding American naval strength in the harbour, and though none of the sailors now waiting there knew for certain the whereabouts of a large Jap force, they had no doubt whatever that it existed, and no doubt of its intention.

  One thing was sure. They would know in good, or bad, time.

  Their first day in harbour, and the first all-night-in in their hammocks, Wind Rode's men enjoyed with thankful completeness. It was not often that they had an undisturbed night, and with such a comforting mass of metal all about them.

  They woke refreshed the next morning and they went about their work with an unusual absence of griping. The American workmen were handling her damage, and the crew were confined to their normal chores.

  Some washed salt from her paintwork, some chipped rust, others scrubbed out the mess-decks; gun-sweepers greased the breechblocks, the gunner's party restowed the magazines, the gunner himself was busy bringing his ledger up to date. In this large book was entered every article of gunnery equipment she carried, and every shell and cordite cartridge and bullet. Also entered was the ammunition she had received on board yesterday.

  The navigator's yeoman corrected the charts with the latest information received on reefs and lights. The former was extensive, the latter meagre. Ships, merchant and naval, were sailing now in waters which before the war they would have avoided like the plague. The reefs had reaped a steely harvest. All guiding lights, on the other hand, had been extinguished for the duration. This made the yeoman's task easier and the harvest richer.

  Torpedomen had hauled back their long, shining charges to check the intricate machinery which could send them over miles of sea at thirty-five knots and at any depth. Depth-charge crews examined their hoisting tackles and the firing gear of the throwers. Radar and asdic operators went over their equipment with devoted care. And over all the seamanlike bustle on her upper-decks, Hooky Walker, chief bosun's mate, presided with an experienced and careful eye.

  He talked idly to captains of tops and he tested as he talked the lashings on wooden spars. If the ship were to sink, those spars could be turned into swift spears rising to meet swimmers in the water. He watched the whaler being painted and he bent down and pulled out the pin of a guard-rail stanchion. Greased, it came out easily, as it should have.

  Hooky cast an apparently casual glance at the shackles securing the end of the iron-deck guard-rails. He saw that the pins were moused in with wire; a man standing on that top rail would not be suddenly projected into the sea. He looked at the motor-cutter's falls and he decided that they would last for another month before requiring end-for-ending. This would place the unused part of the falls through the blocks, and give the present working ends a rest.

  But all this was routine. All these tasks were carried out whenever she had a spell in harbour. As that second day at anchor drew to its working close, as the time approached when normally leave would be piped and two-thirds of the ship's company could step ashore, Wind Rode's men, subconsciously anticipating the delights of shore, realised that there was nothing for them among the hills of this outpost.

  They could have gone swimming, they could have arranged a cricket or football match with Scimitar's men, Equatorial weather regardless, or they might have taken a brisk and beneficial walk along the wharves and thro
ugh the Quonset huts which crawled over the hills.

  Sailors are by regulations supposed to be afforded ample time for recreational and physical benefits when in harbour. Captains like to see their men busy at some form of sport ashore in their leave periods. Unfortunately, captains' and sailors' likes rarely coincide. Wind Rode's men wanted to go ashore. But they did not want in the slightest to play cricket or football or indulge in meditative strolls through the jungle. They wanted to lubricate their tonsils in a cool, rowdy bar, they desired to roll out of that bar and into the arms of an understanding and obliging popsy, they dearly wished to get their exercise in a completely unregulation fashion.

  Here, in Manus harbour, a few degrees south of the Equator, they could do none of those things. So they remained on board. And they began to gripe.

  Not extensively at first; not nearly as comprehensively as they were capable of. But as the hot night drew on, and the time approached for them to do nothing but return to their stuffy hammocks, they forgot with what eagerness they had done just that the night before.