Pride and the Anguish (2 page)

They had been a happy little company in spite of the world around them. Doing any small job thrown their way, from escorting convoys to humping stores. From fighting off air attacks to open combat with E-boats in the Channel. They had
wallowed amidst the pain and misery of Dunkirk, and when based at Harwich Trewin had learned to feel his way between the unlighted sandbars until he could do it blindfolded. Then with England alone against a victorious Germany he had been ordered to the Mediterranean, where with his companions he had watched the same pattern of retreats, the blind optimism of leaders made stale by the mentality of a peacetime service. On to Greece to help with yet one more withdrawal. More gasping, bitter soldiers to be pulled from the water under air attack, their eyes fixed with relief and emotion on the little, scarred M.L. which waited for them in spite of everything. The army had fallen back on Crete, and that was when M.L.99's luck ended.

Crammed with retreating troops Trewin's boat had been one of the last to leave. Hard wear and little maintenance had fouled the engines, and while the mechanics worked desperately in the tiny engine room Trewin and his men had watched the bare, bright sky and waited.

He had counted seven aircraft. But there might have been more. Like divine gulls the planes had swooped over the motionless craft, the air tearing apart with the sounds of their guns, the scream and crash of high explosive. The boat had caught fire and almost immediately had started to capsize.

Trewin had stayed afloat for eleven hours, supported by his lifejacket, his soul only just hanging on to life. It had been like a mad dream. A nightmare which he shared without really seeming to belong in it. He had heard his men crying and drowning. Had felt the savage ache of his flayed shoulder where the blazing fuel had sent him like a torch into the water. When a minesweeper had found them there had been only six alive. The others stayed with their comrades, bobbing in their life-jackets or floating face down in the sea amidst a few slivers of charred timber.

Perhaps that was really why he had been sent to Singapore. Maybe he had said or done something in the hospital which had ruled him unfit for further combat? Trewin stared with sudden
anger at the moored warships. They reminded him of the lieutenant at the naval headquarters he had just left. Sleek and untried. What the hell did they know about war?

The harbour launch puffed round a big transport and headed towards the Malayan shoreline. In the far distance Trewin could see the big causeway which linked the mainland with Singapore Island and the lush green foliage of Johor Bahru abeam of the launch. He stared round with surprise. The last of the big ships were falling astern. Nothing lay across the launch's bows but a line of small, antiquated river gunboats. Trewin had seen pictures of them in the past, in the days when such little ships kept order and showed the flag along the miles of China's great rivers and waterways. With the Japanese playing havoc in China most of these gunboats had, of course, been withdrawn and sent either to Singapore or Hong Kong. A few had even managed to find their way to the Mediterranean to join the rest of that mixed assortment of craft which supplied and protected the flanks of the desert armies.

Now, in the unwinking sunlight, beneath their awnings, the little ships looked for all the world like a line of Thames houseboats, or the old Mississippi river steamers. There were five of them moored in a single line, the largest one being anchored nearest to the causeway.

Trewin craned his head to look down at the boat's coxswain, a bearded seaman with tattooed arms. “Where are we heading now?”

The coxswain showed his strong teeth. “There she is, sir!” He raised one arm and swung the brass wheel with the other. “At the head of the trot.” He barked an order and the launch started to lose way. “The gunboat
Porcupine
!” He grinned broadly. “Flagship of the East Coast Patrols!”

Trewin stared at the approaching vessel. Now he could see the name in gilt across her flat stern where the white ensign hung motionless above the clear water. She was about two hundred feet long, and being designed for shallow-draught work had
most of her accommodation above the main deck. There was a square, businesslike bridge, abaft which the main cabin section ran almost the full length of the deck. She had a single funnel, tall and thin, and two tapering masts which added to the first impression of past grandeur. Even her grey paint could not mask this effect. The paint was not the hasty, dull affair Trewin had come to recognise in home waters, but shone like polished glass, so that as the launch turned towards the varnished accommodation ladder he could pick out his own reflection.

The coxswain said, “Trim little ship, ain't she, sir? Wouldn't mind a billet in 'er meself.” He snarled suddenly at the Chinese bowman, and as the launch nudged against the gangway he added, “I believe the discipline's a bit sharp, sir.” He gave Trewin a hard stare and then dropped his eyes to his wavy stripes. “If you'll pardon the liberty, sir?”

Trewin nodded. “Thanks. I'll bear it in mind!”

He climbed up the short ladder and stepped on to the shaded sidedeck, saluting as he did so.

A very young sub-lieutenant in shirt and shorts saluted him in return and said, “Lieutenant Trewin, sir?”

“Yes. I understand I am to take over as number one from…”

The young officer darted a quick glance at the idling launch and then sighed as it moved clear. “Oh yes, we had a signal about you. Your predecessor has already gone, I'm afraid.” He pulled his mind away from the heavy launch and the obvious threat to the paintwork and said, “Welcome aboard. I'm Hammond. Colin Hammond.”

He had a brusque, clipped way of speaking, but Trewin thought it was due more to nervousness than anything deeper. Hammond had an open, pleasant face with a rather sensitive mouth, and was at a guess about twenty.

Trewin glanced slowly around him, noting the spotless decks, the neatly flaked lines and the general air of disciplined perfection. Rather like a millionaire's yacht, he thought.

“And what do you do, Sub?”

Hammond tucked his telescope under his arm. “I was doing an interpreter's course out here, so they sent me aboard as boarding officer and general dogsbody.” He smiled, so that he looked suddenly defenceless. “Shall I show you around first, Number One? Or would you rather go to your quarters?”

Trewin started. It was strange being addressed as Number One after having a command of his own. “A quick inspection, I think.”

They fell in step and walked along the port sidedeck. Hammond said at length, “The captain's ashore, but left instructions that you were to stay on call for his return.” He added, “How's England, sir?”

Trewin glanced sideways at him. Hammond could have been asking about the North Pole. Perhaps Singapore's impregnable fortress did that to people.

“Fighting,” he said flatly.

They walked on to the forecastle and stopped beside a four-inch gun. Hammond seemed cautious. “This is ‘A' gun. We have another four-inch aft on the battery deck.” He pointed up beyond the bridge. “That's back there.” He saw Trewin's smile and coloured. “I'm sorry, Number One, but I'm not trying to play the ‘old soldier.'”

Trewin nodded. “That's all right, Sub. Keep talking. Otherwise I'll think I'm dreaming.”

Hammond led the way up a ladder through the quiet, orderly wheelhouse and on to the open bridge. From there Trewin could see the ship's top or battery deck and the other gun. There were also a pair of businesslike Oerlikons behind the funnel, and a squat, unknown shape shrouded in a canopy.

Hammond saw his gaze and said hastily, “Three point seven howitzer.” He added awkwardly, “For lobbing shells at shore positions, I believe. Though that was before my time.”

“Before anyone's time, I would think.” Trewin felt the heat across his neck and walked along the open deck until he could look down on her blunt stern.

The young sub-lieutenant said, “Apart from the officers we have sixty ship's company. Half British, half Chinese. The latter are mostly engine-room and ordinary seamen.”

Trewin stared at him. “But what do we
do
?”

“Oh, patrols.” Hammond was vague. “We sail up the east coast of Malaya. Three hundred miles. Two days up and two days down. We can get right inshore and keep an eye on things.”

He did not explain what “things” were, nor did Trewin pursue the point. He had been told enough for a start, he decided.

Porcupine
was something out of the past. As he looked around the neat, even prim exterior he felt the same edge of alarm which had stayed with him after Dunkirk and Crete.

They climbed down to the main deck and he saw the ship's bell hanging from a beautifully polished dolphin. On it was inscribed: “H.M.S.
Porcupine,
1937.” So she was not really old. It was just her role which had been left behind when the Germans had marched into Poland. Maybe even before that.

He looked astern at the other gunboats. “Are they all like this?”

Hammond shrugged. “Most of them are older, of course.
Prawn
and
Shrike
were built in World War One,
Squalus
and
Grayling
1924, and
Beaver
is our sister ship.”

Trewin turned away. Even their names were odd.

“Now this is the wardroom, Number One.” Hammond pushed open a screen door and they stepped into a large, rectangular room immediately below the bridge. It was panelled in dark wood, and, after an M.L., luxurious.

There was the usual small-ship clutter of furniture, magazine racks, and a stand of rifles and pistols below the vessel's crest on one bulkhead. It was, of course, a porcupine, with the motto
“Usque ad Finem”
in gold lettering below.

Trewin breathed out slowly.
“Touch me not!”

Hammond watched him. “Would you like lunch now? I'm the only one aboard and I've had mine.”

Almost to himself Trewin repeated, “Touch me not!” Then
he said wearily, “No thanks. I want a shower and a change out of these clothes.”

Hammond touched a bell push and a wizened Chinese messman with a thin, goatlike beard pattered in from the pantry.

Hammond said offhandedly, “This is Ching, our
makeelearn.
He can also show you your quarters. The cabin is next door, actually. He can also fix you up with better tropical rig than you can get in the U.K.”

Trewin had a sudden picture of London. The criss-cross of searchlights, the brittle cheerfulness of a city under bombardment. “That's very reassuring, Sub.” He looked past the unwinking Chinese messman. “Who are the other officers, by the way?”

Hammond seemed relieved to change the subject. “There's Lieutenant Mallory, the navigating officer. He's an Australian.” He looked uncomfortable again. “He's a reservist. Used to be in the Merchant Service.” He hurried on. “And Mr. Tweedie, the gunner. He's been in the Navy since he was a boy.”

Trewin thought, I can imagine! He said, “Thank you for the tour. I'll take myself to my cabin now.”

When Ching had closed the door behind him Trewin stood for several minutes by the square, shuttered scuttle staring out unseeingly at the anchored gunboats. He thought he heard the mournful hoot of the trooper's siren and imagined her butting back to England and reality.

Then he sat down on the neat bunk and looked at the small, comfortable cabin. His clothes had been unpacked and his bathrobe hung behind the door as if he had always been here. Almost savagely he threw off his clothes and glared at himself in a bulkhead mirror.

“Welcome to the flagship!” He heard the hiss of a shower adjoining the cabin and imagined the aged Ching waiting to tend his needs. His mouth turned upward in a rueful smile. “Touch me not! That was
all
I needed!”

T
REWIN RETURNED
from his shower and stood breathing deeply
below the deckhead fan. He saw with amazement that during his absence Ching had re-entered his cabin and had laid out a shirt and shorts on the bunk, with his white shoes standing on the small carpet beneath at an angle of forty-five degrees.

He towelled his unruly hair vigorously and felt some of the strain leaving his body. Dropping the towel on the deck he jerked open a drawer and carefully unwrapped an untouched bottle of whisky. He had procured it aboard the troopship and had intended to save this luxury for commissioning his new command. He smiled grimly and poured a generous helping into a glass on the neat chest of drawers. It was unlikely that he would get a command of his own again for a long, long time, he thought. Maybe never. So he would just drink to himself.

The whisky tasted like fire on his empty stomach but he downed the glass in one swallow.

There was a tap at the door, and without thinking Trewin said, “Come in.”

Sub-Lieutenant Hammond stepped over the coaming and stopped dead, his face colouring as he saw his new first lieutenant standing naked below the fan, a glass gripped in one hand.

Trewin had been so used to the crowded informality of a small M.L. that for a few seconds he was unaware of the young officer's embarrassment. Then he grinned and turned to gather up his bathrobe. As he slipped it over his shoulders he caught sight of Hammond's face in the bulkhead mirror and felt his stomach contract with something like shame.

Hammond blurted out, “My God, Number One! Your
back
!” He shrugged helplessly. “What on earth happened?”

Trewin turned away. “Forget it!” Angrily he poured another drink, feeling Hammond's eyes following every movement. “Well? What did you want to tell me?”

Hammond pulled himself together. “Just had a signal. The captain's coming offshore. He'll be aboard in ten minutes.” He ran his fingers through his fair hair. “He'll want to see you at the gangway.”

“All right.” Trewin held his breath as the neat spirit explored his stomach and wished that Hammond would go away. Just one moment off guard, just one stupid bit of carelessness, and he was right back where he was before the shower.