Pride and the Anguish (7 page)

Of course there had been no shortage of rumours. The Japanese were moving ships and troop convoys westward from Indo-China. They would invade Siam, or they might even attack the American bases in the Pacific. But one thing was sure, they would not be so stupid as to try a seaborne attack on Malaya without ships to match the new power of the Royal Navy.

For five days the
Porcupine
had remained in a state of semi-readiness, and even that had been broken by ceremonial and drills as the newcomers to the fleet had been royally entertained both ashore and afloat. Then on the Sunday, immediately after Divisions on the
Porcupine
's small quarterdeck, Corbett had granted local leave to all but the duty watch. Trewin had decided, almost without thinking, that he would spend his brief freedom in luxury. Now, after a night of colour and noise, of unfamiliar food and heavy drinking, he was able to appreciate his mistake.

With a sigh he held his head in the handbasin and let the lukewarm water run over his hair.

It was strange how the appearance of the big ships in the anchorage had affected Corbett, he thought. He had been almost gay compared with his usual cold watchfulness. As the
Porcupine
had cruised past the battleships and the towering upperworks and gun turrets had cast a black shadow across the gunboat's bridge Corbett had said, “Well, this should make the moaning minnies change their tune, eh?” The pipes had trilled a salute, and from the deck of the
Prince of Wales
had come the acknowledgement of a bugle.

But after five repetitive days Trewin had had enough of it. No one knew for sure what was happening, and what was worse, nobody seemed to care.

As he had wandered aimlessly through the crowded streets of the city he had seen the shop windows bright with Christmas gifts, and after the hard sunshine of the day it made the place
seem all the more unreal and alien.

He stared at himself in the mirror and decided he should have stayed aboard. Mallory was the duty officer, and although he had not asked directly, Trewin knew he was desperate to get ashore for his own kind of enjoyment. Tweedie and Hammond had left the ship and gone their own ways, and Corbett had gone home to his wife—the face in the photograph on his desk.

He walked to the open window and leaned his hands on the sill. He could feel the night air cooling the heat of his naked body, and he could see the endless lights and reflections of a city which never slept.

The full moon cast a silver reflection on the sea beyond Keppel Harbour framed between two tall hotel buildings, and he could see small dancing lights far out on the calm water where Chinese fishermen worked busily to supply the island's teeming population. There were aircraft flying somewhere to the north, their distant, regular throbbing somehow confident and reassuring.

In the next room he heard the dull murmur of a man's voice and a responsive female giggle before they both lapsed once more into silence. Trewin stared down at his disordered bed and tried not to listen to the furtive sounds in the adjoining room. They were too much a memory. Too much a part of something lost in the past.

He jumped as the bedside telephone jangled noisily. He sat on the bed and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”

“Thank God!” It was Mallory. “I've been trying to get through to your hotel but all the lines are humming like bloody hell!”

Trewin sat quite still, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “Well?”

“There's a flap on!” In the background Trewin could hear the shrill of a bosun's pipe and the clang of metal. Mallory continued quickly, “The R.A.F. have reported unidentified aircraft approaching the city! You'd better get your skates on and return to the ship at once!”

Trewin's mind became suddenly clear. “Right. Have you sent out a recall?”

Mallory sounded strained. “As best I can. I sent a messenger to fetch Corbett.”

Trewin reached for his underpants. “Clear away the anti-aircraft guns and make sure that you've blacked out the whole ship.” He dropped the telephone and began to pull on his clothes. Through the window nothing had changed, and the sky was shining with a million coloured reflections. Perhaps it was yet another false alarm.

He swept his razor and scanty belongings into his pockets and hurried for the door. At the end of the corridor he almost ran into a pair of shadowed figures who were half lying against one of the windows. The girl was in a long evening dress, and even in the half-light Trewin could see that her breasts were bare and her eyes were closed as her eager companion sought to complete his conquest.

Trewin hurried by and heard the man shout, “Bloody fool! Must be stoned!” The girl laughed, but the laugh was cut short as the floor seemed to buck beneath Trewin's feet and the whole corridor rang to the maniac sound of shattering glass. Then came the explosions, hard, nearby detonations which rocked the hotel like a ship in a sudden storm, and which filled the warm air with clouds of choking dust.

Trewin thought of the aircraft noises and reeled down the deserted stairway, his ears deaf to the shouts and shrill screams from the rooms behind him. As he reached the ground floor he had to fight his way through stampeding figures, mostly in night attire, and a handful of hotel servants who seemed too stricken to move.

Another pattern of loud explosions rocked the building, and glass spewed inwards across the reception desk and splintered against the floor.

A thickset man with a white moustache, dressed in a purple bathrobe, pulled at Trewin's arm and shouted into his face,
“What the hell is going on?” When Trewin pushed him aside he yelled wildly, “That's right, run, you bastard! That's about all you're fit for!”

In the crowded street it was even worse. Screaming crowds surged in every direction. Above the din of aircraft engines and the shrill whistle of bombs Trewin heard the tell-tale rumble of falling masonry, the exploring crackle of fire.

It was all the more frightful because the whole city still blazed with lights. As he ran along the road he saw the same cardboard Father Christmas standing in one big window, his painted grin all the more grotesque because of the broken glass and twisted steel in the shell beyond.

Police whistles called above the cries, and Trewin saw an ambulance trying to force its way through a throng of shouting Europeans in dinner jackets and gay evening dresses who had just emerged from one of the nearby clubs.

A man shouted, “They've hit Raffles place! Guthrie's has been knocked for six!” He sounded both angry and incredulous.

There were searchlights now, pale and slender across the bright sky, and once when Trewin looked up he thought he could see the dancing silver shapes of slow-moving aircraft.

He heard a woman sobbing hysterically, “What is it? What are they doing?”

A man's voice, harsh and desperate. “It's all right, dear. It's only a practice of some kind.”

An Australian soldier, hatless and clasping a bottle in each hand, shouted, “Some bleeding practice, mate!”

Trewin found a taxi parked in a sidestreet, a grave-faced Indian driver sitting behind the wheel. He snapped, “Take me to the base!”

The Indian eyed him thoughtfully. “It's thirteen miles, boss.” He peered up at a tall column of smoke beyond the street. “It could be dangerous!”

Trewin wrenched open the door. “Move!” He stared at the man's turbaned head. “Or I'll drive the bloody thing myself!”

The taxi jerked into motion and Trewin heard the tyres crunching over broken glass as it moved out into the stampeding people and din of traffic.

The drive seemed endless. Several times they had to wait while abandoned cars were dragged from the road by sweating, angry soldiers. And on several occasions Trewin had to fight off vague, distorted faces which surged against the doors like part of his nightmares.

At the waterfront he found some sort of order at last. Apart from the occasional flash of gunfire from the anchored ships, the whole area was in darkness. Motor boats chugged back and forth, full to the gunwales with men of every age and rank who were trying to reach their ships. Some were yelling questions which nobody ever seemed to answer, others were still too dazed or drunk to care.

By the time Trewin climbed back aboard the
Porcupine
the sky was already brighter and the sound of aircraft was gone. Men were clustered at the guns, and others stood uncertainly by the guardrails watching the glowing fires ashore and listening to the distant wail of sirens and the murmur of a million voices.

Mallory gripped Trewin's sleeve. “You made it then.” He sounded relieved. “It's been like a madhouse here!”

Trewin ran up the bridge ladder and entered Corbett's day cabin. Corbett was speaking into the shore telephone, but his pale eyes fastened on Trewin's face as he waved him to a chair.

He said, “Very well, sir. I got that.” His fingers drummed on the desk in a sharp tattoo. “I said I
got
that!” He slammed down the telephone angrily. “Bloody civilians! They should have ratings on the switchboard.”

Corbett looked alert and neat, and Trewin found time to wonder how he had managed to arrive aboard before him, if at all.

“Prepare to get under way.” Corbett stood up and stared absently at a chart. “This is the real thing, I'm afraid.” He looked hard at Trewin's face and added shortly, “Our military defences at Kota Bharu to the north are under attack. Intelligence reports
a strong Japanese assault over the border in Siam as well.” He tapped the chart. “Two landings there apparently. Patani and Singora. But the Malayan one is the more serious. Kota Bharu has our main northern airfield. They say the enemy are pouring in troops and aircraft by the hour, and the whole coast is under bombardment from warships.”

Trewin felt his stomach muscles tense. “So the impossible has happened!”

Corbett's eyes gleamed in the desk light like stones. “Don't be so damned melodramatic! The attacker always has the advantage. This had to be expected.” He picked up his cap. “Anyway, in twenty-four hours the Japs'll have a bit more to deal with than a few dozy soldiers!”

Trewin asked, “Why was the city left unguarded, sir?” He seemed to hear the cries and the sullen thunder of collapsing buildings. “They went and dropped their bombs just where they pleased!”

Corbett picked an invisible thread from his shirt. “The R.A.F. gave warning in plenty of time, Trewin. It appears that the city authorities neglected to keep the A.R.P. headquarters manned at night, and no one could be found to switch off the light power supply!” He eyed Trewin coldly. “As I just said. Damned civilians! You just can't rely on 'em!”

There was a rush of feet along the sidedeck and the sound of a boat thudding against the hull. Corbett stared at his clock and said firmly, “We sail in one hour. All libertymen should be aboard by then.” He frowned at Trewin. “If not, I'll want to know why!”

Nimmo, the chief E.R.A., tapped at the door and peered at the captain. “Engine room ready, sir.” He was unshaven and dishevelled, and his white overalls were open to his navel. He must have run naked from his bunk at the first alarm.

Corbett said, “Thank you. You can stand by as from now.” As Nimmo turned to leave Corbett added, “And, Chief! In future try to make yourself more presentable when you go to your
station! Remember that most of your people are native Chinese. From now on a good example will be all the more important.”

Nimmo's square face remained expressionless. “Aye, aye, sir. I'll remember that.”

He walked away and Corbett said testily, “A regular, too!”

Trewin said quietly, “He realised it was an emergency, sir. That is surely a good thing.”

Corbett eyed him and then replied calmly, “A high standard is not something you switch on for Sundays, Trewin. Aboard my ship at least it will remain standard and routine.”

Sub-Lieutenant Hammond looked round the door. “Signal, sir. No enemy aircraft shot down.” He looked wide-eyed and very young, Trewin thought.

Corbett was unimpressed. “We shall do better next time.” He stared at Trewin. “Close up special sea dutymen. We'll weigh anchor in forty-five minutes.” To Hammond he added sharply, “Make a signal to Flag. Check the state of readiness of the whole group.”

Trewin followed Hammond into the passageway and said quietly, “Well, this is it, Sub.” Through the chartroom scuttle he could see the red glow of fires beyond the crowded waterfront houses. They were well inland. Towards the airfields by the look of them. He finished grimly, “At least we know where we stand!”

Hammond followed his glance, his eyes suddenly anxious. “I hope we do better next time.” He licked his lips. “Poor devils, they didn't stand a chance.”

He said it so fervently that Trewin asked, “Is there someone special ashore for you, Sub?”

Hammond looked at him with immediate caution. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.” He seemed uncomfortable.

Trewin said, “But it's none of my bloody business, is that it?”

“I'm sorry, Number One.” Hammond's cheeks coloured. “I didn't mean that.” He faltered. “She's a wonderful girl. But I'd rather you didn't say anything about her to anyone else.” He saw Trewin nod and continued more calmly, “I was with her when
the attack started. I didn't want to leave her.”

Trewin thought of the November drizzle across the bombed street, the silent A.R.P. workers and tired firemen. His feeling of loss and despair. He said shortly, “You never do.”

He turned away from Hammond's curious stare as Leading Telegraphist Laird, the ship's senior operator, pushed his head from the radio-room door. He was a cheerful and irrepressible person on most occasions, but he was unsmiling as he said, “Signal, sir! The Flag Officer, East Coast Patrols is coming aboard in fifteen minutes!” He grimaced and added, “Shall I tell the captain, sir?” He waited the right number of seconds and then added with a sad smile, “Or will you?”