A Ship Must Die (1981)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Quintin held up his hand. ‘Easy now, Claire. It’s not that simple. Commodore Stagg gave the instruction.’

  Blake kept his eyes on the girl, wondering if she was trying to antagonize him or if she and Quintin were acting as a trained team.

  He said, ‘But you are right, of course. Unfortunately, in war there’s never enough time, no margin for a perfect decision. If we had captured the German supply ship intact we might have discovered something more, codes or not.’

  Quintin relaxed slightly. ‘Anyway, Stagg was probably thinking about Devonport’s loss.’

  Blake placed his hands on his knees below the table. Here we go. What it’s all been building up to.

  He said, ‘That’s just it. But for Devonport, I think I could almost accept the “official” view.’

  The girl wrote something in her pad and Blake felt the same surge of unreasonable anger.

  ‘I know we’re in a critical phase of the war. I know that. They’ve been telling us long enough.’ He expected Quintin to interrupt but he was sitting very still, an unlit cigarette in his hand, as if afraid to divert Blake’s train of thought. ‘Convoys round the Cape and between the major theatres of war have always been a headache. Long-range U-boats in the Atlantic, supplied by their milch-cows, pocket-battleships and minelaying aircraft, they’ve all made their mark, and deeply. But the cheapest weapon is still the commerce raider, and at this moment, when so much depends on preparing for the invasion of Europe to coincide with a massive offence by the US forces in the Pacific against the Japs, it could be the most dangerous.’

  Quintin pouted his lower lip. ‘So far I agree. Since the Kios sinking was reported there’s been practically no independent movement. Convoys are being marshalled at Cape Town and at the Australian end of the line. Every cargo is precious these days, especially manpower and military equipment. So until we can find that raider, things will tend to slow down, become delayed, when we need every operation on top-line.’

  Blake felt for his pipe. It was still filled and unlit from the last time.

  He said, ‘According to my calculations, and if Devenport was sunk in the manner everyone believes, the raider has destroyed her and four other ships in a matter of weeks.’

  Quintin seemed disappointed. ‘Well, I know that.’

  Blake drew a rectangle on the tablecloth with his pipe stem. ‘Think about it, sir, just for a minute. It means that the raider has covered an area of some two and a half thousand miles west of the Cape and as far south as the forty-fifth parallel.’

  He saw the girl’s pencil had stopped moving, that she was watching him intently. Quintin too was staring at the pipe stem as if he expected to see it change into something else.

  Blake continued quietly, ‘It would seem that she was tearing about the ocean at full throttle, sinking ships which she just “happened” to come across.’ He looked at Quintin for several seconds. ‘And there’s another thing. Why did the German captain take such good care of the Dutch crew and that of the Bikanir, yet slaughter those from the Kios?’

  He recalled the young paymaster sub-lieutenant who had interpreted for the dying Greek steward. His face as he had translated each painful whisper.

  Blake added, ‘He apparently machine-gunned men in the water and left the others to die, exposure or sharks, it made no difference to him.’

  Then and only then did he see the girl’s hand move. She touched her shirt beneath her breast, and when he looked at her she lowered her gaze.

  He said, ‘We can’t even guess what happened to the survivors of the Argyll Clansman.’

  In the sudden stillness he was conscious of the ship around them, the gentle sluice of the current beneath the open scuttle, a far-off voice on the tannoy called, ‘Out pipes. Both watches of the hands, fall in.’ It was as if the ship was ignoring them.

  Then Quintin said abruptly, ‘The Germans aren’t saints. We know that. Their record is bloody enough already.’

  The girl said quietly, ‘I understand, sir.’

  Then she looked up, and Blake was astonished to see that her eyes were blurred, with emotion or shock, he did not know.

  She continued, ‘You think there are two different men, two separate raiders.’

  Quintin stared from her to Blake. ‘Now wait a minute! I’ve heard about everything now!’

  Blake nodded. ‘That’s what I think. Two of them. Crossing and recrossing the area with arranged supply points whenever and wherever they are needed. It could tie down dozens of warships, hold up convoy sailings, make a mess of everything.’

  Very deliberately Quintin lit his cigarette and watched the smoke until it was whipped up by the fans.

  ‘But surely, with all our resources, our intelligence agencies and past experience something would have leaked out?’

  Blake shrugged again. ‘I don’t see why. At the start of the war the Graf Spee was already in the South Atlantic but nobody was ready for her. In France the Maginot Line was not long enough to keep the Germans out but nothing had been done about it. In Singapore the big guns were facing the wrong way long before the Japs invaded, but did anyone do anything about that?’

  Quintin shook his head. ‘All right, enough said. Point taken.’ He stood up. ‘I’d like to use your radio.’

  Blake looked for Moon’s shadow beyond the pantry. It had been there for most of the time. Like a protective scarecrow.

  ‘Take Captain Quintin to the W/T office, will you?’

  Alone together in the spacious cabin, the girl said suddenly, ‘That was something. You really came out with it.’ She had her head on one side, watching his face, her composure apparently recovered. ‘Do you believe it?’

  He smiled bitterly. ‘Will it make any difference?’

  Then he said, ‘Yes, I do, as it happens. The German character has given us our one clue. A tiny lead at present, but it’s something. Two raiders, twins if you like, and that is what I would arrange, working an area like this one. It would make the needle and haystack problem simple by comparison. Provided, of course, you only believe in one vessel.’ He broke off, suddenly tired of it, surprised he had let it burst out when he had probably jumped the gun.

  He asked, ‘Whereabouts do you live? In Melbourne?’

  She smiled. ‘Change of subject? Fine. No, my people live further out. Small town. You’d call it a village, I expect.’

  Blake studied her. She had a nice smile, warm, but sparing, like her words.

  Then she said, ‘When you were in the Mediterranean, did you ever come across the destroyer Paradox?’

  She had pushed her chair away from the table and had turned from him, her legs crossed.

  The question had been just that bit too casual, and yet too rehearsed.

  ‘Yes.’

  He put his pipe on the table and walked to the open scuttle. The sea had been as blue as this one, he thought vaguely. Two lines of merchantmen plodding hopefully towards Alexandria. A week earlier there had been three lines.

  He said quietly, ‘I remember her well. She was a wing escort that morning. We’d had a terrible battering, and even Andromeda’s anti-aircraft defences were almost worn out!’

  There it was again. Why had he said ‘even’? That special pride.

  ‘They came over in waves. German, Italian, the sky was full of them. We lost four merchantmen and an escort in an hour. It was sheer bloody murder. But we kept going. Like we always did. Bash on regardless. Don’t look back.’

  He gripped the warm brass rim of the scuttle to steady himself. But instead of Port Elizabeth’s placid shoreline he saw the lines of ships, the waterspouts of a hundred bombs falling around them, the insane clatter . . . clatter . . . clatter of the pom-poms and Oerlikons, the whoosh and crash of direct hits. And through it, drifting, ablaze from end to end, the wing escort Paradox had passed between the two slow-moving columns.

  Some madman had been still firing a solitary machine-gun at the circling dive-bombers, the tracer spurting straight up, as if the last liv
ing soul in that inferno had already lost consciousness.

  He said abruptly, ‘We could not stop. If it had been any ship, the same thing would have happened. God, I remember the Paradox well enough. Her skipper was an old friend, as a matter of fact. From way back. You know how it is in the –’

  He broke off as he turned and looked at her. She was wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, but not quickly enought to hide her tears.

  He exclaimed, ‘I’m sorry. Your brother was lost in her. I should have stopped. Commander Fairfax told me about him. I should have put two and two together.’

  She sniffed and stood up from the table. ‘It’s all right. I don’t usually behave like some stupid galah. It’s me.’ She shook her head, the hair bouncing across her cheeks in confusion. ‘No, it’s you. You’re not what I expected. Perhaps when Dave was lost I needed someone to hate, to blame. When your arrival was announced, the vc, the real-life hero, I wanted to hurt you.’ She looked at the deck. ‘I feel such a fool now.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do?’

  She swallowed hard and groped in her bag for her compact. ‘There is. If you come back to Williamstown, and I think you will, I’d like you to meet my mum and dad. Tell them all about it, if you can bear it. Just like you told me.’ She looked away. ‘They’ve nothing much else left now. Will you do it?’

  He nodded. ‘If I can.’

  Quintin stepped through the door rubbing his hands. ‘By God, I’ll bet that signal has got ’em all jumping about! But they’ll not like any of it. They’ve got the east and westbound convoys held up for want of additional fire-power, and your little bombshell will go down like mustard and jam!’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Something wrong?’

  She met his gaze calmly. ‘No, sir.’ She picked up her notebook. ‘Anything to add?’

  Quintin was watching Blake. ‘Nothing much. Stagg’s bit of excitement was a dud. The ship had merely lost her radio. Everything else is buttoned up, and all unescorted ships at sea will be notified about the raider’s movements as soon as we know anything.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Would you call away my launch, please? I’d best get ashore and get things moving. I’ll bet there’s a hornets’ nest waiting for me there right enough!’

  The girl held out her hand. ‘Good-bye, Captain.’

  It was all she said, but her eyes and her handshake were like a truce.

  Quintin nodded. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

  Blake saw his unexpected visitors over the side and watched the fast-moving launch until it had reached the harbour.

  He was making a fool of himself. His sense of loss, his battered reserves after the demands of the Mediterranean had left him unsure and vulnerable.

  But even that brief contact had given him a kind of strength, or was he still seeking a replacement for Diana’s deception?

  Lieutenant Friar saluted. ‘Will there be shore leave, sir?’

  Blake turned on his heel, his eyes blinded by the fierce sunlight.

  Lieutenant Masters, the Seafox pilot, strolled up to the puzzled Friar and murmured, ‘What’s the matter, old son? You look like a chap who’s lost a shilling and found a sixpence!’

  Friar shook his head. ‘The skipper. He walked right past me!’

  Masters patted his shoulder. ‘If I’d had popsie like that for lunch, skipper or not, I’d feel just the same!’

  Unaware of the OOD’s confusion, Blake re-entered his cabin and tossed his cap on a chair.

  ‘Any brandy left, Moon?’

  Moon gave a toothy grin. “Course, sir.’ He produced one of his best glasses and eyed it critically. ‘A celebration, perhaps, sir?’

  Blake sat down and thrust out his legs. I needed someone to hate, she had said.

  He took the glass from Moon and replied, ‘Perhaps.’

  Moon bustled away. There had been a moment at lunch when he had nearly accidentally but on purpose spilled a dish of tinned peas over the Aussie Wren officer. Now, he was not so sure. She might be just the job.

  6

  A Small World

  COMMANDER VICTOR FAIRFAX raised his hand to tap on the captain’s door and then paused with it in mid-air. The door was partly open, and through it he saw Moon, assisted by a worried looking messman, bustling about with what he recognized as unusual agitation.

  Fairfax stepped over the coaming, his eyes immediately noting the half-packed grip which lay on a chair, the newly-pressed suit of white drill draped across another.

  Moon muttered, ‘Never ’eard of such things. No respect. No bloody respect.’ He saw Fairfax and added hurriedly, ‘Captain’s takin’ a shower, sir.’

  To Fairfax it sounded like, so go away. He smiled. ‘He sent for me.’

  ‘Well, then.’ Moon snatched a shirt from the messman and said savagely, ‘Not that way, you bloody ‘alf-wit!’ He took a grip on himself and explained to Fairfax, ‘There’s a flap on, sir.’

  ‘So I see.’

  A curtain jerked aside and Blake, his hair plastered down on his forehead, his bare feet making a trail across the carpet, hurried to his desk.

  He nodded to Fairfax and waved him to a chair. ‘Just had a signal from Quintin, Victor. He’s flying back to Australia, starting tonight.’ He was speaking in quick jerks as he sorted through his papers, discarding some and throwing others to Moon to be packed. ‘I’m ordered to go with him. Bit of a rush job. We’ll fly to Fremantle via Colombo with a couple of island stops to refuel.’

  He paused and thrust the damp hair from his face. It made him look very young and strangely vulnerable.

  Fairfax said, ‘Must be important, sir. What about us?’

  Blake eyed him steadily, as if unable to decide on something. ‘I’ve left written orders for you. Finish taking on fuel without delay. No shore leave. Any problems, you can make a direct signal to our people at Simonstown.’

  Fairfax was on his feet without realizing it. ‘And then?’

  Blake smiled gravely. ‘Then, you will weigh and proceed to Williamstown as ordered. You should meet the westbound convoy when you are three days from your e.t.a. You shouldn’t have any trouble.’ He tried to sound encouraging. ‘Good experience for you.’

  Fairfax looked away. ‘Sure thing. Yes.’

  He did not know what he felt. In the twinkling of an eye everything had changed. He had been writing to Sarah, although he would be home before it was even posted. But he often wrote to her in this fashion. Like a diary, a personal link. Now, he was too surprised to think clearly. He was in command of the Andromeda. Not only that, he was expected to put to sea in the morning and take her safely across the vast desert of the Indian Ocean to the port from which it had all begun.

  He said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  Blake slipped into his newly-pressed trousers and said quietly, ‘You’ll do better than that. You know the score. It can happen any time. It was how I got command of her. My skipper was killed and I took over. This is no different.’ He forced a grin. ‘Anyway, I’ll be waiting for you on the pier, so don’t scratch the paint!’

  Lieutenant Palliser stood in the doorway. ‘Your boat’s alongside, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Guns. I’ll be up in a jiffy.’

  Fairfax said, ‘It’s a strange feeling. Not what I expected at all.’

  Blake barely heard him. From the moment Quintin’s personal signal had been brought to him he had been torn apart by his emotions. Once more, he was leaving Andromeda. Once again they would be reunited. It seemed to get harder instead of the other way round.

  He glanced at Fairfax as if to reassure himself. A sound, unshakeable officer. He had proved that elsewhere, and aboard this ship too when they had destroyed the Bremse. The ship’s company had not showed any views about him. As yet he was a stranger to the seasoned men and to the newcomers as well. Anyway, the commander, ‘the bloke’ as he was nicknamed, was always doomed to play second fiddle to the captain.

  Fairfax saw Moon strapping up the grip and peering round to see if he had
forgotten anything. God, he thought, Moon’s going to miss him like hell. And so shall I.

  They climbed to the quarterdeck where the side-party was grouped above the accommodation ladder. Like white spectres in the dying light.

  Blake shook Fairfax’s hand. ‘Take care of her. Good care. And don’t push the Chief. Just tell him what you need.’ The handshake lingered. ‘He’s good. They all are.’

  Then with a nod to Moon he hurried down the ladder to the swaying launch.

  ‘Bear off forrard!’

  The boat sighed away from the cruiser’s hull and Blake was on his way.

  Quintin’s signals to the Admiralty and the Navy Office in Melbourne must have been something, he thought. Perhaps they would take his idea seriously. Or they might just as easily send him back to the UK to keep him out of trouble.

  A big staff car was waiting for him, and as a seaman put his bag in front with the driver he realized that his travelling companions were already inside.

  Quintin, smoking as usual, said brightly, ‘That was fast!’

  The car jerked into gear and he added, ‘Be a long flight. The Americans have a Catalina laid on. It was going our way and better than waiting for something larger. It will take us as far as Fremantle. The RAN will fly us to Melbourne from there, right?’

  Blake looked at the girl. She was pressed in one corner, her face towards the road as it flashed past the window. She looked tense. Worried even.

  Blake asked, ‘Is this the same way you came here?’

  She looked at him. ‘No. We flew in a big transport.’ She shuddered. ‘That was bad enough.’

  Quintin said, ‘Just take that pill I gave you, Claire. You’ll be okay.’

  So she hated flying. Blake was suddenly glad he was going with them. It might help on the long journey. The Catalina flying-boat was the best of its kind but had not been designed for luxury trips.

  An hour later they were embarked in the broad-winged flying-boat and taxiing heavily across some choppy water while the aircraft’s pilot tested his throttles and exchanged meaningless chatter with his crew and the shore control.