J. E. MacDonnell - 096 Page 4

  "Is it now?" wondered Randall with his usual light-as-lead humour. "Fancy that."

  "Manus," went on Pilot ignoringly, "is administered by Australia under mandate-even if the Yanks have made a bloody great naval base of it."

  "We know that," sneered Randall.

  "I wish I knew something," said Bentley, in a reflective tone.

  "What's that, sir?" queried Pilot.

  "That the Yanks would stay there, and kept it as a great naval base after the war."

  "Why?" Randall frowned. "With the Japs licked, what use is it?"

  "History repeats itself, they say. This is the war to end all wars. They said that about the Kaiser's war. What if we're into it again, say ten or twenty years from now? Look what happened to Singapore. Who expected the Japs to reach Milne Bay, and damn near Port Moresby? If the world does go crazy again, God forbid, then a major naval base at Manus run by a friendly power would be something very handy to have around."

  Bentley smiled suddenly, chasing his frown away. "However, you can bet a bee to a bull's foot the politicians down south won't see it my way," he said with unknowing prescience. "But I disgress. What else did you learn, you bloody chart-spoiler?"

  "Oh." Pilot had been interested in his captain's reflections; they had been delivered soberly and with conviction. You didn't normally hear a subject like that discussed on the bridge, and politics never. He thought Bentley had made some damned sound points. But the subject was closed.

  "Well, now. Manus has been owned by three nations. It was discovered by the Dutch way back in 1616, then..."

  "They were real navigators," jibed Randall.

  "Then the Germans took possession in 1885. After that we came along."

  "When ?" asked Bentley.

  "Australian troops occupied Manus Island-the whole Admiralty group, actually-in September, 1914."

  "The month, yet," Randall grinned, "You learned all that lot by heart. Go to the top of the mast, teacher's pet. Now tell me something that really matters. Precisely when do we get there? How many Yank ships in port? Is there any beer available? Most important of all, can we expect mail?"

  "You bloody Philistine," Pilot growled. "A man tries to broaden your education and all he gets is questions about beer..."

  "Philistine, am I? You'll be asking questions if I can't get the wardroom liquor supply stocked up!"

  Bentley listened to their amiable bickering and not for the first time he thought that even war has its compensations. They were a damned good bunch, it was good to be with them. Some were not so good as others, both personally and professionally, but they were men after all, you had to expect differences, and taken in the main he couldn't wish for a better crew, officers or ratings. Old Hooky Walker down there by A-mountings, listening as usual, Saunders the little gunner's mate, doing the talking as usual, Jack Rennie the cox'n, Petty-officer Gellatly, that freckled-faced rascal Billson... Pleasantly Bentley's musings idled along, and then Able-seaman Craven put the lid on that.

  Again the buzzer pitched sharply. Bentley frowned. This time he had all his flock with him. So far as he knew no other allied ships were in the vicinity. Behind the facade of his composed expression the tension began to coil.

  Randall had shut up abruptly. Officer of the watch, he answered the voice pipe, plugging it with one side of his face so that Bentley did not hear the masthead report. Pilot was crossing back to the binnacle.

  In action, or at the threat of it, he went there as naturally as a gunlayer to his wheel.

  Randall's face came up again. It showed no concern, but eagerness. Even as he waited Bentley noted this. Randall was never really happy unless he were stoushing. Though no fool-he'd seen more than his share of death and maiming-he was a fighter born. He never knew when to run. This was why, in Bentley's private opinion, he made a first-class deputy, but would not last long in command.

  Now his voice cracked across the silent bridge.

  "Masthead reports a set of three topmasts off the port quarter, sir. Probably destroyers, estimated course south-east."

  "Very well."

  Bentley's mind started its mesh of calculations. South-east was almost parallel to their own course. But with only topmasts in sight, the estimation would be a very rough one. Yet it could be right- Manus lay to the southeast, and Manus these days always held valuable prizes. But three destroyers would hardly attempt to snatch them. Unless they were backed up by a heavier force still out of sight...

  "Something wrong, sir?" asked Randall curiously, beside him again.

  Bentley cleared his frown away. "Not yet, Bob. They might be American. Let's take a look."

  He caught Pilot's eye, which was hardly difficult. The navigator was bent sideways with his mouth at the wheel-house voice pipe, while like an eager hound dog's his eyes were fixed on the captain.

  "Port thirty," Bentley ordered. "Go on to 270 revolutions. Warn the engine-room to stand by for high-speed manoeuvring."

  The first and last orders were obeyed at once. But Wind Rode was not alone, and Ferris had to help in implementing the middle order. This was done swiftly. The flags hauled up, were answered, and before the Leader had half completed her turn on to an intercepting course five engine-rooms were filled with the rising whine of turbines.

  Each ship turned in the wake of the next ahead, maintaining the formation of line-astern from the Leader. Bentley kept it that way. The strange flotilla was to the north of him, while his own course was now east. If Craven had been right, then the projected lines of advance of both groups formed an angle of 45 degrees. Thus the formation of line-astern would allow every gun of all his ships to bear.

  If the flotilla were enemy, he could engage it with 30 guns. This meant a total of close on 500 rounds per minute. Assuming the Jap destroyers were fairly modern, they could answer that lot with no more than 18 guns, probably 15.

  Bentley was not too sanguine about his superiority in firepower; nothing was certain, and conceivably two lucky shells could make the odds even. As well, there was the other thing puzzling him, but he kept that to himself. He had more to do now than speculate, for Craven reported:

  "Masthead, bridge. Identification certain, sir. Three Jap destroyers, course south-east, heading to cross our bows. I think..."

  Bentley was at the voice pipe himself. He knew Craven, and he wanted to catch even the nuances of his tone.

  "No, sir, I'm sure. They're Sigure-class. Speed about twenty knots."

  The tone was definite. Bentley believed him.

  "Good work, lad. Keep an eye on `em, but cover to the northward as well. They might have big friends astern."

  "Aye aye, sir!" said Craven, liking that "lad" bit. His binoculars trained slowly left, and carefully he searched.

  Bentley returned to stand on the binnacle beside Pilot.

  "Looks like we're not sighted yet, sir."

  Bentley nodded. In this area the Japs would be alert, but perhaps their masthead lookout positions were not quite so high as Wind Rode's. This would account for their easy twenty knots.

  Neither of the three officers thought to check the identification book in the chart-table draw, nor did they comment on their enemy's potential. They were professionals. They knew what the Japs carried, as aficionados know the horsepower and speed and torque of the monsters hurtling round Le Mans.

  Just the same, though silent, Bentley was thinking of what he was up against. Sigure-class meant 1400 tons, smaller than Wind Rode, and five 5-inch guns, slightly larger than her 4.7s. The disparity would be more than equalled by a greater number of guns, 30 to 15, and by a faster rate of fire. In speed, too, he had the legs of the Jap. He had 40,000 horsepower and 36 knots, as against 37,000 and 34.

  This was comforting, but far from self-deluding. Against Bismarck there had been two great ships, Hood and Prince of Wales. And against Hood... one shell.

  Then, almost simultaneously, Craven reported that the enemy was increasing speed, and radar reported it was in contact.

  "
Number One," Bentley said formally, "close-up for action, please."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Neither man was conscious of the formality. They would have been of its absence. You don't go into action all buddy-buddy and old pals together. Now Wind Rode was a fighting machine, a single unit of 200 men, and of these one man was absolute lord. He acted, and was treated, accordingly.

  Bentley could order those Jap destroyers rammed, or run away from or a score of other things, and in all he would be instantly and unquestionably obeyed. The power of a captain might seem to be frightening. Perhaps it is. But then such power is not lightly bestowed.

  Its recipient is always carefully, and in most cases wisely, chosen.

  There is another vital and distinguishing feature about a captain, or even an admiral. In the Army and Air Force your generals and air-marshals are miles behind the fighting. Not so in the Navy. There was a man named John Tovey. His rank was Admiral of the Fleet and his post was Commander-in-Chief, British Home Fleet. Yet this man, equal in rank to a field-marshal of the Army, faced, in the gale-driven Atlantic, with precisely the same degree of danger as his lowliest ordinary-seaman second-class, the 15-inch guns of one of the mightiest battleships ever built... Bismarck.

  This is not meant, of course, to disparage the top brass of other Services. A general is required to plan, not pull triggers. Nevertheless, a Navy chief is right in there fighting.

  Like this one. As a captain Bentley ranked with a colonel; as a Captain (Destroyers), senior-officer of a flotilla, in command of a thousand men and some ten thousand tons of metal, he probably ranked with a brigadier. Neither of these Army gentlemen would normally be expected to be near their guns. Bentley was perhaps ten feet behind the cocked-up twins of B-mounting.

  "Looks like they're going to fight," said Randall, grinning tightly.

  "I wonder," murmured Bentley.

  Randall squinted at him, then across the sea. The range was about thirteen miles, two miles this side of the horizon as visible from the height of a destroyer's bridge. It was still too far for effective shooting, but with sharp clarity Randall could see the whole starboard length of each Jap destroyer, and just as definitely his mind was convinced of three things-the enemy flotilla had increased to full speed, it had not altered course, and it was heading fast to meet them. Not likely to fight...?

  "Come again?" said Randall puzzledly.

  "Not now, Number One." Bentley's head turned a little. "Enemy speed?"

  The radar plot gave him the answer.

  "Enemy speed 30 knots, course one-three-five degrees, course and speed steady."

  If that's not a bloody fighting speed and course I'll take one step outboard, Randall was thinking, when Bentley spoke again and puzzled him further.

  "Tell the director to open fire on the leading ship as soon as we're in maximum range. Yeoman, pass by light to all ships: `Leader only to open fire pending further orders'."

  Randall opened his mouth, then he shut it and gave up. The ways of God and Bentley often passed understanding.

  A few seconds later there happened something poor old Randall was eminently fitted to understand. He was the gunnery officer. Lasenby up in the director said "Shoot," and Randall's six cannon gave tongue. His binoculars came up.

  Seeming small at that range, but still whitely visible against the blue, the spouts showed in his lenses short and a little out for line. Still, at such a closing rate and at such speed that wasn't bad shooting.

  Randall winced. Cocked up almost to extreme elevation, the snouts of B-mounting's long grey barrels were damn near level with his face, and the gale-force wind of her passage smacked their blast straight into it.

  The roar and the brown smoke shredded away and Randall watched for the second fall of shot. This would take some time to show. Before it did, Randall ejaculated:

  "Well I'm buggered! What the hell...?"

  Then Lasenby also-the old eyeball being quicker than the radar plot-confirmed the reason for Randall's surprise.

  "Enemy turning away," Lasenby sent down to the bridge.

  This was a normal gunnery report, but they all knew it was more than that happening out there, more than a small alteration to avoid the following broadside.

  The Jap destroyers were heeling gunwales awash under the heave of hard-over rudders. They kept turning. The second broadside landed, now even further out for line. Just too late to catch the third broadside, Bentley ordered:

  "Cease firing."

  The guns fell silent, but at least they were empty. It was a tedious job ramming back shells which had been rammed hard-up against the rifling.

  "Cease firing," Lasenby acknowledged. "All guns cleared. Enemy still on the turn away."

  And so he was-almost right round now, then straightening up from that violent heel, and then running fast and straight back to the northward. While Wind Rode continued on her easterly course.

  Randall waited a few seconds, wondering if Bentley was delaying so that he could check on the last fall of shot. But what the hell did that matter now? The targets were clear to blazes.

  Still no order came, and Randall could hold himself no longer.

  "They're increasing the range every minute! Why aren't we altering after `em?" Then, seeing Bentley's quizzical look, Randall said, on a downward inflection of understanding, "Oh."

  "That's right," Bentley nodded. "We are pretty low on fuel, Pilot!"

  "Sir?"

  "Come down to twenty knots. Resume original course." And to Randall: "Secure action stations, Number One."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  When the bridge was cleared of all officers except himself and Bentley, Randall growled:

  "All right, chum. Why?"

  Being human as well as captain, Bentley was feeling pleased that his forecast of enemy intentions had turned out accurate. The danger was past, the flotilla was intact, and he could afford to indulge in facetiousness.

  "Why what, old shipmate?"

  "You know bloody well why what! How come you had only Wind Rode firing?"

  "Well, it worked, didn't it?"

  "You sound like you knew it would," said Randall curiously.

  "Not knew - guessed. It's almost dark, they were calling our bluff. As for only one ship firing, there was no point in wasting ammunition. I didn't expect to hit at that range."

  "But you did expect them to turn away. Why did they, so suddenly? The bastards never even opened fire."

  "It is rather odd," Bentley murmured, rubbing at his chin.

  "No it's not," Randall suddenly answered himself. "Three against five, that's why. What's so odd about that?"

  "I was thinking about something else."

  "Like what?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "I am," nodded Randall, his expression malicious. "You won't spill it in case you're wrong. That would never do, would it?"

  "Roberto, you are so right."

  "What sort of answer is that? Come on. What's kicking around in that oversized brain, eh? Damn it all, I'm your sidekick, I have a right to know."

  "If I am right, you'll know all in good time. Meanwhile, take a look at the chart and try and work it out for yourself. I'll be in my cabin, Einstein."

  As he started to go down the ladder, and glanced back, and saw Randall heading for the chart, Bentley felt a twinge of regret that he'd used that last name. The big fellow mightn't be a mental genius, but there were other qualities required in a sidekick, and of those Randall possessed a full measure.

  Bentley entered his cabin, and while he stripped for a shower before dinner he pondered over what had seemed so odd about the position of those destroyers. At dinner he was still thinking about it, but had come to no conclusive answer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NEXT day Bentley realised that while he had no answer, he unexpectedly had the chance to discuss the problem with a mind more experienced and sharper than his own.

  Pilot's Pilot had been, excusably, not quite up to date. Not three, but fou
r nations had occupied the island of Manus. But the Japanese had been kicked out by the Americans, and the violence of their brief tenure was indicated by the condition of the real estate on either side of the reef entrance as Wind Rode led her flotilla through it. Once, that reef-it was really a long hook of land enclosing the great harbour-had been lushly covered with tropical vegetation. As the Pilot correctly informed, Manus Island "is mountainous but fertile."

  Most of it still was; the hook of land was a desolation. Battleship and cruiser shells falling short from the American pre-invasion bombardment had seen to that. Great holes gutted the ground, and where palm trees had not been smashed into shredded stumps, they were burned black as if by a bushfire. They'd endured worse than that.