J. E. MacDonnell - 096 Page 3

  Secure up there so high, able to look down on the whole of the ship's length and to see several miles further than any eye on the bridge could, Craven wore nothing but shorts and sandals. The ship was only five degrees, 300 miles, above the equator. This did not worry Craven's body, which was burned to a wind- and sun-tanned hue no amount of lazing on a beach could produce, but the heat made his forehead sweat, so that he was careful not to press his eyes too closely into the binocular sockets, otherwise the lenses would mist over.

  For his age he was a laconic young man, matured and to some extent assured by responsibility-he was the eyes not only of Wind Rode, but of the flotilla. Craven was very conscious of this last fact. He took pride in his being a crew member of the Leader, and he wanted badly to sight Witch before any of the other three lookouts whom he had no doubt were also placed at their respective mastheads.

  Because of this eagerness he was tempted to report at once that tiny sliver of something or other which he thought he had glimpsed in the high-power lenses. But training overcame eagerness. He took his eyes away instead, wiped them with a khaki handkerchief and applied them again to their task.

  This time he did not withdraw his eyes, but glanced down at the brass pointer on the bearing ring below the binoculars. And only then did his thumb reach forward, find the buzzer and press it.

  The bridge was very quiet. The sound of the buzzer pitched across it with shrill vehemence. Bentley only just stopped himself from leaping off his stool to answer it. A captain may have fear wincing in his guts or joy exulting in his brain, but he is not supposed to reveal these common sensations. Nearest, Pilot answered the masthead voice pipe.

  Direction always came first. It was more important to know where than what.

  "Bearing green one-seven-five," said Craven with the deliberate distinctness he had been trained to use, so that his report could be heard through the crash of gunfire. "A topmast."

  That was all. He had reported what he could see, just a thin black pencil above the horizon almost right astern. Fact. Conjecture was not for him, unless he were asked for it. He was.

  "What does it look like?" said Pilot, while the bridge team waited. Battleships and cruisers carried topmasts.

  Now Craven could impose intuition, experience and judgement upon fact.

  "It's pretty thin, sir. Looks like a destroyer. I have the upper yard now, not very long."

  "Very well."

  There was no need to order Craven to report any further identifying features as they hove in sight, but there was need of something else. Though the whole bridge had heard of lookout's voice, made tinny by its travel down the brass tube, Pilot could not assume that this was so, and with the ship in action it would not have been so, thus he was required to repeat the report. But to it he added his own judgement.

  "Masthead's sighted a topmast almost right astern, sir. I think it's Witch."

  So did Bentley. If they could see, they could be seen. Having sighted the masts of an enemy flotilla, a Jap destroyer would hardly keep coming on.

  "Very well," he said, crisply to cover his relief, and the yeoman reported that the next ship in line was signalling.

  Ferris read the swift blinks of light more easily than you're reading this. The message came so fast that as he called out each word they made a normal conversational sentence.

  "Bearing one-seven-five, topmast, coming towards, believed destroyer."

  That signal came from Dalziel, the flotilla's sardonic- faced and iron-disciplined second-in-command. He was not liked as Benson was, but certainly his men respected him, for he ran a very taut ship, and tautness meant safety and the continuance of life.

  Bentley was pleased that his lookout had made the first sighting, but while Cartwright or Gilmore might have mentioned this, the Leader could not. Dempsey or Marciano don't boast about their superiority...

  "Acknowledge," Bentley ordered simply, and Ferris flashed back the symbol.

  In succession as the distant ship rode up over the earth's curve Craven got her gunnery director, the bridge, the two forward mountings, and he made his definite identification. And then it was the turn of electronics.

  "Radar-office, bridge. Bearing green one-seven-oh, ship, coming towards. We're plotting the speed."

  No one smiled, not even when Bentley gave his conventional, deadpan "Very well." Enemy or friendly, that ship had been known about for several minutes before radar got its fingers on the echoing bridge structure, but that was not the operator's fault, and if you chiacked those troglodytes down there in front of their fluorescent screens, then they might subconsciously take the attitude that if those bloody flatfoot seaman up top were so hot then there was no great need for vigilance down below. An attitude like that, if exacerbated and allowed to fester, could mean disaster; at night or in bad visibility by day it was a different story altogether, for then radar came into its own, and a dozen Cravens at the masthead might as well have been in their hammocks.

  So with no admonition in his tone Bentley added:

  "Your contact astern is Witch. Stop the plot and resume all-round sweep."

  And back came the acknowledgement, respectfully crisp:

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Bentley crossed over to his stool. No challenge was flashed to the approaching ship. Japanese destroyers were quite distinctive with their high, upward-sloping bows, and most of them rated two funnels, while their visitor had only one. In any case, they knew her silhouette like their own faces; Lord knows they'd seen it for long enough, on days and days of convoy duty when there had been little else to look at.

  "I wonder what kept her," Randall said. "Surely she couldn't have been searching all that time."

  Bentley had been wondering precisely the same. The answer seemed obvious enough, but he had learned long ago that at sea you can be certain of nothing; not the weather, not even the charts, and most definitely not your enemy's intentions. Yet it seemed safe to assume one fact-whatever Benson had found, if he had found anything, then it had not managed to get off a signal to its friends. The sun was high, the day was clear, and bombers would have been over long before this.

  "One way to find out," Bentley said. "Yeoman, order Witch alongside my starb'd side."

  She was close now, shaping up to take her normal, junior position at the rear of the line, so that Ferris used the shorter range Aldis lamp. A few of the bridge team wondered why the captain wanted her alongside-the range of their radiotelephone, or talk-betweenships equipment, was limited, and safe to use with nothing in sight anywhere. Randall and Pilot knew.

  With the flotilla steaming southward and Witch on practically the same course, coming alongside the leading ship was a simple manoeuvre-or seemed so. The coxswain, even the quartermaster, could have managed it. But the job was more than just a matter of steering. The Leader was at fifteen knots, while Witch was coming up much faster than that. And she was required not only to come close alongside, but to end up with her bridge level with Wind Rode's, and her hull at precisely the same speed. Unfortunately you cannot brake two thousand tons of steel like you would a car.

  Already men were lining the Leader's rails, for this close approach was a break in the monotony of a patrol which for them, at least, had proved boringly uneventful. It would be a bad thing if Benson shot ahead of his mark, then had to go astern, and then ahead again; backing and filling, men would grinningly say, like a virgin outside the door of a matelot's flat.

  Of all the hundreds of men watching, Benson himself was most conscious of this. But there was more than geniality beneath his casual exterior, and not even his concentration was allowed to show. This took some effort, but experience helped, aided by the memory that he had done this sort of thing before.

  So that as far as his bridge crew were concerned he might have been alone on the Molucca Sea when he gave his wheel and engine orders with apparent negligence, and Witch slowed and edged in towards her bow-waving sister. And all the time, though not looking at it, Benson was conscio
us of that cap over there with the "scrambled eggs" edging its peak.

  Suddenly there came a nasty moment. He realised he was going too fast. He was going to overshoot that other bridge. Luckily he was not yet level with it, and realisation came in time. A snapped order went to the engine-room. Not to go astern-that would thrashingly reveal even to unskilled eyes that he had misjudged his speed. Instead, Witch slowed her revs. The great four-bladed screws eased their thrust.

  Two thousand tons of friction-beset metal did the rest. When Benson gave the order for a few more revolutions, thus overcoming before it was too late her tendency to drop back too far, his bridge was level with Wind Rode's and his hull was barely fifty feet away.

  The brain beneath that gold-peaked cap knew precisely what fears and remedial actions had exercised Benson's brain-God knows he had experienced them often enough himself, before being given the post where all other ships had to keep station on his. Bentley's mouth twitched a little as he took up the microphone of the electric loud-hailer.

  "Good morning. I said come alongside, not inboard."

  But the tone was drily chiding, not acrimonious. Before he replied Benson used a mopping handkerchief on his face-he could do this safely, for the morning was very hot.

  "Sorry, sir. I'll take her out a bit."

  "Belay that."

  The words negated Bentley's earlier statement about closeness. They looked at each other across the white-flashed gap, smiling, understanding. Benson knew that the Leader would have come in even closer. Yet there was something he did not know. Of all his captains, Witch's was the youngest and most junior, yet Bentley like him best. This feeling was personal, not professional, based on Benson's nature. He was the sort of fellow you liked to have in your mess. Dalziel, for instance, was a far more experienced and mature commander, a very solid fellow to have beside you in a fight-but Dalziel's sardonic and ever-watchful nature was the sort that soaked up the jollity in a mess like a sponge.

  Bentley's smile drew in and his tone changed.

  "What kept you back there so long?"

  Now it was master and servant. Benson answered with required brevity.

  "Just before breaking off the search we got a firm contact, sir. It took some time-the guns hampered us a bit-but we finally got him. A definite kill, sir, and no signals made."

  "I see. What do you mean, the guns hampered you?"

  "There was a shore battery on Pusan Point, sir. Four guns, about five-inch from the size of the splashes."

  "Let me get this straight," said Bentley, who already had it perfectly straight-he also knew the rails of both ships were lined with listening men. "You mean you hunted and sank a submarine while under fire from a shore battery?"

  Benson was less perceptive, or perhaps more naive, than his master. He interpreted the question literally, as a genuine demand for information.

  "Yes, sir. It was a bit dicey at first, but we managed to knock out one gun, and then after the sub business was finished we concentrated on the battery and were lucky enough to find its ammunition supply.

  There was quite a blast. I imagine it will be some time before the point is fortified again."

  "Well done," said Bentley, "very nice work indeed. Your gun and depth charge crews earned their pay last night."

  The term loud-hailer means precisely what is says. Bentley's voice carried clearly above the whine of engine-room blowers and the hiss of bow-waves. And now the whole of Wind Rode's bridge team understood why he had called Witch close alongside.

  "Thank you, sir." And now Benson became more perceptive. "I'll pass your comments on to the crew," he grinned.

  Bentley would never have praised Dalziel like that, even privately, but then Dalziel was older. However, enough was enough.

  "Resume station in the line," he ordered curtly. "Smack it about. That battery might have had a transmitter. It's still a long way to Manus."

  "Aye aye, sir!"

  An order to the coxswain sent Witch wheeling away to the right. Clear, she straightened up and waited while the line steamed past. Here and there a hand waved from the other ships, casually, as you would gesture to your neighbour. They were glad to see her back, of course, but they did not know what she had done back there in the night. Even if they'd been told, their comments would have been ribald more than commendatory. Their ships, too, had sunk submarines and bombarded the shore-though not at the same time- and Witch had merely done what she'd been detached to do. A lot of dirty work came the way of destroyers. Witch was no exception.

  So thought the rest of the flotilla. Right now Witch's men believed themselves to be most exceptional. There was justification for this feeling. Often, being junior ship, they had been detached on some job or other, even to deliver mail to a major unit like a battleship or carrier. Messenger work. When they did fight, it was always with the flotilla, side by side with a sister ship, under superior orders. They had been no more distinguished in that sort of mayhem than one forward is from another in a scrum.

  Until last night.

  Yet it wasn't so much the knowledge of what they'd done alone off Pusan Point as it was the Leader's comments which made them feel so good. They liked Bentley for his praise; they admired and deeply respected their own captain for being its cause.

  Both Benson and his men were to need the bolstering effect of this feeling. But not just yet.

  CHAPTER THREE

  IT was Craven again.

  The time was late in the afternoon of the following day. Their position was north of Biak in New Guinea, but many miles clear of the coast, while the course was roughly south-east, heading for Manus in the Admiralty group.

  Next to breakfast-with action stations fallen-out after the young sun had revealed nothing hostile-late afternoon was the best time of day for Bentley. Randall had the dog watches from four till eight, a first-lieutenant's privilege. This meant that the talk would revolve endlessly and almost exclusively around his wife, who happened to be Bentley's sister. However, listening to a recital of sublime qualities which Bentley never suspected his sister possessed was better than sitting alone in his heated cabin and worrying about what might lie over the horizon, or if at the bottom end of a glass eye poked a few inches above the surface some slant-eyed bastard was hissing orders to a torpedo fire-control instrument.

  Much of the heat had gone out of the sun, and over the open bridge the 25-knot breeze of their progress flowed deliciously cooling. Work had finished for the day. Men talked idly in groups on the forepart, getting the most of the wind, while from his stool their captain noticed, also idly, that no man leaned against the guardrails. This prohibition was standing orders, but self-preservation also ensured its obedience. A guard-rail slip could conceivably open with weight pressed against it, or a stanchion with the pin left out at its base might suddenly collapse sideways, and then the careless leaner was in the water ahead of four spinning blades, and shortly after that he was uncaring altogether. See a ship with men lounging against the guard-rails and you see a slack ship. Apart from the danger, it simply looks bad, like ropes and fenders hanging over the side, or washing hung on a line without all the towels being together...

  Suddenly, but not to Bentley's surprise-he had been barely listening to Randall's anticipatory recital of what he and Gwen would do on his next long leave-Randall changed tack and said:

  "We should make Manus round about lunch. You'll give shore leave?"

  Before Bentley could reply a voice said, "Speaking of Manus," and Pilot appeared beside them.

  This was all right. Pilot was the senior lieutenant on board, and even apart from that privileged eminence he and the captain enjoyed a naturally close relationship. Bentley might say where and when and at what speed they would go, but Pilot had to ensure they got there safely.

  Bentley was still feeling happy about Witch's return to the fold- he had lost two ships and their captains, Armstrong and Taber-and so he grunted amiably:

  "What about Manus?"

  "I've be
en reading it up in the Pilot," said Pilot.

  Perhaps it should be explained that this Pilot was not a man, but a book. There are scores of them put out by the British Admiralty, blue-covered volumes embracing just about every section of the watery world. They are packed full of knowledge useful to a navigator, from the depths off a pier in a harbour and the lack of depths off reefs outside it, to places where tides run fast or slow, where survival huts have been set up for shipwrecked mariners, where streams are fresh or foul, where sand is white and clean and good for holystoning decks, and even out-of-the-way places where the inhabitants are friendly or hostile.

  "So?" said Randall. "I thought you'd know the place by now. We've been in and out of Seeadler Harbour a dozen times in the past few weeks."

  "Ah," said Pilot, "the harbour, yes. But I speak of the island, which is called Manus."