South By Java Head (14 page)

"Walters any idea who it was?"
"None at all -- just that it was a man's voice and that he himself was too damn' tired and sleepy to, worry about it anyway."
"Yes. Maybe he has the right idea at that." Findhorn took off his cap and mopped his dark head with a handkerchief: only eight o'clock, but already the sun was beginning to burn. "We've more to do than worry about them anyway. I just can't figure them out. They're a strange bunch -- each one I talk to seems queerer than the last."
"Including Miss Drachmann?" Nicolson suggested.
"Good heavens, no! I'd trade the bunch of them for that girl." Findhorn replaced his cap and shook his head slowly, his eyes distant. "A shocking case, Johnny -- what a ghastly mess those diabolical little butchers made of her face." His eyes came into focus again, and he looked sharply at Nicolson. "How much of what you told her last night was true?"
"About what the surgeons could do for her, you mean?"
"Yes."
"Not much. I don't know a great deal, but that scar will have stretched and set long before anyone can do anything about it. They can still do something, of course -- but they're not miracle workers: none of them claims to be."
"Then damn it all, mister, you'd no right to give her the impression they are." Findhorn was as near anger as his phlegmatic nature would allow. "My God, think of the disillusionment !"
"Eat, drink and be merry," Nicolson quoted softly. "Do you think you'll ever see England again, sir?"
Findhorn looked at him for a long moment, craggy brows drawn deep over his eyes, then nodded in slow understanding and turned away. "Funny how we keep thinking in terms of peace and normality," he murmured. "Sorry, boy, sorry. Yet I've been thinking about nothing else since the sun came up. Young Peter, the nurses, everyone -- mostly the child and that girl, I don't know why." He was silent for a few moments, eyes quartering the cloudless horizon, then added with only apparent inconsequence: "It's a lovely day, Johnny."
"It's a lovely day to die," Nicolson said sombrely. Then he caught the captain's eye and smiled, briefly. "It's a long time waiting, but the Japanese are polite little gentlemen -- ask Miss Drachmann: they always have been polite little gentlemen: I don't think they'll keep us waiting much longer."
But the.Japanese did keep" tltec? Waiting. They kept them waiting a long, long time. Not long, perhaps, as the world reckons seconds and minutes and hours, but when men, despairing men too long on the rack of suspense, momentarily await and expect the inevitable, then the seconds and the minutes and the hours lose any significance as absolute units of time and, instead, become relative only to the razor-edged expectancy of the passing moment, to the ever-present anticipation of what must inexorably come. And so the seconds crawled by and became minutes, and the minutes stretched themselves out interminably and lengthened into an hour, and then another hour, and still the skies were empty and the line of the shimmering horizon remained smooth and still and unbroken. Why the enemy -- and Findhorn knew hundreds of ships and planes must be scouring the seas for them -- held off so long was quite beyond his understanding: he could only hazard the guess that they must have swept that area the previous afternoon after they had turned back to the aid of the Kerry Dancer and were now searching the seas farther to the south. Or perhaps they thought the Viroma had been lost in the typhoon -- and even as that explanation crossed his mind Findhorn dismissed it as wishful thinking and knew that the Japanese would think nothing of the kind.... Whatever the reason, the Viroma was still alone, still rolling south-eastwards in a vast expanse of empty sea and sky. Another hour passed, and then another and it was high noon, a blazing, burning sun riding almost vertically overhead in the oven of the sky and for the first time Captain Findhorn was allowing himself the luxury of the first tentative stirrings of hope: the Cari-mata Straits and darkness and the Java Sea and they might dare begin to think of home again. The sun rolled over its zenith, noon passed, and the minutes crept on again, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, each minute dragging longer and longer as hope began to rise once more. And then, at twenty-four minutes past noon, hope had turned to dust and the long wait was over.
A gunner on the fo'c'sle saw it first -- a tiny black speck far to the south-west, materialising out of the heat haze, high above the horizon. For a few seconds it seemed to remain there, stationary in the sky, a black, meaningless dot suspended in the air, and then, almost all at once, it was no longer tiny but visibly swelling in size with every breath the watchers took, and no longer meaningless, but taking shape, hardening in definition through the shimmering haze until the outline of fuselage and wings could be clearly seen, so clearly as to be unmistakable. A Japanese Zero fighter, probably fitted with long-range tanks, and even as the watchers on the Viroma recognised it the muted thunder of the aero engine came at them across the stillness of the sea.
The Zero droned in steadily, losing height by the second and heading straight for them. It seemed at first as if the pilot intended flying straight across the Viroma, but, less than a mile away, he banked sharply to starboard and started to circle the ship at a height of about five hundred feet. He made no move to attack, and not a gun fired aboard the Viroma. Captain Findhorn's orders to his gunners had been explicit -- ù no firing except in self-defence: their ammunition was limited and they had to conserve it for the inevitable bombers. Besides, there was always the chance that the pilot might be deceived by the newly-painted name of Siyushu Mam and the large flag of the Rising Sun which had taken the place of Resistencia and the flag of the Argentine Republic a couple of days previously -- about one chance in ten thousand, Findhorn thought grimly. The brazen effrontery and the sheer unexpectedness that had carried the Viroma thus far had outlived their usefulness.
For almost ten minutes the Zero continued to circle the Viroma, never much more than half a mile away, banking steeply most of the time. Then two more 'planes -- Zero fighters also -- droned up from the south-west and joined the first. Twice all three of them circled the ship, then the first pilot broke formation and made two fore-and-aft runs, less than a hundred yards away, the canopy of his cockpit pushed right back so that the watchers on the bridge could see his face -- or what little of it was visible behind helmet, goggles on forehead and transmitter mouthpiece -- as the pilot took in every detail of the ship. Then he banked away sharply and rejoined the others: within seconds they were in line ahead formation, dipping their wings in mocking salute and heading north-west, climbing steadily all the time.
Nicolson let go his breath in a long, soundless sigh and turned to Findhorn. "That bloke will never know how lucky he is." He jerked his thumb upwards towards the Hotchkiss emplacements. "Even our pop-gun merchants up top could have chewed him into little bits."
"I know, I know." His back against the dodger screen, Findhorn stared bleakly after the disappearing fighters. "And what good would it have done? Just wasted valuable ammunition, that's all. He wasn't doing us any harm -- all the harm he could do he'd done long before he came anywhere near us. Our description, right down to the last rivet, our position, course and speed -- his command H.Q. got that over the radio long before he came anywhere near us." Findhorn lowered his glasses and turned round heavily. "We can't do anything about our description and position, but we can about our course. 200, Mr. Nicolson, if you please. We'll try for the Macclesfield Channel."
"Aye, aye, sir." Nicolson hesitated. "Think it'll make any difference, sir?"
"None whatsoever." Findhorn's voice was just a little weary. "Somewhere within two hundred and fifty miles from here laden bombers -- altitude bombers, dive-bombers, torpedo bombers -- are already taking off from Japanese airfields. Scores of them. Prestige is vital. If we escaped, Japan would be the laughing-stock of their precious Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, and they can't afford to lose anybody's confidence." Findhorn looked directly at Nicolson, his eyes quiet and sad and remote. "I'm sorry, Johnny, sorry for little Peter and the girl and all the rest of them. They'll get us all right. They got the Prince of Wales and the Repulse: they'll massacre us. They'll be here in just over an hour."
"So why alter course, sir?"
"So why do anything. Give us another ten minutes, perhaps, before they locate us. A gesture, my boy -- empty, I know, but still a gesture. Even the lamb turns and runs before the wolf-pack tears him to pieces." Findhorn paused a moment, then smiled. "And speaking of lambs, Johnny, you might go below and drive our little flock into the fold."
Ten minutes later Nicolson was back on the bridge. Findhorn.looked at him expectantly.
"All safely corralled, Mr. Nicolson?"
"Afraid not, sir." Nicolson touched the three golden bars on his epaulets. "The soldiers of today are singularly unimpressed by authority. Hear anything, sir?"
Findhorn looked at him in puzzlement, listened, then nodded his head. "Footsteps, Sounds like a regiment up above."
Nicolson nodded. "Corporal Fraser and his two merry men. When I told them to get into the pantry and stay there the corporal asked me to raffle myself. His feelings were hurt, I think. They can muster three rifles and a sub-machine-gun between them, and I suspect they'll be ten times as effective as the two characters with the Hotchkisses up there."
"And the rest?"
"Same story with the other soldiers -- off with their guns right aft. No heroics anywhere -- all four of them just kind of grim and thoughtful. Just kids. The sick men are still in the hospital -- too sick to be moved. Safe there as anywhere, I suppose: there's a couple of nurses with them."
"Four of them?" Findhorn frowned. "But I thought-----"
"There were five," Nicolson acknowledged. "Fifth's a shell-shock case, I imagine. Alex something -- don't know his name. He's useless -- nerves shot to ribbons. I dragged him along to joiri the others in the pantry.
"All the others accounted for. Old Farnholme wasn't too keen on leaving the engineers' office but when I pointed out that the pantry was the only compartment in the superstructure that didn't open to the outside, that it had steel instead of the usual wooden bulkheads, and that it had a couple of protective bulkheads fore and aft and three on either side he was ù over there like a shot."
Findhorn's mouth twisted. "Our gallant army. Colonel Blimp to the ramparts, but not when the guns start firing. A bad taste in the mouth, Johnny, and quite out of character. The saving grace of the Blimps of this world is that they don't know what fear is."
"Neither does Farnholme." Nicolson was positive. "I'd take very long odds on that. But I think he's worried about something, badly worried." Nicolson shook his head. "He's a queer old bird, sir, and he's some very personal reason for taking shelter: but it's got nothing to do with saving his own skin."
"Perhaps you're right." Findhorn shrugged. "I don't see that it matters anyway, not now. Van Effen with him?"
"In the dining-saloon. He thought Siran and his pals might pick an awkward time to start trouble. He has his gun on them. They won't start anything." Nicolson smiled faintly.
"Van Effen strikes me as a very competent gentleman indeed."
"You left Siran and his men in the saloon?" Findhorn pursed his lips. "Our suicide parlour. Wide open to fore-and-aft strafing attacks and a cannon shell wouldn't even notice the shuttering on these windows." It was more a question than statement, and Findhorn matched it with his look, half-quizzical, half-expectant, but Nicolson merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away, the cold blue eyes lost in indifference and quartering the sun-hazed horizon to the north.
The Japanese returned at twelve minutes past two o'clock in the afternoon, and they came in force. Three or four planes would have been enough: the Japanese sent fifty. There were no delays, no tentative skirmishing, no preliminary altitude bombing, just the long curving sweep to the south-west and then that single, shattering attack out of the sun, a calculated, precision-engineered attack of dovetailing torpedo-bombers, dive-bombers and Zeros, an attack the skill of whose execution was surpassed only by its single-minded savagery and ferocity. From the moment that the first Zero swept in at deck level, shells from its twin cannon smashing into the bridge, until the last torpedo-bomber lifted and banked away from the concussive blast of its own detonating torpedo, only three minutes passed. But they were three minutes that transformed the Viroma from the finest, most modern tanker of the Anglo-Arabian fleet, from twelve thousand tons of flawless steel with all the guns on deck chattering their puny defiance at the incoming enemy, to a battered, blazing, smoke-enshrouded shambles with all the guns fallen silent, the engines gone and nearly all the crew dying or already dead. Massacre, ruthless, inhuman massacre with but one saving grace -- the merciless fury of the attack tempered only by its merciful speed.
Massacre, but massacre aimed not at the ship primarily, but at the men who manned the ship. The Japanese, obviously flying under strict orders, had executed these, and brilliantly. They had concentrated their attacks on the engine-room, bridge, fo'c'sle and gun positions, the first of these suffering grievously: two torpedoes and at least a dozen bombs had entered the machinery space and the decks above: half the stern was blown away and in the after part of the ship there were no survivors at all. Of all the gunners, only two survived -- Jenkins, an able seaman who had manned a fo'c'sle gun, and Corporal Fraser. Perhaps Corporal Fraser would not be a survivor for long: half his already crippled left arm had been shot away and he was too weak, too shocked, to make more than a token attempt to stem the welling arterial blood.
On the bridge, crouched flat on the floor behind the armoured steel bulkheads of the wheelhouse, half-stunned with the blast and concussion of exploding cannon shells, both Findhorn and Nicolson dimly realised the significance of the plan of attack, the reason for the overwhelming weight of bombers used in the onslaught and the heavy escort of Zero fighters. They realised, too, why the bridge remained miraculously immune from bombs, why no torpedo had as yet smashed into any of the oil cargo tanks -- a target impossible to miss -- and torn the heart out of the Viroma. The Japanese weren't trying to destroy the Viroma: they were trying to save the Viroma and to destroy the crew. What matter if they blew the stern off the ship -- her nine great oil tanks, still intact, and the fo'c'sle had enough reserve buoyancy to keep the ship afloat: awash, perhaps, but still afloat. And if they could ensure that none of the Viroma's crew lived to blow up or scuttle the shattered ship, ten thousand tons of oil would be theirs for the taking: millions of gallons of high grade fuel for their ships and tanks and planes.