Strike from the Sea (1978) (15 page)

Menzies muttered, ‘Rather him than me, sir.’

Ainslie craned over the screen to watch the bustling activity below him. If the seaplane failed to get airborne they would have to ditch it. But if
Soufrière
had to dive because of some unforeseen emergency Christie would have no choice but to head for the nearest land and pray it was still in friendly hands.

He had watched the pilot’s features as he had outlined his plan. But he had seen little change in Christie’s expression, other than relief to be away on his own again. Alone, except for his gangling observer, Sub-Lieutenant Jones. They made a strange pair. Christie, the tough, experienced flyer, and Jones, who had been a bank clerk when the war had started.

‘Is everything all right, Cottier?’ He knew little of the Frenchman, who was quite unlike Lucas in every way. He laughed a lot, but never with his eyes, and in some odd way Ainslie felt he did not really like the other French lieutenant.

‘They are prepared,
Capitaine.
’ Cottier showed his teeth in the gloom. ‘Shall I make the signal?’

Ainslie nodded. ‘Warn the control room.’

He thought suddenly of the passengers. The dark-eyed Malay women and the children clinging to them like ragged pods. The soldiers, those not drugged to ease their pain, seemed to spend their time staring into space, completely separated from their comrades around them. Reliving some of it. Letting parts of the horror ease back into their minds, as a man will feel a wound.

With a coughing roar the seaplane’s engine snarled into life, filling the bridge with blue vapour and a chorus of protests and curses from the lookouts.

Cottier waved a white flag over the screen, and like a missile fired from a spring gun the twin-winged plane shot along the short catapult and climbed sky ward.

Ainslie felt the shock wave ripping over the submarine, and
felt the excitement around him as they all watched the little seaplane climbing and climbing, dashing across the pale stars like a shadow.

The tannoy droned. ‘Secure catapult and hangar. Clear the casing.’

If and when the plane returned, it would land on its floats as near as possible and taxi alongside where it would be winched aboard by its own special derrick.

Ainslie glanced at Southby. ‘Well, Sub, what did you think of that?’

‘Jolly good, sir.’ He sounded as if he had doubted Christie’s ability until this moment.

Ainslie forgot about Southby and concentrated on the one short signal they had added to their sparse information about the troopship. She was large, an ex-cargo liner of some twelve thousand tons. There was still no news about the strength of her escort, but two destroyers had been reported leaving Saigon at about the same time. But Ainslie had operated before with far less intelligence at his disposal. Usually his first knowledge of the target had been when it had appeared in his cross-wires.

He was almost certain that the enemy had no idea the
Soufrière
was at sea and operational. They probably imagined she was still in Singapore, or on her way to Britain for safety’s sake.

Menzies said, ‘Mr Christie’s out of sight, sir.’ He lowered his glasses. ‘I just hope the Japs haven’t got a carrier with them.’

Ainslie glanced at him grimly. ‘You make Job seem like an optimist, Yeo.’

Menzies turned away grumbling, ‘Airmen in submarines. I don’t reckon it.’

Ainslie moved to the voice-pipes. ‘Depth, please?’

‘Thirty-five fathoms, sir.’

‘Very well.’

He pictured how it would look. The ship would be zigzagging, leaving the escorts well spread out around her. The Japs did not take chances. They went by the book. Usually.

Torpedoman Sawle asked permission to come to the bridge and appeared carrying a great fanny of cocoa. It was amazing how they could enjoy the thick, glutinous mixture in the humid air. Perhaps because it was familiar. Part of the world they understood.

Ainslie sipped the cocoa slowly, feeling the sweat running down his spine as if to compensate for its penetration.

‘All quiet below, Sawle?’

‘Few of the kids are playin’ up, sir. Lost their mums and dads apparently, poor little bleeders.’

Sawle was a Londoner, and his rough appreciation was some how more moving because of it.

He added as an afterthought, ‘Still, the lads ’ad a whip round for nutty an’ tins of milk. Things could be worse.’

Ainslie watched him go below, whistling to himself. How the hell would we manage without the Sawles of this world?

‘Captain, sir! Aircraft, starboard bow!’

The machine-guns creaked towards the sound, a faint, throbbing drone, like a tired wasp.

Menzies said, ‘It’s our flyer, sir.’ He peered at his watch. ‘Dead on time.’

Ainslie searched the sky, wondering what Christie would say. But he had done well and had arrived back almost to the minute.

‘Warn the hangar party.’

The tannoy droned again. ‘Stand by to receive aircraft.’

The seaplane passed the starboard side, flashing a brief signal in response to the shaded hand lamp from the conning tower.

Then she was down, curtseying easily across the low swell, the propeller throwing spray over the wings whenever she dipped too steeply.

As the first hint of daylight drew a faint line along the horizon, the hangar clanged shut, Christie and his aircraft sealed inside once more.

‘Clear the bridge.’ Ainslie watched the orderly bustle around him and then said, ‘Twenty metres. Dive, dive, dive.
Negative
klaxon.’ He half smiled as he closed the last cock on the voicepipe. They might be going to die today, and yet he had spared the Malay children and sleeping wounded the additional anxiety of the klaxon. He must be going mad.

As he reached the control-room deck, and the lower hatch was slammed and clipped behind him, he saw Christie and his observer already by the chart table.

‘Twenty metres, sir. Revolutions for eight knots. Ship’s head zero-four-five.’

‘Very good, Number One.’ Ainslie nodded to Christie. ‘Glad you made it.’

Christie looked very pleased with himself, and had a mask of oil below where his goggles had been, like an air ace from the Great War.

Forster was busy with parallel rulers and dividers, his eyes squinting with concentration.

Ainslie looked at the pencilled lines, then at Christie’s grimy finger, as he indicated one small cross.

‘Here, sir. About twenty miles ahead of us. One big ship, the trooper, and two destroyers. Right astern there were two smaller vessels, but I daren’t get any nearer.’

‘Did they see you?’

Christie grinned. ‘No chance, but I had them pinned down on the first light, right on the horizon. By God, that’s a fine little kite, sir. I could win a cup or two with her.’

Ainslie looked at him curiously. They were suddenly face to face with it again. Twenty miles ahead. Even zigzagging, they would be in range within the hour, less if the ships were fairly new. But all Christie could think about was his new toy.

Forster was saying, ‘We should pass at this point, sir, if we maintain present course and speed.’ His dividers hesitated above some depth figures. Thirty fathoms. It was not much with a pair of destroyers on your back.

‘The target’s mean course is south-west. She is expected to arrive off Kota Baharu in the forenoon. We’ll steer due north for fifteen minutes.’

Ainslie waited as the gyro repeater ticked round above Gosling’s massive head. He was thinking aloud. ‘Maximum revolutions.’ He heard his words being translated into action. ‘Group up. Revolutions for eleven knots.’

It was their best chance. To move in now, and fast. When they rose to periscope depth the small convoy should be to starboard, against the sun, while, with luck,
Soufrière
would still have a darker backcloth.

He looked at Ridgway. ‘Full salvo. One to eight. As before, keep the two stern tubes as a last resort.’

Forster’s pencil rolled over the chart table and fell to the deck, the only hint of the sudden increase in power.

He saw Farrant waiting by the bulkhead door. ‘Yes, Guns?’

Farrant eyed the control room with distaste. ‘Permission to man turret, sir.’

‘Not this time, Guns. But I want you to send some of your
best hands forrard to look after the passengers. Things might get a bit dicey later on.’

‘I’d have thought . . .’ Farrant shut his mouth tightly. He knew Ainslie well enough now not to argue.

Ainslie dropped his voice and added, ‘You may think that it hardly comes under your scheme of things. But believe me, if you’d ever seen panic, you’ll know what it could do here!’

Halliday was looking at his diving panel but heard enough to guess what Farrant had started to say.

‘Silly bugger.’

Lucas looked at him. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’m not talking to you, Frenchie.’ He jerked his thumb towards where Farrant had been standing. ‘God preserve us from numskulls like him!’

Lucas smiled gently. Halliday had said
us.
That was quite a breakthrough for the taciturn engineer.

In his small sick-bay Petty Officer Hunt went about his duties with his usual meticulous care. He was one of the few men in the submarine who cared little for his surroundings. For Hunt the job was everything. Submarine, hospital, or some clapped-out barracks, it was all the same to him.

He paused by one of the four cots. He had moved his worst cases into them after the three men who had died had been buried.

The man was a corporal, a small, wiry Australian whose face was criss-crossed with wrinkles and as tanned as leather. Someone who had lived off the land before he had donned a uniform.

He was dying very slowly, the life draining out of him with the precision of sand in an egg-timer. No hurry, no obvious change, but Hunt had seen enough dying men to recognize the signs.

He looked around his crowded domain. Men lying on the deck in blankets, or sitting on lockers waiting to have their dressings changed. The rest were scattered through the hull like extra provisions. The petty officers’ mess, the wardroom, there was even one soldier in the torpedo storage space.

Hunt wondered if he should visit the captain’s cabin and see that the two British girls were all right. He had been once, and heard the one whose husband had been left in the village moaning and sobbing, coming out of her drugged respite to go over it all again.

Hunt disliked women, but he had found time to admire the other girl, the one called Natalie, when she had said, ‘I’ll look after you. We’ll be all right. You see.’

All right? Hunt watched the dying man. We’ll be bloody lucky to get out of it in one piece.

He looked up, irritated, as a burly leading seaman stepped over the coaming. ‘What’s wrong with you, then?’

The seaman was a gunlayer, who grinned as he answered, ‘Gunnery officer’s orders, PO. I’m here to help out.’

Hunt frowned. All this mess to clear up. Women aboard, kids, the lot. And now this intrusion.

He opened his mouth but said nothing as the intercom speaker clicked on.

‘This is the captain. We are about to engage an enemy convoy, the main target being a troopship. Our men in Malaya need all the help they can get. We’ll try to give some. That is all.’

The dying soldier had opened his eyes and said hoarsely, ‘I heard that, mate!’ He smiled up at the burly leading hand and reached out to grip the SBA’s arm. But his arm froze in mid air, and Hunt folded it gently across the man’s chest and then closed his eyes.

The seaman said quietly, ‘Poor bastard. And all for nothing.’

Unaware of this and similar dramas throughout his command, Ainslie replaced the microphone on its rack. He did not turn as the first report came through.

‘Faint HE at green nine-oh.’ The Asdic operator sounded engrossed. ‘Too much interference, sir, but more than two ships.’

Ainslie rubbed his palms free of moisture on his trousers. ‘Group down. Revs for seven knots. Silent routine.’ He listened to the fading purr of electric motors, the hushed voices of a boatswain’s mate on the microphone. ‘Periscope depth, Number One.’

He thought about Critchley’s words under the stars, the Malayan children who had found Sawle’s pity.

‘Fourteen metres, sir.’

Ainslie glanced at the young stoker who was waiting to press the hoist switch. ‘Ready, Tamlyn?’

The stoker was no more than eighteen, but he gave a great grin as he said, ‘When you say the word, sir.’

Ainslie stooped down above the periscope well. He’s pleased because I remembered his name. God, it should take more than that to make men risk their lives.

He raised his arm slowly. ‘Now.’

Every muscle in Ainslie’s back and neck seemed to be aching in unison. For no more than seconds at a time he took quick glances through the attack periscope, his eye and brain working like a switch.

Surprisingly, it was all happening as he had expected. Through the spray-dashed lens he had seen the troopship, her side shining in the early sunlight as she completed another zigzag. She was well down, loaded to the hatches with men and weapons.

Behind him Ridgway’s ‘fruit machine’ whirred and clicked as the brief checks through the periscope were transformed into figures and data to be fed into the machine and passed forward to the torpedo tubes.

The troopship’s mean course was south-west, her speed about nine knots.

Against the strange yellow glow she made the perfect target, heavy and stark, like a block of flats.

But the escorts were worrying. Each destroyer was slightly ahead of the trooper, one on either bow. They seemed to have no set pattern in their zigzagging courses, or if they did, Ainslie was not getting long enough to understand the key.

‘Range six thousand yards.’ Ainslie remained crouching beside the well as the greased tube hissed down again. ‘Alter course. Steer zero-seven-zero.’

He waited, controlling his breathing, as the gyro ticked round. Further aft, a mechanic was working on the diving panel with a screwdriver, his face completely calm, as if he were doing a job in his own home.

‘Tubes one to eight ready, sir.’

Ainslie looked at the young stoker. He no longer had to tell him what to do. Another compact unit.