Strike from the Sea (1978) (2 page)

Ainslie stared across the office, the neatness, the timeless order of things.

‘At the start of the war, sir, we and France had the two finest navies in the world. When France fell, it was imperative that all her ships which failed to join our fleet and the Free French under de Gaulle, or refused to intern themselves in neutral ports, must be put out of action.’

Ainslie relived his own feelings as he spoke. It must have been a cruel decision for someone, he thought. The Royal Navy’s heaviest units had been forced to fire on their old ally, to sink her ships in the protected bases at Oran and Dakar and other anchorages outside occupied France. Many fine vessels had been sunk or severely damaged, and a lot of men killed. Men who had fought beside the British against the common enemy had shared the same fate as many a German and Italian. It would be a long time before the bitterness and the hurt was forgotten, let alone forgiven.

Had those same ships fallen into enemy hands the war would be over right now. With supply routes cut, and her own forces crippled by lack of fuel and war materials, Britain’s capital would have fared no better than Paris or Warsaw.

Ainslie heard himself say, ‘I have spent all my recent years in submarines.’

Captain Armytage said crisply, ‘I am aware of your record, Commander.’ He fell silent as Ainslie’s eyes levelled on him.

Ainslie said, ‘The French Navy built a submarine well ahead of her time, the
Surcouf,
something along the lines of our old M-class, but far more sophisticated, and successful. I went aboard her once when she came to England. A giant, with two big turret guns like a cruiser, and her own aircraft for spotting. She was built around 1931, and for three years she was the biggest submarine in the world.’

He let his eyes rest on the chief of staff’s face, feeling the
man’s sudden discomfort, sensing, too, Critchley’s rapt attention.

‘Then came the improved
Surcouf
boat, larger still, over four thousand tons submerged.’ He waited, thinking of her, of all the planning and the hazy ideas which had suddenly cleared like a prismatic gunsight. ‘The
Soufrière
.’

The captain shifted in his chair. ‘Yes. Of course.’

Of
course.
Ainslie added quietly, ‘Two eight-inch guns, extremely powerful and rapid firing, plus ten torpedo tubes, her own seaplane, and a range of twelve thousand miles. If she chose to cut loose, she could rip our ocean supply routes to bits, from the East Indies to the Cape of Good Hope. It would take a fleet, a fleet which we do not possess, to hunt her down.’

The room was very still and, apart from the gentle hum of fans and a far-off bark of commands, completely silent.

Then Critchley said, ‘
Soufrière
was in Madagascar when France fell, sir. Then when feelings went this way and that about the Free French versus Petain’s Vichy impotence she slipped out and made for Indo-China, to their base at Saigon. We know she was there almost to the day when the Japs marched in and completed their occupation of the colony. It was said she was damaged, by the Japanese, by sabotage or accident, we don’t know. Yet. But our instructions are to seize her, before she falls into the enemy’s hands, or her own company decide to hand her over in exchange for some kind of reward. Patriotism is not just a British thing. The French Navy has its brand of honour, too.’

Captain Armytage glanced at the clock. ‘I still don’t see the need. We could have her bombed if she tried to act against us.’ He discarded his own suggestion and added, ‘If we could find her in time, that is.’

Critchley took out a fresh cigarette and looked at it. ‘
Soufrière
must be taken, sir. We believe that the Japanese will continue their expansion in the China Sea and Pacific, for unless the Americans choose to come into the war alongside us there is nothing to stop them.’ He looked meaningly at the wall map behind the desk. ‘They could even come here.’

‘Now that
is
rubbish.’ The captain seemed to recover slightly. ‘You may know all about missing subs and cloak and dagger escapades, but you obviously don’t know much about the defences here and in Malaya.’

Critchley eyed him coolly. ‘Let us hope, sir, that the Japanese are also in ignorance.’

The captain’s fingers drummed busily on the desk. ‘I’m still not convinced.’

Critchley stood up abruptly. ‘Fortunately, it is not our choice, is it, sir?’

‘What the hell d’you mean? Just because –’

Ainslie stepped forward without even realizing he was on his feet. ‘Commander Critchley means the decision has been made, sir. By the Admiralty, by the Cabinet, and obviously with the Prime Minister’s fullest support. Nobody wants to upset the French again, but neither do we want the Germans eating at Claridges!’

The chief of staff flushed. ‘I am fully aware that in wartime some officers get promotion advanced more swiftly than in normal processes! I am equally conscious that others get an inflated sense of their own importance!’

Ainslie shrugged. ‘I obey orders, sir. If
Soufrière
falls into enemy hands, for
whatever
reason, I shall go back to sea again in another submarine.’ He glanced around the office. ‘I will be the fortunate one.’

The chief of staff looked away. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

Critchley stubbed out his cigarette and brushed some ash from his crumpled suit.

‘Fine, sir. We’ll begin tomorrow.’ He seemed not to see the captain’s anger. ‘Maybe the admiral will be here by then, too.’

They left the office and Critchley said, ‘Not bad for openers, Bob. Now a bath and a nice big drink are indicated.’ He peered round for the staff car. ‘They’ve put us aboard a commandeered motor yacht. All the luxuries. Also, it’ll keep us from reminding everyone there’s a war on!’

Later as they stood on a jetty, their faces searing in the afternoon glare, Critchley said, ‘Captain Armytage is probably right,
of course. Soufrière
’s quite likely out of commission for good. Maybe one of her people felt as we do, that no French vessel should help the Jerries.’

Ainslie nodded, watching the launch which was coming to collect them sweeping around the lines of moored warships in a shower of fine spray. Beyond the ships, sweltering beneath taut awnings and limp flags, he could see the Malayan coastline,
hazily green, shimmering above the water of the Johore Strait. He thought of his companion’s words to Armytage, spoken as much out of frustration as anything. But if the Japanese did declare war, could Britain withstand an even greater weight in the balance? If Critchley was right, and Armytage was deluding himself, it was not difficult to picture the Japanese Army swarming across this narrow strip of placid water. Singapore’s defences were famous and respected. But so, too, was the Maginot Line.

He sighed. ‘But if she’s not, then the problem is still there.’

Critchley turned to study his profile, the level stare, the small crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, evidence of watchkeeping, of hunting the enemy.

A few more like Ainslie and there’d be room for optimism, he thought. As it was . . .

The commandeered yacht must have been a beautiful vessel in her day, Ainslie thought. In spite of being stripped of many of her old owner’s refinements she retained an air of elegance and grace, from the clipper bow and figurehead to her fat yellow funnel. As a young sub-lieutenant in a destroyer, Ainslie had come across many such yachts, probably even her, in the peacetime days of service with the Mediterranean fleet. Malta, Naples, Piraeus. Soft nights, music, girls with tanned shoulders and bold stares for the young officers. Another world, probably gone forever.

Lady Jane
was the yacht’s original name, and there was a builder’s crest and plate in the spacious saloon. Now she was labelled as
Tender to Terror II,
the title of Singapore’s naval base.

The day after Ainslie’s arrival was another scorcher, but aboard the old yacht, moored apart from the warships and harbour craft, it seemed cooler, while the perfect service provided by two Chinese messboys added to a sense of unreality and detachment.

While Critchley was ashore on one of his secret missions, Ainslie waded through the pile of correspondence, instructions and orders which had awaited his attention.

He found he could forget the chief of staff’s unhelpful attitude as he studied the carefully collected details of his giant prize. Perhaps because all the uncertainty had become less so, or
maybe, as he suspected, it was due to the first good night’s sleep and leisurely breakfast he could remember for a long while.

Secrecy was vital. To stay out of the limelight with every security man working to that end was one thing. To hide a complete prize crew for the massive
Soulrière
was another entirely. A real headache for Critchley and his colleagues, Ainslie thought.

Ainslie knew most of the men who would make up his new company, some very well indeed, Like John Quinton, who had been his first lieutenant in
Tigress,
and who by rights should have a command of his own. An Australian with a rugged and cheerfully unorthodox attitude to his British companions, he had said more than once, ‘If they’d had subs in
our
navy I’d have stayed put.’ They had been in some very tight corners together. Ainslie hoped he would be the same and not embittered by being appointed as his Number One again.

He knew the senior engineer officer, too, Lieutenant Andrew Halliday. They had served together in another submarine at the outbreak of war.

There were others, too, like Bill Gosling, the coxswain; Dugald Menzies, the yeoman of signals; and a torpedoman named Sawle who had acted as wardroom messman aboard the
Tigress,
and had volunteered for this mission without even asking what it entailed.

Ainslie had met the others at HMS
Dolphin,
the submarine base in Hampshire. It was to be a mixed company indeed, which would include four Free French officers, two of whom had served in
Soufrière
’s forerunner
Surcoul.
They would be invaluable.

At the Admiralty, just before he had left for Singapore, Ainslie had completed a final briefing with the head of naval operations.

Brushing aside Ainslie’s doubts he had said cheerfully, ‘Well, if nothing comes of it, it’ll be damned good experience anyway.’

For what, Ainslie had wondered?

He stood up and walked to a polished brass scuttle as he heard a motor boat chugging alongside. He saw Critchley, strangely changed in white shirt and shorts, followed by two other officers, clambering up the accommodation ladder. The second officer he did not recognize, but the last one, with two gold stripes on his shoulder straps, was John Quinton.

Ainslie turned away and looked across the saloon, examining his feelings. If Quinton had been brought here it meant one thing. The operation was going ahead.

Critchley hurried through the door, mopping his face and hurling his cap on to a chair as he exclaimed, ‘I need a drink!’

Ainslie smiled. ‘At this hour?’ He turned as the tall Australian lieutenant crossed the worn carpet and grasped his hand firmly. ‘Hello, John. It’s good to see you.’

Quinton was as dark as Ainslie was fair. He had deep-set brown eyes, and skin so tanned he looked like a buccaneer from the Spanish Main. Although he was only twenty-seven he looked older than his commander.

He let his glance rest on Ainslie’s new shoulder straps and said, ‘Congratulations, sir. You earned it.’ He looked over at Critchley. ‘A beer if you’ve got one handy.’

Ainslie watched him thoughtfully. Quinton seemed unchanged, except for the ‘sir’.

Critchley introduced the other officer as Commander Melrose, the senior operations officer.

Then as one of the Chinese messboys busied himself with glasses and, mercifully, ice, Critchley said quietly, ‘We’ve
found
her, Bob.’ He nodded to the messboy who left as noiselessly as he had entered, and then unrolled a chart on the table. ‘Here. About three hundred miles north-east of this table.’ His finger rested on a scattered line of islands of all shapes and sizes about two hundred miles off the coast of Borneo at a guess. Critchley continued calmly. ‘This one, Datuk Besar, part of the archipelago, but under French control. Up to a point anyway. There is a local ruler, but he does what the French tell him. Well, he did.’

Ainslie was not deceived by Critchley’s calm. He was bursting with excitement. Maybe the
Soufrière
operation had found life in his brain. It seemed very likely.

Quinton said, ‘From here it looks as if the Japs are about the same distance from the place as ourselves.’ He rubbed his dark chin. ‘Interesting.’

The operations officer regarded him curiously and said, ‘Our agents stumbled on the information by accident. Even the RAF hadn’t spotted anything on their recce flights. There’s some sort of lagoon at Datuk Besar, not much room, but plenty of depth. Just the place to hide the beast.’

Ainslie glanced at Quinton.
The beast.
They were already creating a personality.

Quinton said. ‘I still don’t see we’ve a chance of surprise. All that way.’ He shook his head. ‘Reckon we’ll have to go in with guns popping!’

Melrose smiled. ‘The agents are right down south, in Java, Surabaja to be precise. They discovered that someone had chartered an old tramp steamer for passage to Datuk Besar. Closer investigation showed she was filled to the hatch covers with drums of diesel. It shows carelessness on someone’s part. Nobody in his right mind would need that much oil in a place that size. But it does show urgency, too. Otherwise they’d have sent the ship a longer way round to allay suspicion.’ He smiled broadly, pleased with himself and his department. ‘The old tub’s steaming up the Java Sea right now.’

Ainslie looked at Critchley. ‘All right?’

He nodded. ‘With any sort of luck we’ll bag her without raising a squeak.’ He frowned. ‘Then it’ll be up to you, Bob.’

Quinton spread his arms. ‘As it used to say in my mother’s cook book: first, catch your fish. . . .’

Melrose said, ‘The ship left Surabaja two days ago. It’s only just been confirmed by W/T. At her speed, say six knots, she’ll be suitably placed in five days’ time.’ He raised his glass, his part done. ‘Cheers.’