Pride and the Anguish (9 page)

He fell silent as Trewin wheeled round, his face hard and angry. “That was different, quite different!” He pointed at the gleaming scuttle. “This time there's nowhere to run! It's us or them!” Then he walked across the cabin and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. “We're on our own now. Face up to that and it won't feel quite so bad.”

Hammond was speaking almost to himself. “I went aboard both of those ships just three days ago.” He shook himself. “They seemed so confident, so
sure.
”

Trewin studied him and then replied gently, “I expect the lads in the
Hood
felt like that, too.” He touched Hammond's arm. “Come on, we'll go to the bridge. I expect the admiral will want to speak to all of us about it.”

Outside the cabin the deck seemed full of off-watch sailors. They stood either in small, silent groups or at the guardrails, staring towards the empty horizon as if they expected to see some sign or aftermath of the disaster.

Petty Officer Dancy, the chief bosun's mate, stepped forward and asked quietly, “It's true then, sir?”

Trewin nodded. “I'm afraid so, Butter.”

Dancy looked towards the sea, his face suddenly grave. “I
never knew the battleship, she was new to me.” Unconsciously he took off his cap and held it to his side as if paying tribute in the only way he knew. “But the
Repulse,
I knew her well enough. I was an A.B. in her.” He shook his head slowly. “Twenty-five years old she was. Poor old girl, what a way to end up.”

But when Trewin reached the bridge the admiral was not to be seen. Mallory was on the gratings, his tanned face grim and thoughtful, and Tweedie stood beside the chart table, his hands clasped behind him as if on parade.

Corbett turned slightly in his chair, and Trewin saw that he looked very tired. “I was just going to send for you, Trewin.” He studied his features for several seconds and added, “I don't have to spell it out for your benefit.”

“No, sir.”

Corbett squared his shoulders and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “We're going on just the same.” It sounded final. “Signal the group to close up the formation in fifteen minutes.” He sharpened his voice. “At sunset we will go to action stations.”

As Trewin walked to the rear of the bridge he added quietly, “We must hit back! There's been enough wasting time already!”

Trewin looked over the screen and along the sun-drenched battery deck. Against the blue water the
Porcupine
suddenly seemed very small and vulnerable.

M
ALLORY'S PARALLEL RULERS
squeaked loudly as he pushed them across the chart. “New course is three two zero.” From beneath the oilskin hood which covered the table his voice sounded muffled.

Trewin nodded and leaned slightly above the voice-pipe. “Port ten!” The luminous dial of the compass repeater ticked slowly across the line. “Steady! Steer three two zero!” He heard the coxswain's mumbled acknowledgement from the shuttered wheelhouse, but dismissed him from his thoughts as another great wedge of dark headland crept out towards the slow-moving bows. The ship's crawl up the coast was nerve-racking enough, but to be so close inshore with the dark hills and occasional strips of beach reaching almost to the ship's side dragged at his concentration like a constant threat.

It had been going on for hours. At sunset the little group had been divided into two halves, and while Corbett led the
Prawn
and
Squalus
up the edge of the coast the other three gunboats were now wallowing a further five miles out to sea. So far they had sighted nothing, but from far inland their progress had been accompanied by a constant and distorted rumble of gunfire, like thunder, and every so often the jagged wall of jungle and low hills had been outlined with dull orange and red flashes, grim reminders of the war they had come to find.

Everybody aboard seemed to be holding his breath. Even the engines, throttled down to minimum speed, were lost in the steady swish of water against the hull, the creak of steel and wood as the ship rocked gently in the offshore current.

The heavy rain which had started just after sunset had stopped with alarming suddenness, and after the steady drumming of the downpour against the decks and the bodies of the men at their stations the silence was all the more apparent and
disturbing.

There was still plenty of low cloud, but every so often the moon managed to push through to throw strange patches of silver on the flat water or across the statue-like figures grouped around the
Porcupine
's bridge. Apart from the howitzer, all the guns were manned and ready, and from either wing of the bridge came the quiet chink of ammunition belts as the two heavy machine-guns turned restlessly like black fingers against the dull and threatening sky.

Corbett snapped, “Check the depth!”

A messenger by the voice-pipes said quickly, “Six fathoms, sir!”

Corbett's pale shape shifted in his chair, apparently satisfied. Trewin had to admit that Corbett's knowledge of the coast was quite uncanny. To him the occasional soundings meant just as much as if they had been photographs. The weeks and months of pounding up and down this very coast had not, it seemed, been wasted.

On the starboard side of the bridge the admiral lifted his glasses and trained them towards the invisible horizon. He was still wearing a heavy oilskin, and against the pale steel he looked like some large piece of crude sculpture. He said harshly, “Nothing! Not a bloody thing!”

Corbett remarked calmly, “We're well past Terengganu now, sir. It'll be soon or never.”

Trewin wiped his face with his forearm. He knew it was no longer rain on his face and neck. Like the rest of his body, they were running with sweat. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them and looked around at the others. They were just shapes. What were they thinking? How would they behave if the shooting began?

Deep inside he knew he was only gauging his own strength. He had seen so many others crack. Outsiders described it jokingly as “bomb-happy.” At the hospital the more well-versed doctors merely labelled the victims as suffering from “combat-fatigue.”
Words, just bloody, meaningless words! Trewin bit his lip until the pain steadied his racing thoughts. He must get a grip on himself. It was sheer stupidity to go on like this.

Tweedie's rough voice, unreal through the microphone, floated from the rear of the bridge. “Green six oh! Ship, steaming left!” As the glasses swung across the screen he continued, “Range oh nine two!” Above the bridge the rangefinder squeaked slightly as it turned to track the invisible ship.

Trewin gritted his teeth while his glasses moved vainly over patches of moonlit water and motionless black shadows. Tweedie's look-outs had done well. No doubt their powerful lenses had been helped by some freak sliver of light across the horizon. Out there, to seaward, any ship would stand out like a rock.

Corbett snapped, “Inform the
Prawn,
Yeoman! Make sure the lamp is properly shaded!” He added slowly, “We'll give it another two or three minutes. Then tell ‘A' gun to fire a star-shell.” He peered at Trewin's outline. “Tell Hammond to make sure it
is
star-shell.” He wriggled on his chair. “I don't want to fire on some poor merchantman.”

The admiral remarked gruffly, “Not likely to be!”

Corbett's voice was incisive. “I am open to a suggestion to do otherwise, sir!”

The admiral moved his feet noisily. “You carry on, Corbett.”

The shaded blue signal lamp flicked briefly astern, and Trewin wondered if the little ship was still on her station. At such slow speed there was no high bow-wave to betray her or the
Squalus.

The long four-inch gun on the forecastle swung slowly across the side of the hull as Tweedie's rangefinder relayed bearings and distances over the intercom. Aft on the battery deck the other four-inch was also tracking the strange ship, something more powerful than star-shell already lying in the breech.

Trewin relayed Corbett's comment over the telephone to Hammond, and faintly through the gloom he could see the
young officer's white cap cover as he stood just behind the mounting. His gunners, their heads shrouded in anti-flash gear, were crouching around their breech like beings from another planet.

Hammond's voice was clipped, but he sounded calm enough. “I've checked it myself, Number One. Actually there's not much chance of seeing anything anyway. It's over four miles away, whatever it is.” In the background someone laughed sharply, and Hammond added, “Of course, as some idiot has just remarked, it may come after
us.”

Trewin replaced the handset and walked back to the side. Hammond was doing his best to stay bright and relaxed in front of his men. It was part of the game. Trewin felt his stomach contract painfully and guessed what Hammond must really be enduring.

Tweedie's voice again. “Captain, sir! Target has stopped. Green four five. Range oh seven five.”

Corbett snapped his fingers. “Stopped, has it?” He climbed to his feet and walked to Trewin's side. “Just as I thought. There is quite a nice little bay around this headland. Ideal for a landing.”

A few agonising minutes dragged past while Corbett trained his glasses slowly in a full arc. Then he snapped, “Fire star-shell!”

The gong rattled tinnily, and with an ear-shattering crash “A” gun lurched back on its mounting, throwing a small, savage shock wave back over the bridge.

Trewin waited, counting seconds. He felt the pain sharp in his eyes as with sudden brightness the flare exploded far out on the starboard bow. The low underbellies of the clouds, the calm sea, all changed to an eerie moonscape in the flare's harsh, glacier light, and there, outlined like a black crag in the centre of the glare, was the ship.

Nobody said a word on the gunboat's bridge. As each man studied the unlit and motionless ship Trewin could hear the distant bark of orders and the clang of a breech as “A” gun reloaded. Then there was complete silence.

It fell to the yeoman to break the spell. He yelled, “Signal from
Prawn,
sir! Two unidentified craft on our starboard quarter!”

A line of green lights lifted lazily from the strange ship's hull and rose in a graceful arc like a column of bright butterflies.

Trewin shouted, “Tracer! She's opened fire!”

Corbett jabbed the button at his side, and as the gong rang again both guns fired almost together.

Trewin made himself stare at the green tracers, which were already being joined by two more bursts from further aft on the ship's black hull. How deceptively slow they were, then as they passed through the apex of their climb the tracer shells screamed down so fast that it was impossible to distinguish one from another.

Two tall waterspouts rose from the sea directly in line with the other ship. Tweedie's voice intoned, “Short! Up two hundred!”

Corbett called, “Signal
Prawn
and
Squalus
to engage the other craft!” To Trewin he snapped, “Full ahead! Hard a-starboard!”

The star-shell was almost finished, but before the light could die two more flares burst directly above the other ship, which had already changed her outline as she increased speed and turned away.

The admiral said breathlessly, “That'll be
Beaver
and the rest of the group.” He pounded his hands on the screen. “Come on, hit the bastard!”

As if in answer to his words there was a small orange glow from somewhere aft on the other ship. The light flickered, and then as it looked about to fade completely it soared skyward and clawed up and over the low superstructure in an outline of dancing flames.

Trewin heard some of the gunners cheering, and Hammond yelling above the din, “Reload! Keep quiet there!”

The
Porcupine
was shivering like a mad thing as she worked up to her maximum speed, and the sea which had been so gentle along her flanks boiled away in two twin waves across the water like a giant white arrowhead.

From astern came the harsh rattle of Oerlikons and the sharper note of machine-guns. As another flare floated eerily overhead Trewin caught a vague glimpse of a flat, boxlike craft, with a high bow-wave breaking above her stem, steering directly across the
Porcupine
's wake and making for the shore. He saw too the creeping tracers from the other gunboats flashing across the water and lashing the sea into high spectres of foam around the fast-moving craft and then ripping across it with the sound of a bandsaw.

Corbett snapped his fingers. “Depth?”

A voice replied shakily, “Nine fathoms, sir.”

Corbett grunted. “Midships! Steady!”

The guns shifted smoothly as the ship settled on her new course, and maintained their steady fire in spite of the noise and flashing explosions around them.

The yeoman yelled, “Signal from
Squalus,
sir! She's rammed a landing barge and sunk it!” He was almost choking with excitement. “And
Prawn
is attacking another one of the bastards!”

Corbett said severely, “Try not to get
too
excited, Yeoman.” Then in a sharper tone, “Hard aport!”

The deck canted as the helm went over and the
Porcupine
swung in a tight turn towards the other ship. The latter was well ablaze, and as the range dropped to less than two miles Trewin heard the crackle of exploding ammunition and the hungry roar of internal fires.

The admiral said sharply, “Looks like a converted coaster. Just the job for towing these bloody barges!” He ducked as a line of whining tracer shells streaked overhead and vanished into the darkness.

“Midships!” Corbett sounded calm. “Give me a course to pass the headland, Pilot.”

Mallory clung to the table as the deck heaved once more. “Two eight oh, sir.” He slipped and almost fell. “Bloody
hell
!”