J. E. MacDonnell - 030

by The Lesson(lit)

  "I am referring to the matter of the killing of three possible prisoners," Sainsbury said. Bentley held his breath. It was as if the shrewd eyes had seen into his thoughts. Yet there was another surprise to come.

  "I spoke somewhat hastily - a habit which is not common with me." Bentley's eyes crinkled in astonishment. "Understand me clearly," Sainsbury went on, "my admonition was well deserved. It is the public manner of its delivery for which I am apologising. In future," he finished without the trace of a smile, "my reprimands will be delivered more privately." He stood up. "Now, commander, you will have a good deal to do on board."

  On the way back in the motorboat Bentley's thoughts were full. The pedantry and precision of speech, the prim, almost puritannical expression, the general look of the man were so normally Sainsbury, that he wondered, if only fractionally, whether he could be wrong. Then in flooded the vivid memory of how he had found Sainsbury a week before. This present attitude was an act. Of course it was! What else did he expect? It was the natural acting of a man determined not to let his weakness rise to the surface again. The only doubt about this reasoning was whether Sainsbury could succeed in his intention. Deeply, firmly in his mind Bentley believed that he could not.

  At the gangway he told Randall to prepare the ship for sea. The first-lieutenant gave his orders while Bentley waited. Then they walked forward together. Bentley put him in the picture.

  "You could have bowled me over with a breath." Bentley said. "The last thing I expected was an apology. Mind you, he made it clear that he still thought I was wrong!"

  "But he apologised," smiled Randall. The fact seemed to afford him some relief. "He must still have a sense of proportion."

  "Now, yes," Bentley replied worriedly. His tone hardened. "But we can't worry about all that. This could be the big show. If it is, we'll have our time cut out looking after ourselves. I want the director lined-up now."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Randall answered that tone. He strode off.

  They slipped out unobtrusively, unnoticed by the great Fleet. An hour later the low hills of the island had dropped from sight, and their course lay to the westward, to clear the Hermit Islands a few miles to the south.

  There was no sign of any weather. The west wind blew softly in their faces, but unfelt in the thirty knot stream of their passage. The parallel wakes stretched behind them as straight as a pencil line on a chart, and apart from those insignificant scars, the face of the sea smiled bluely and emptily in a vast circle all about them.

  Bentley took up the microphone of the S.R.E.

  "This is the captain. Once again, we are out on patrol. But this time could be different. It is suspected that the Japanese Fleet is out. I also suspect - much more strongly - that our own Fleet will be sailing shortly. We are only one prong of an intensive reconnaissance. If we find something big, we can rest assured that something just as big will be handy to back us up. What is required now is alertness. Lookouts, radar operators must remain on their toes. If we do our job properly, and if luck is with us, we could help to carve off a large slice of this war in a hurry. From now on the crow's nest will be manned during daylight hours. That's all."

  The long slim hulls moved on, masterfully powered and purposeful; patches of foam tossed past their sides; the blue water raced to meet their stems and struck upwards in curving white arches; deep down the turbines whined and the shafts spun so that they seemed immobile and solid silver. And in the wheel-houses, at this speed, the helmsman steered with care.

  On the bridge, on the chart, the gunner and then the first-lieutenant marked off her progress hourly, noting with appreciation as they did so the distance between the small pencilled circles with their dots in the centre. Whatever they might be heading into, they were approaching it fast.

  Thze sun in its descending path lowered towards the horizon. The bow was aimed directly for the glaring ball, and the glittering path of light ahead and the flashing track of white astern met, with the ship in the centre, to form an unbroken and flat sword from horizon to horizon.

  Scimitar had been silent all day, but now her bridge blinked an authoritative eye at them. It was a little less than two hours to dusk, and in obedience to the signal Wind Rode leaned and opened out the distance to the southward. Sainsbury wanted to know over just how large an area the sea was empty before both ships closed-up on each other for the run through the night.

  In a few minutes Scimitar was hull-down, then mast-down, to starb'd. She was out of visual and radar range, but the fact caused no concern - Bentley knew her course and her speed. He was on the bridge now and he would remain there for the rest of the afternoon and the greater part of the night.

  Radar was operating perfectly, but there is not much reflecting area on the trucks of distant masts. The crow's nest sighted them first, at that range a minute forest of thin pencils poking above the horizon.

  The report electrified the bridge. There was no large Allied force in that area on that bearing. His mind racing and his face composed, Bentley thought for a moment. He could at once alter to starb'd to close Scimitar with his vital information, or he could continue on and gather a more accurate knowledge of the enemy force.

  He made his decision. He made it in the face of his flotilla-leader's reiterated warning to exercise caution. He also made the worst mistake of his Service life.

  "We will maintain course and speed," he said to Randall, his eyes squinting at the sun. "We know who they are. I want to know how many."

  Randall's stomach was churning. But his face too was composed. He said, his voice even:

  "I agree. There's not much light left. And before they sight us we can get a good idea of their size and course. This," he grinned suddenly and tightly, "is a turn up for the books!"

  Bentley nodded. Involuntarily his eyes flicked to starb'd, over to where the invisible Scimitar was steaming in ignorance of this heavy and vital find. He was right in his decision, he told himself. And even though he felt a sudden irritation at this self-justification he persisted in his mental argument. It was no good running over to Sainsbury now, with no definite information regarding the size and formation and course of the enemy force. Sainsbury himself would have to close the Jap Fleet to gain those vital statistics. The only result would be a waste of precious time. They were out here, they had been specifically sent on this mission, to gain precisely the information he was about to learn. In his book, to run north now would be a dereliction of duty. Caution regardless...

  Satisfied, he lifted his binoculars.

  Not yet, not from the bridge, were those enemy mast-trucks visible. But the crow's nest had them in plain and enlarging view. Too far to determine battleship from heavy-cruiser, and to sight destroyers, but enough to know that the enemy force was large.

  Bentley drove her on. He was young in years, but wise in experience. And not really cocky. Cockiness presupposes an unthinking conceit and belief in one's superiority. Yet he did feel superior. It was a subconscious assessment, engendered by the mental effect of an unbroken string of successes. He was no fool, and he knew well enough that his success had come mainly from hard fighting and meticulous attention to discipline and training. But an older man - like Sainsbury - would have analysed that sense of superiority and would have cautioned himself not to rely on its infallibility. Bentley was young, and adventurous. He was overconfident.

  His mistake lay in the fact that in his eagerness to determine the precise strength and formation of the enemy Fleet, he completely forgot to reason that, if he could see those distant mast-trucks, then a Jap lookout in his even more elevated position could see him. He was about to be given the first part of a bitter lesson.

  Wind Rode's crow's next lookout was Able-seaman Newton, a reliable man with good eyesight and a sound knowledge of enemy ship-identification. And it was easy to identify classes of Japanese ships - their funnels and bridge structures were peculiar in design, unlike any other nation's. His report went down to the bridge: three Nagato-class battleships,
at least two Asigara-class cruisers mounting ten 8-inch guns. There were more ships, but so far he could not identify them; they were astern of the main force, their mast-trucks marching up over the horizon.

  But Bentley had all he needed. An ordinary-seaman would have known the ancillary craft escorting a force of three battleships certainly heavy-cruisers and destroyers, possibly a carrier or two. He had made up his mind to give the course-alteration to close Scimitar when the noise started in the sky.

  The maximum range of 8-inch guns is in the vicinity of thirty-two thousand yards - sixteen sea miles. Wind Rode was closer in than that. Newton had missed the multiple flashes from the two cruisers because his glasses had been on the mast-trucks astern, his eyes straining to identify the ships which bore them. Knowing he could not, his sight trained back to the main force. He saw plainly enough the second sparkle of light, and his urgent voice sprang from the bridge voice-pipe. But the bridge already knew what was happening.

  The sound in the sky was now a malignant and shrill screech. Bentley leaped for the wheelhouse voice-pipe.

  "Hard-a-starb'd! Full power both engines!"

  There was no need to warn Rennie, the coxswain, of the need for hurry. Both those orders were emergency directions. The engine-room bells clanged and the wheel spokes spun in his hands. Above him on the compass-platform they waited.

  They did not have to wait long. High-velocity naval shells travel at three thousand feet per second. And these were beautifully aimed. Their range and elevation settings were no more a product of luck than were the equations which took one of Bismarck's monsters across miles of tumbling sea and directed it into Hood's magazine.

  The screeching ended in a concussive blast close on her port beam. The sea lifted itself in a wall of dirty water and splinters whined viciously across her decks. The bridge of Wind Rode was composed of thin copper, so that the magnetic compass would remain unaffected. Its sole protection was against wind and spray. The signalman, Ferris's offsider, had his face turned to a mess of red pulp. Elsewhere along her decks those splinters took their toll. But it was on the bridge that they gained the most important prize.

  Bentley was flung sideways from the platform round the binnacle. His body fell heavily to the deck. Shocked, Randall stared at him. Across the captain's forehead reached a wide and bleeding welt. In a moment his still face was reddened ominously with blood.

  Training and compulsive urgency replaced Randall's shock.

  "First-aid party on the bridge," he roared, and without hesitation he jumped to the binnacle. There was nothing he himself could do to help Bentley. He was in command, and his attention was required by the ship. There was nothing he could do there, either. She was well on the turn, at her full power: All he could do was straighten her and run for his life back to Scimitar. Unfortunately, other forces had different ideas about the escape of this surprise-destroying midget.

  Wind Rode was turning fast enough, but her speed was so great that the line of advance was still taking her, slipping sideways through the water, towards the Jap ships. A well-trained crew can reload and fire an 8-inch gun in about ten seconds. Even a destroyer cannot travel very far in ten seconds.

  Abruptly projected into command in the face of an overwhelming enemy, Randall was thinking furiously. But through the racing of his mind he knew that there was nothing he could do yet - Bentley's course and speed alteration had been correct, and it had not yet been fully implemented. He would simply wait to straighten her.

  But there was something which would brook no waiting.

  "Yeoman!" he snapped, "make to the Flag..." He spoke rapidly, giving the strength of the enemy Fleet, and Ferris scrawled on his signal pad. Then he ran to the wireless-office voice-pipe.

  Randall heard urgent feet clattering on the ladder and saw a sickbay attendant running towards Bentley. Then he heard something else.

  Most of the second broadside landed close, but clear, on her port side. The Jap gunnery-control officer had allowed for her rapid closing speed, and his shells landed short, his aim spoiled by her quick turn. The remaining two shells of that full broadside were aimed relatively badly - from the cruiser's point of view.

  From the target's viewpoint they landed with paralysing accuracy. It happened swiftly, and the reports came almost as swift. A plunge of discoloured water lifted from beside her stern and she shuddered horribly. A phone shrilled and Pilot plucked it out. He listened, then he said:

  "Port screw badly damaged. They're shutting down on the port engine!"

  And, from Rennie on the wheel:

  "Ship steering with difficulty, sir! I can't handle her at this speed!"

  Randall's training was long and thorough. A thousand times, through a hundred actions, he had mentally decided on what his orders should be in a certain situation. Now he was plunged squarely into such a situation. He reacted instantly.

  "Half-ahead starb'd engine!" The port engine was already stopped. "Try and hold her due north, cox'n!" Then he came upright from the voice-pipe and waited. Ten seconds can be a minuscule passage of time, or it can be an eternity. Those were long seconds. The only thing which saved them was the fact that a gunnery-control officer has to forecast the future position of his target. He can have as many as three broadsides in the air at one time at long range. The Jap officer high in his director did not know that Wind Rode's speed had been drastically reduced. He planned accordingly.

  The screech, not so intimate this time, and the jetting columns of water fell clear to port. Short. Randall, gunnery-officer himself, knew that the cruiser's director would have sighted those tall spouts between it and the target and would know they were falling short. In a British ship the answer was simple: "Up ladder, shoot." The range and the elevation would be increased by predetermined stages until once again the shells were straddling. And there was little he could do to throw-off that malignant aim.

  Ten seconds. He cast a quick glance back at Bentley. But the

  S.B.A. was bending over him, hiding his face. Five seconds. The ship was still doing about eight knots. He might be able to swing her a fraction.

  "Starb'd twenty, cox'n. Do what you can."

  Zero seconds. A brief slowing down of drill, perhaps. From Ferris:

  "Message passed to Flag, sir."

  Thank God for that! Not much time left of light, but the Admiral would be rushing his aircraft out. For all Randall knew, the whole Fleet might be just back there below the horizon to the eastward. A fat lot of good that would do them now! Their lives were to be measured in seconds, not miles at sea.

  Zero minus five seconds. Fifteen seconds since the last broadside. That couldn't be bad drill. Not when the excellence of it had already been conclusively demonstrated. The next moment he knew why the cruisers were leaving them alone.

  "Bridge?" came Newton's urgent voice. "Destroyers closing at high speed!"

  "What's the main Fleet doing?" Randall asked.

  "They've altered a little to the north, sir. On about 060."

  "Very well. How many destroyers?"

  "Four, sir."

  There it was. The Battle Fleet on about east-north-east, either thinking about breaking-off from their objective since they had lost surprise, or else planning to come down on Manus from the north. And sending down four destroyers to finish off the cause of this plan alteration. He could see them now, four bow-waves backed by grey bridges. He took up the S.R.E. microphone.

  "This is the first-lieutenant." No mention of the captain, no point in telling them he was out of action, if not dead. Randall was later to marvel privately at his professional detachment from the searing thought of his friend's death. "We have been badly damaged. One screw gone, rudder mainly inoperative. The Jap Fleet has decided to leave us alone. They're sending down four destroyers to do their dirty work. But we still have our guns, and somewhere to the east is the American Fleet. The admiral has received our warning message." He paused, feeling he should not say it. Yet he went on:

  "If we can h
old those four bastards off, maybe we've got a chance. We have got six guns. We'll use `em. That's all."

  It occurred to his tautened mind as he replaced the microphone that he had spoken as the captain, and that they would recognise that. It was too late now. It could be only a matter of time before they were all like dear old Bentley...

  As though the thought were father to the words, a voice spoke behind him.

  "I'll get you below now, sir," it said, in the middle of a lifting grunt.

  "Like hell you will!" the S.B.A. was answered. Randall swung about as though someone had punched him on one shoulder. His eyes were glaring with a mixture of astonishment and relief. He saw the S.B.A. pushed aside, and a bloodied, bandaged head lift up. "Work for you elsewhere. Jump to it!"

  The S.B.A. jumped, and Bentley handled himself towards Randall. The big fellow leaped down and held out his ham of a hand. Bentley did not shake it off - he accepted it gratefully.