J. E. MacDonnell - 096 Page 6

  "His emphasis on that particular word was due entirely to my presence," said Sainsbury deadpan. "In my ship the word has already been passed. Would you like me to send for one of my stokers?"

  Bentley laughed. "You win."

  "Thank you. Now that you have proved your point- in a most dubious manner, I might add-perhaps we can get on with our somewhat more important discussion?"

  "Shoot."

  "What is your appreciation of that enemy flotilla's intentions?"

  "Not offensive, that's for sure."

  "I see we have picked up some American terminology. What makes you so sure?"

  "Didn't I mention it? Almost as soon as we opened fire, after the second broadside, in fact, the Japs turned right away and scuttled off to the northward without firing a shot."

  "Which means?"

  "I think they meant to reconnoitre the harbour at night. All the vegetation near the entrance has been destroyed. Even from well out, with night glasses, they could identify battleships and carriers, maybe even..."

  Bentley stopped. Sainsbury was nodding his head with the remembered bird-like gestures.

  "You agree?" Bentley said.

  "More than that, my boy. I am pleased to see that you still have all your wits about you."

  "Why thank you, sir."

  "I find little humour in the situation, Peter. In fact, I expected a reconnaissance mission such as you suggested, either by aircraft or destroyers. Personally, I plumped for destroyers. They are much harder to kill than a recco aircraft, and at least one of them would have got off a message about what they'd discovered."

  Bentley was aware of all that. "You expected it?" he frowned.

  "Yes. That is why I'm here."

  "Then you've been given a damn sight more information than I have!"

  "That is possible, dear boy."

  Bentley took a deep breath and expelled it slowly.

  "All right. How about putting me in the picture, loud and clear?"

  "Certainly," Sainsbury surprised him. "As of now, you and your flotilla sail under my command. Is that clear enough?"

  Excitement moved in Bentley. His eyes snapped with eagerness.

  "The group again. Same as before!"

  "In some respects."

  "What d'you mean?"

  "We sail and fight as a group, certainly, but this time we have no specific target. Neither do the Japs, though they would very much like to."

  At this, cryptic statement Bentley said nothing, though his silence was a questioning shout.

  "Yes," Sainsbury smiled thinly. "Well now. The Japs tried a reconnaissance of Seeadler Harbour because they suspect a large build-up of naval force here. They are right. They also suspect that the build-up is connected with a large-scale allied invasion. In this, too, they are right. The task of our group, both before and during the invasion, is to scout to the westward. Objective... to sight, if possible delay, but most definitely to report on any heavy Japanese naval units conning from the direction of the Philippines. A simple assignment, Peter?"

  And highly bloody dangerous, Bentley thought. He said, with a casualness that would not have deceived a deaf mole:

  "Where's the invasion to be?"

  "I cannot divulge that yet, not even to you."

  But you know, thought Bentley-which says a hell of a lot for the American admiral's trust in you. But then, like the Congressional Medal of Honour, the Victoria Cross carried a deal of weight, especially when it was owned by the captain of a cruiser, now commanding-officer of a hunting group.

  "Fair enough," Bentley nodded then: "Y'know, it's highly probable that any major intercepting force will come from the direction of the Philippines."

  "Correct."

  "Then we've been given a responsible job."

  "Correct."

  "How nice of them," Bentley grinned. "The Americans, I mean."

  "It can be assumed, 1 think, that the admiral reposes a certain amount of trust in your flotilla and my cruiser."

  "Fine. But you mentioned before the invasion as well as during. When do we sail?"

  "Tomorrow, at 0.700."

  "Area? Any specific objective?"

  "We will return on your earlier patrol course, though not as far north as Pusan Point. In fact, we will keep well clear of all land, and it's quite possible that if the Japs' suspicions become more than that, then we might be required back in this locality. I don't want to get too far away."

  "No argument. But what do you hope to find?"

  "One never knows, does one?"

  "One never does," Bentley grinned.

  "Hmmm. However, there is something I do know, for your cauliflower ears alone."

  Automatically one of Bentley's hands went to his ear, before he whipped it down again. Sainsbury's mouth twitched.

  "Joke, my lad. You have been singularly and undeservedly fortunate in the slugging matches from which you seem to derive such odd enjoyment."

  "Quick ducking."

  "Yes. Well now, as I was saying. More American heavy units are due in here tomorrow."

  "So the big day's fairly close?"

  "Who knows?"

  Cagey coot, Bentley thought, then Sainsbury rose up to his full five-feet-six. Standing also and at once, Bentley loomed over him, above and sideways. Yet the smaller man failed to suffer by comparison. It was not his equal rings nor his equal ribbons, but in his face. The thin weathered visage held a stamp of absolute surety.

  "Goodbye, Peter," Sainsbury said, and shook hands, his slight fingers smothered in Bentley's grip. "I shall see you over the side. By the way," turning a little at the door, "you do understand, my boy, but I took the liberty of adding the words starb'd gangway to the signal for your boat."

  Bentley nodded. His smile was warm. In a different measure of heat, so were his thoughts-they concerned Leading-seaman Billson.

  On the way aft to the starboard gangway Sainsbury held his cap beneath his left arm. This was one of the Navy's old customs, and like all of them it had a practical point. The cap under the arm meant that the captain did not wish to be accorded the usual courtesies of men standing to attention and interrupting their work as he passed. It was undesirable, as a captain passed up and down his own decks, to have scores of men standing to attention. It would be, in fact, damned silly.

  The two officers moved along the deck and the groups of men continued with their work; ordered, in effect, to ignore the usual order of things.

  Yet there were many surreptitious glances directed at both captains, the one so thin as almost to seem frail, the other wide-shouldered, big and light-stepping. They all knew who he was, of course-the heavyweight champion of the Fleet cannot hope for anonymity-but mainly their interest was concerned with the identical ribbons on each chest.

  In a ship or even in the Navy it is rare to see a man entitled to write V.C. after his name: to have two of them together, both post-captains, is exceptional. The men of Tempest were suitably impressed. They understood that this pair denoted a good deal of skill and experience. What they did not know, yet, was that, with what in the not too distant future they were to meet, those attributes were to be sorely needed. But now the cruiser's men were simply curious.

  The joke was over. The piping party drawn up at right-angles to the starboard gangway were disciplined of eye as well as face. The pipes shrilled as Bentley stepped on to the upper platform, and again as the motorboat drew away. Then there was only the sound of its engine, but quite clearly the coxswain heard above it: "Billson!"

  A freckled face turned. "Sir?"

  "You know what you did, you great oaf?"

  "Yessir, I do... now. But it won't happen again, sir."

  "Of course it won't. Since when does an ordinary-seaman cox'n a motorboat?"

  "No, sir."

  But Billson was smiling-after he had turned his face back. A leading-seaman can with the greatest of ease be disrated to an able-seaman, but never to an ordinary-seaman. Billson knew he was safe.

  Bentley sat down in the sternsheets, forgetting his boat coxswain. It had been a leisurely lunch, but only because Sainsbury knew the sailing time, and that the flotilla would be refuelling and restoring under the capable superintendence of Randall. Bentley was musing on the implications of what he'd been told. It would be a large-scale invasion, that was certain: heavy units meant battleships and carriers, and expensive vehicles like those were too precious to be used except for the most important functions.

  Yet it was the other near-certainty that exercised Bentley's thoughts. Already the Japs were suspicious. It needed only the briefest sighting from a recco aircraft, a periscope, or even a motor torpedo boat, and the Japs would hasten to send along their own heavy units, and these would come from bases in the Philippines-and standing in the way of their nasty intention would be Tempest and his flotilla.

  Their job was to sight and report, Sainsbury had said- and, if possible, delay. Knowing Sainsbury, Bentley knew what that last bit meant, at least if the enemy force were contacted at night. By day, of course, Sainsbury would simply open the range and shadow the threatening force, reporting regularly on its course and speed.

  At this point, while the boat was shaping-up to come alongside Wind Rode's gangway, Bentley was unpleasantly reminded of his own dictum-at sea, nothing is certain.

  But there are other dictums, like sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, or let the future take care of itself, or don't cross your bridges, and as he went up the ladder Bentley replaced his unpleasant thoughts with another less worrying.

  "Anything up?" asked Randall when the piping party had fallen-out.

  "Buy me a drink and I'll think about telling you."

  "Ah... Yes, of course."

  Bentley understood his first lieutenant's hesitation when he stepped into the mess. With the captain out of the ship the wardroom, too, had enjoyed a leisurely lunch. It was still almost full.

  They got to their feet and a flick of Bentley's finger sat them down again. He was not in the least annoyed that they were still here. One patrol had just finished, and in the morning another would start. They deserved all the relaxation they could get. There is discipline, and discipline. They saw by his face that all was well and their own expressions eased, though curiosity was alive in them.

  Bentley sat down, with Randall beside him. A frosted glass filled with cold amber was placed in his ready hand. He took a swallow, then he said:

  "Now gentlemen."

  They knew where he had just come from. At his words their expressions tightened into alertness. This was it- a nice long spell in harbour, protected by the big stuff, or else a sailing into possible mayhem, possibly this afternoon. Destroyers were good to serve in, but by Jehoshaphat they were worked! But they were used to that, and you couldn't have everything, and so they waited for the verdict, and Bentley said:

  "What the hell, gentlemen, is a tutu?"

  Some jaws fell open, while others clicked shut. But it was a young team. Most of them were unmarried, and childless. All of them remained silent. Until from the far side of the mess there came a deep, clearing cough.

  All those young faces swung, to stare at the defensively belligerent and bald headed dial of Mr. McGuire, commissioned engineer.

  "You, Chief?" queried Bentley.

  "Yes, me sir," said the oldest officer in the ship.

  "All right, all right," smiled Bentley, for McGuire also happened to be one of his most important officers. "If this embarrasses you, forget it."

  "Why should it embarrass me?" demanded McGuire, glaring round those curious faces, most of them young enough to belong to his son.

  "Okay then. So what is a blasted tutu?" asked Bentley.

  "It's one of them ballet dancer's dresses, sir. A tight satin top and those layers and layers of that netty stuff that stick out from the hips. Y'know, like they wear in the dance of the dying swan. Les Sylphides and Coppelia, things like that."

  Their astonishment was understandable. Ask the Chief about forced lubrication or working pressure of a boiler... sure. But ballet!

  "How the devil do you know this?" wondered Bentley.

  "I oughta know," growled McGuire. "Got a daughter, fourteen. She's learning ballet, and just before we left Sydney I had to fork out for a bloody new tutu. Cost me quids!"

  "Ah..." smiled Bentley, and:

  "Why the devil do you want to know?" wondered Randall, for all of them.

  "Just a casual reference, came up in the conversation," Bentley said airily. "Yes. Well, now. I suppose you want to know about leave, Number One?"

  Randall did, even more than he wanted to know about tutus. He'd worm that reference out of his friend some other time. He nodded.

  "Usual midnight leave," Bentley said, "ship under sailing orders."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  They were disappointed. The captain's words told them nothing. In a port such as Manus, lacking accommodation for hundreds of libertymen, leave was always up at midnight, and during wartime, unless she were laid up for a refit or a boiler-clean, a ship was always under sailing orders.

  Then Bentley said to Randall, "Have the duty petty-officer stress that midnight limit," and as he rose and they stood up with him, they knew, at least, that some time tomorrow they could expect to be at sea again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE destroyers went out first, snaking through the entrance and then forming a sub-hunting line outside to clear the way for the bigger ship.

  You like cars, or maybe the way a tennis champ serves or a fullback runs? Seamen like ships, and the way they run.

  As she came out Tempest was something to look at, and for a seaman to like very much. With nothing on asdic-only an extraordinary gutsy, or stupid, submarine commander would have his boat in this particular area- Bentley laid his glasses on Sainsbury's ship, now clearing the entrance.

  Ostensibly, Tempest was a light cruiser. But this class of ship is usually about 6000 tons,-Tempest rated 8000 tons, which put her closer to the class of heavy cruiser. And each turret mounted three guns, and she had four turrets; twelve high-velocity 6-inch cannon. A very handy broadside indeed.

  She was long, better than 550 feet, and with attractive lines. There was a racy look about her-understandable, with her four screws, 72,000 horsepower and 33 knots- though he thought her silhouette might have been improved with the funnels raked instead of vertical. But that was merely an aesthetic consideration. More to the point was her square-cut, sloping stern-speed-and the four wide triple turrets-fast and heavy hitting power- and the six torpedo tubes- handy against a bigger enemy-and the advanced-type radar aerials above the director and on her foremast.

  Level with the forward turret and running aft past the boilers and engine-rooms to the after turret-all her vitals -he could see the bulge of a belt of armour plate rising a couple of feet above the waterline. But to allow Tempest her speed, almost a destroyer's pace, this armour would be only about four inches thick, and while it would protect to some degree against torpedoes it would present a much less effective barrier to a battleship's one-ton projectiles.

  But then, Bentley smiled at his thoughts, she would hardly take on a battleship.

  Ferris called. The flotilla was to form-up in an inverted V position ahead of their big sister.

  Presently this was done, with Bentley watching hawk-eyed for any slackness or mistake in front of those other watching, senior eyes-owned by a man who had once owned this flotilla.

  Now the course was north-west, with Bentley in the van and two of his destroyers stepped-back on each side of the cruiser in the middle of the formation. Thus Tempest was protected ahead and to port and starboard by visible, overlapping arcs of underwater detection.

  But no one was worried very much by the threat of submarine attack. The group was moving quite fast, and anyway it could be assumed that a hunting submarine commander would pass up five anti-submarine Fleet destroyers for the chance at a less malevolent and more vulnerable merchant ship.

  "Nice group, eh?" Randall said suddenly beside him. Bentley nodded. It was a nice group indeed... altogether 50 sizeable guns, counting Tempest's eight dual-purpose 4-inch, plus a total of 56 torpedo tubes. Some punch. But most of all, to Bentley, it was the group's speed and manoeuvrability that impressed and comforted him. No 12-knot convoy to hamper them or worry about; just six fast, powerful and battle-experienced warships, under the independent command of a man who provenly knew what he was about. And every manjack of them Australians. Very, very nice, Bentley was thinking, and Ferris called: "From Tempest, sir. `you are half a cable ahead of station'."