J. E. MacDonnell - 030

by The Lesson(lit)

  "Stand-by," Bentley said. She ran in again.

  It was an unfair fight, with the outcome inevitable, and they enjoyed it immensely. There was only a fraction of her ship's company engaged in the vicious attacks, so that the gunners who had withstood those bombers and fighters were able to put their feet on the guardrails and worry about nothing but the result of their bets on which pattern would get her.

  It was the third pattern, and Leading-seaman Billson, in charge of the pom-pom, won three pounds ten for his accurate prediction on the time of death of seventy Japanese sailors.

  Even then, with victory certain, one of the depth-charge crew was heard to whinge. Not at his loss of five bob, but at the fact that they'd had to throw over twelve charges, which meant twelve charges requiring hoisting inboard when they got back to base...

  To no one's surprise on the bridge, it was Ferris who first reported:

  "Submarine surfacing, sir."

  Every glass swung on to the bearing. They thought the infallible yeoman had erred, until through the slight moiling on the water which he had noticed there speared a black, sharp bow. It emerged at an acute angle; well out, so that water poured back from the eye-sockets of the torpedo tubes. Then the bow lowered and a moment later the fore-casing, and then the bridge came into streaming view.

  Leading-seaman Billson's pleasure at his win affected his sense of duty not in the slightest. He bellowed his orders and the first three men out of the conning-tower were met by a lashing swathe of two-pounder shells. One man was flung abruptly backwards out of sight as several shells hit him in the chest. Another simply dropped down. The third had been about to climb over the bridge and jump into the sea, urged by some dreadful private knowledge on the state of his boat. The pom-pom's welcome smashed into the steel directly below him and ricocheted upwards. He slumped forward, and his two arms hung lifelessly down from the jack-knife of his body across the edge of the bridge. Once or twice his body jerked, but it was not from some spasm of life but from the entry of more shells. the pom-pom ceased firing. It waited.

  There were no further targets. She must have been opened fore and aft, for she sank back on almost a level keel. Slowly, not under control, and from where the invisible bow and stern were they could see the spouts of water as the pressured sea forced in and urged the life-giving air out.

  Wind Rode's speed had slowed. She circled the patch of disturbed water, and Randall cared nothing for the scum of fuel-oil which was lapping against his clean grey sides. It would be a pleasant task to wash it off. She had almost completed the circle when asdic reported: "Breaking-up sounds."

  "Quite definite?" Bentley asked, in a pleasant tone.

  "Yes, sir. Loud and clear. She's finished."

  He glanced at Randall, and controlled his own grin - in face of the wide and exultant smile splitting the tough burned face. It had been a text-book attack, carried out successfully in a minimum of time and with an economical expenditure of ammunition. The oil fouling the surface might not be conclusive - a cunning commander could have discharged it deliberately - but those breaking-up noises were. The submarine would now be at several hundred feet. The pressure of water at that depth would be enormous. And that pressure was inside the hull, ripping at her fittings, smashing and flattening them. No commander could duplicate those pleasant sounds... Ferris called:

  "From Scimitar, sir: `Close me."'

  "Continue asdic sweep," Bentley ordered; that depth-charging would have been audible for miles, and the late-departed Jap could have friends. "Port twenty. Take her over, Pilot."

  Randall said in a low voice:

  "This should've pleased him. And no strain." Bentley answered with a curt nod. Low tone or not, he did not want Sainsbury discussed on the bridge. Randall moved from the platform to give Pilot room and Bentley's thoughts moved on: It should have pleased him. And no strain. This might help to bolster the old chap. Maybe if he returned to a more rational state, then he could consider more soberly and sympathetically the suggestion that he should take a rest. Obviously Sainsbury wanted to talk to him by loud-hailer. He would soon know if the successful action had affected him favourably.

  Scimitar was now quite close and Bentley took over. She was moving fast, he noticed. Sainsbury, also, was aware of the possibility of other submarines in the sea.

  He brought her in carefully, a hundred yards clear. Then, with both ships thrashing along side by side, he took up the microphone of the loud-hailer. His voice was friendly.

  "Did you hear those breaking-up noises, sir? We had them loud and clear. A good deal of oil as well. A definite kill, sir."

  "More than one kill, Commander Bentley," the tart reply came back.

  "I beg your parden, sir?",

  "More than one kill. At least three men died under your pompom."

  Bentley was so astonished that he turned to stare at Randall. He got no help from that puzzled face. He turned back to Scimitar's bridge.

  "That is so, sir," still not sure if he were being castigated. "I thought the pom-pom was handled well. It was accurate shooting at that range."

  "You seem to miss my point, Commander Bentley. There was no need to kill those men. They were obviously heading for the water."

  Be damned! Bentley almost snarled into the microphone. He said:

  "They could have been heading for her four-inch gun, sir."

  "Rubbish! A gun-crew would have emerged from the gun-hatch in rear of the gun. Those men were trying to escape. If your pompom's crew had acted in a more controlled manner we would have had three valuable prisoners on board!"

  Bentley was not concerned about his public admonishing. His mind was concentrated on the recognition, at least this time, the old fellow was right. Correct in every detail of his judgment. He himself had been so flushed with his victory that the pom-pom's opening fire had seemed to be a natural finishing of the main task performed by the depth-charges.

  "Yes, sir," he said, quietly.

  "I suggest a little more thought before action in future. Take station one mile my port beam. We will continue asdic search to the east-ward. Over."

  "Roger, sir," Bentley answered, and handed the microphone to Ferris. He walked back to the binnacle. There were six other men on the bridge, and every pair of eyes was averted from the discomfiture in his face.

  "Port twenty," Bentley ordered in a tight voice, "two-five-oh revolutions."

  She heeled away like a swallow and at her superior speed took station a mile to port. Then she eased to Scimitar's revolutions. Both ships moved on across the white-flashed blue, asdic sets searching. Bentley remained on the bridge. His thoughts were not pleasant.

  Cocky, Sainsbury had called him. Be damned to that! Couldn't a man enjoy his success? He had killed an enemy submarine: he had killed it! And three men had died on a submarine's bridge. Which was the greater - the success or the error?

  Was it possible that Sainsbury could be jealous? Of course not, that was ridiculous! He had sent him in to the attack, had himself given the junior officer the chance of the kill. In any case, jealousy would be as foreign to Sainsbury's nature as incest. He was exhausted, yes, ready for a long rest, but his nature had not changed.

  But... He had sent the junior ship in. That, now Bentley came to consider it, was unusual. Not impractical, nor impossible; unusual. Normally, the senior officer carried out an attack of that nature. He was supposed to be the more skilful. Normally a senior officer grabbed the chance to increase his tally of submarine kills, especially when, as in this case, the outcome was so close to certainty.

  Why? Had Sainsbury felt that the added concentration of handling an attacking ship would adversely affect him? Had he feared that in his state he might have failed? and that the junior ship would have had to take over and clinch the kill?

  Slowly, Bentley nodded to himself. He did not see Pilot watching him covertly and curiously from beside the chart table. That was it. It must be the answer. And the solution was not pleasant. But at least it brought
him surcease from his concern over Sainsbury's charge of cockiness. That charge had been made by a man not in full command of his faculties of judgment and analysis. His thoughts returned full circle. Cocky? If a man was cocky because he got a hell of a kick out of finding and tracking and destroying an enemy submarine on its way to reconnoitre an important Allied naval base, then, damn it all, he was cocky!

  "Sea-cabin, Pilot," he called.

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  On his way to the ladder he automatically listened to the ping of the asdic speaker. The sound pulse was regular - and unaccompanied. He was sure in his own mind that the Jap submarine had been alone. Maybe Sainsbury would waste no more than another hour on this pointless search. His feet clattered down the ladder and Pilot had the ship.

  Three hours later, with the sun lowering behind them, Bentley was back on the bridge and Sainsbury was still on the search. In that time they had altered to the north, they had turned to the south, always side by side, sweeping a path three miles wide. And they had found nothing.

  There had been no signals from Scimitar. So far as Bentley knew the pointless search would go on all night. He swayed to the ship's movement behind the binnacle and he tried to reason dispassionately on what was exercising Sainsbury's mind to make him continue. Certainly their destroying the submarine had been important - its intention had been obvious. Just as certainly, he might have had friends in company, also with the same spying object. It was a commander's plain duty to ensure that no other subsurface spies were about in the eastern approaches to the base.

  Up to that point he had no quarrel with his leader's tactics. But they had been searching for close on four hours now. They had covered miles of sea. They were way behind in the schedule of their patrol. While they mucked about here other objects of their search might be steaming undetected further to the east. He thought of signalling Scimitar, suggesting that the search for submarines, having proved fruitless, might be called off. Normally he would have done this. Now he dismissed the thought and his eyes caught Randall's, who was officer of the watch. The lieutenant came over.

  "Happy in the Service?" Randall grinned slightly.

  "No," his captain answered shortly. The signal-man and bosun's mate were talking quietly on the far side of the bridge. Randall said:

  "What's he up to? We'd have a better chance of a contact near the South Pole."

  "Damned if I know. Unless he's got some private information that there are other subs about. If he has, he hasn't passed it on to me."

  "Which means he hasn't any extra dope. Ah - how d'you feel about that public rocket?"

  "He was right. We should have taken those prisoners.

  Now that took some admitting, Randall thought. He said:

  "Maybe he's right to keep on with the search?" Bentley turned to face him. His voice was low and vehement.

  "Look, Bob, just because he turns out right in some minor detail doesn't mean that I throw all my judgment and opinions over the side! That Jap had no friends. There's nothing here. I know it, you know it. We've quartered half the ruddy Pacific! We should be patrolling a hundred miles further east by now. That's what I think. But don't for God's sake ask me what he's thinking!"

  Randall turned from that hard face and stared out over the bow.

  "Don't let it get you down," he muttered. "We know what's wrong with him. But if you let it worry you like this in half a dog-watch you be the same way. There's enough to contend with without bashing your brains out on something you can't do a thing about. Take it easy, Peter, slow down."

  Bentley took two slow breaths. His fingers tapped softly at the compass ring.

  "You're right, of course. I felt damned nasty about that drill order this morning. A feeling like that could be passed on to the ship's company." His fingers ended their tapping with a sharp thump. "But this thing's got to be ended one way or the other. And bloody soon!"

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SEARCH, If not Bentley's problem, was ended an hour later.

  He had closed-up the ship for dusk action-stations, and while he listened to the familiar reports coming in he came to the conclusion that Sainsbury's maintaining of the asdic sweep was due to his abnormal sense of caution. It was the only reason he could advance. In reaching his decision, which gave him no relief of mind, he forgot that he himself had once searched for a submarine for many hours longer than this. Even if the memory had occurred to him, he would have justified his earlier actions by the fact that then he had suspected the presence of a U-boat. And he had found it.

  But here, patently, the sea was guiltless. He was about to fall-out action-stations when the signal flashed across.

  "Negative asdic search. Take station two cables astern. Course 180, speed fifteen knots."

  Thank the Lord for that, Bentley thought, and gave his orders.

  In line astern, one behind the other in cruising formation, both destroyers moved off to the south, and into the darkening night. All through the starlit blackness they steamed, with nothing to disturb the rest of men off watch. Dawn came, stealing light-footed over a quiet grey sea, and by the time they went below to breakfast Wind Rode was running for base in a straight line, under a blue sky and upon the plain of a blue sea.

  Still one behind the other, both ships sailed into the harbour they had left two days and one submarine ago. The harbour looked the same, yet there was a subtle difference in the atmosphere. The great ships no longer looked at peace - lighters lay alongside the battleships and carriers, and no awnings sheltered their decks. All over the harbour small craft scurried, some with stores, others wearing the red flag of ammunition carriers. The signal was sent which informed the Admiral that a Jap submarine had been detected and sunk one hundred and twenty miles from his doorstep, but it returned nothing but a formal acknowledgement.

  "Something's up," Randall muttered as the cable-party secured the cable on the foc's'le. "Something bloody big!"

  Bentley's silence was his agreement. He looked out over the mass of ships, and everywhere to a seaman's eye was apparent the fact that the Fleet would shortly be sailing. And there, came their own oil-lighter.

  "Tell the engineer," he ordered, nodding at the lighter. "And tell him to smack it about."

  He went down to his cabin to shower and change into fresh khaki. There was little for him to do - the provisioning and oiling were in the proper, efficient hands. He was buttoning up his shirt when Ferris knocked and came in.

  "From Scimitar, sir," the yeoman said, and handed the signal to him.

  Frowning a little, Bentley took the message. His frown deepened. Captain Sainsbury required his presence on board at the earliest convenience; which meant at once.

  He was expected this time. The officer of the day, the quartermaster, the bosun's mate waited for him, and as he returned their salutes he noted the curious looks directed at him from men standing to attention. He recognised the reason. It was not a visiting captain they were interested in, one who had sunk a submarine, but one who in their hearing had been handed a large-size rocket by their own quite proficient sub-killer.

  Understanding of this did not anger him. He had no idea why he was required here, but if it meant further reprimand he had made up his mind to take it calmly and without rancour. Randall's advice had sunk home. They were dealing with a sick man. He did not intend to forget that.

  Nor was he fooled when a very healthy-looking captain rose from behind his desk and bade him a formal good-morning. The first prolonged strain would reduce Sainsbury to his former state. Bentley remembered how he had looked, and for a brief moment he wondered how he could have felt angered at a rebuke from a man deserving only of pity and understanding.

  He returned a respectful "Good morning, sir," and sat down. Sainsbury wasted no time. His voice and his expression were normally starchy.

  "We have only a couple of hours, commander. Your fuelling and ammunitioning is under way, I presume?"

  "Yes, sir. We're sailing."

  "That is s
o. I sent for you because I believe this patrol will be of somewhat more significance than the last. You may have noticed certain signs amongst the Fleet? I have no actual knowledge, but I understand that the admiral believes the enemy is out in force. He is anxious to meet him. There will be other patrols out, of course, also air reconnaissance. We will patrol to the west, new territory for us. As usual, we will be on our own. Time of departure is noon. I wish to be two hundred miles to the westward by dusk."

  It was a simple calculation and Bentley made it automatically. The old boy was in a hurry - they would be at close to thirty knots. He nodded understanding.

  "There is one other thing," Sainsbury said quietly. His bony fingers were held before his face with the tips resting together, and over this small steeple his eyes laid their line of sight straight into Bentley's face. Don't, Bentley prayed, don't bring it up again! I made my suggestion, you knocked it back. For God's sake let it rest.