Strike from the Sea (1978) (34 page)

‘Out starboard engine clutch.’

It took real effort to concentrate, to ensure that each order was repeated and executed. He would have to go astern from the quay before making his exit. There was a wrecked freighter leaning against the piles, and an upturned hull of some kind right behind. It was a wonder
Soufrière
had not joined them.

The starboard engine stopped to be replaced instantly by the electric motor. The diesels were not fitted with reversing gear and the electric motors were used for all complicated manoeuvring. He would need to be quick about it. To drain the batteries would earn him little praise from Halliday and his men.

‘Let go.’

‘All gone aft! All gone forrard, sir!’

‘Half astern starboard. Port thirty.’

Ainslie felt the responding quiver of the screw, the sudden surge of foam sweeping along the saddle tank as the boat began to go astern.

The quay was already fading into the gloom, and he thought he saw someone running along the top of it, waving, but he could not be certain.

‘Stop starboard. Group up. Half ahead port.’

He felt
Soufrière
slowing down, the sudden rustle of noise as the watch on deck removed their oilskins. No more rain. Just a big, oily swell. Dull and unbroken.

Ainslie walked to the rear of the bridge, brushing past lookouts and gun crews. Men. Flesh and blood like himself. He ground his teeth together.
Stop it
.

Far enough now. ‘In starboard engine clutch.’

A quick look round again. There was the little boat to lead them through the wrecks, a tiny blue sternlight rocking on the swell.

‘Starboard thirty. Half ahead both engines.’

He stripped off the oilskin and took the towel from around his neck, rubbing his face and throat until it stung.

‘Midships. Steady.’ Ainslie peered at the gyro, seeing the blue sternlight over the screen like a moth. ‘Steer one-three-zero.’

Again and again he heard the sullen boom of artillery, the deeper thuds of exploding shells. Ainslie thought of the convoy, pushing along through the darkness now at an average speed of seven knots. If Granger had had more time he could have split the craft into groups, but with so little left, and not enough escorts at his disposal, he had been forced to revert to the old rule. The speed of the convoy shall be that of the slowest ship in it.

The yacht
Lady Jane
had not been so unusual after all, Ainslie thought. He had seen every sort of vessel, including a coal-fired river gunboat which must have been launched before the Great War.

Ridgway lowered his night glasses. ‘Coming to starboard, sir.’

‘Very well. Starboard ten. Steady.’

The strangest coincidence had been the destroyer in charge of the escort. She had been the
Arielle
, the same ship which had
taken from on the first leg of their attempt to seize the
Soufrière
from her French owners.

Quinton had been watching the destroyer wheeling round to count and check the line of escorted vessels and had said, ‘Well, her skipper knows what it’s all about now, right enough.’

‘Ship’s head one-three-five, sir.’

Farrant’s head and shoulders appeared above the side of the bridge. ‘All wires stowed and secured, sir. Permission to dismiss the casing party?’

‘Carry on, Guns.’

They were clear of the worst part now, unless the lookouts sighted an unreported wreck across their path.

‘Take over the con.’

He saw Ridgway step up into his place and then moved to the port side to watch the flickering fires on the land, the brilliant diamonds of drifting flares.

The convoy and its small escort was not much, but it was better than remaining in Singapore.

He wiped his face again, remembering her eyes, her struggle to appear unafraid.

If she had known about
Soufrière
’s orders . . .

A sixth sense jarred through his thoughts. ‘Watch that piece to starboard. The swell seems to be breaking just there. Probably a submerged wreck or remains of one.’ He waited until Ridgway had brought the submarine out and then hack on course again.

Natalie. Up there somewhere, heading for the shelter of the islands.

Southby said, ‘Sawle wants permission to come up with some cocoa, sir.’ He sounded nervous.

Ainslie nodded. Trust Sawle. First things first. He would be making sandwiches at the gates of hell if asked.

‘Launch is signalling, sir!’ Menzies read the stabbing light slowly. ‘Must be squaddies to send so badly!’ Then he said, ‘They say,
give them one for us
, sir.’

Ainslie took a mug of cocoa and stared at it blindly.
For us
. That was every mother’s son being left behind.

‘Make,
it will be an honour
, Yeo.’

He watched the little blue light begin to fall away as the boat curved round to allow
Soufrière
to pass.

Soon it was gone altogether, and drifting smoke had merged the distant fires and explosions into one angry glare.

To Ridgway he said, ‘Have you got the feel of her?’

Ridgway bared his teeth. ‘Aye, sir.’

‘Then I’m going below to look at the plot. Call me instantly if . . .’ He let it drop. The torpedo officer knew. They all did now.

Southby stepped up beside the lieutenant as Ainslie vanished through the hatch.

‘I’ll
never
forget it. I don’t expect I’ll ever see Singapore again.’

Ridgway trained his glasses above the screen. You probably won’t see any land again, he thought sadly.

Aloud he snapped, ‘Smart look out all round, lads. We’ll be in open water soon.’

At the foot of the conning tower ladder Ainslie paused, his fingers still locked around the rungs like claws. He controlled his breathing and swallowed hard. When he turned and strode under the deckhead lights there was nothing on his face to betray his ache, his despair. He was the captain again.

‘Periscope depth, sir.’

Ainslie nodded to the stoker and crouched down to seize the grips.

It was noon. All the previous night and this morning they had worked their way south-east, altering course occasionally to investigate a sound, an echo, or a patch of smoke on the horizon. Somewhere to the west of their position Granger’s convoy would be crawling southwards, keeping close to or amongst the many islands off the Malacca Strait, ready to disperse and hide if they were sighted and attacked. A snail’s pace.

Ainslie blinked rapidly as the periscope gingerly broke surface. The sea’s face had changed yet again. Greener now, with a dull blue edge to the horizon. A very pale sky, almost colourless, and the same unending swell. It was hard to prevent the lens from being covered and then laid bare with alarming suddenness.

Nothing. Not a bloody thing. He lifted the lens and searched around the sky, wincing as the sun probed into his eye. Where the hell were the Japs?

‘Down periscope.’ He straightened his back and glanced at Quinton. ‘Thirty metres. Continue patrol routine.’

He crossed to the chart table as the pumps hissed into life and the hydrophone tell-tales began to move again.

Suppose the admiral’s information was wrong? The Japanese ships might be anywhere. But it certainly looked promising enough. Some two hundred miles south-east of Singapore was Banka Island, an obvious stepping-stone on to the coast of Sumatra. Harbours, airfields, oil, it would be a prize indeed.

They had not missed them, anyway. Even the intelligence department would have known about another invasion.

‘Thirty metres, sir.’

‘Very good. Tell the cook to rustle up some food.’

Quinton joined him by the table. ‘Nothing yet, eh?’

Ainslie shook his head. Every hour gave the convoy another breathing space, a few more miles.

He said, ‘The Jap admiral will know all about us. He might think we’ve left the area, but just in case we’ve not, he’ll be taking no chances this time.’

Quinton sighed, his eyes on the planesmen. ‘The Jap pilots probably took pictures of us in harbour. If not, there’ll be plenty ready to sell them some when the white flag goes up.’

He spoke without bitterness, and Ainslie guessed he was thinking of the brief but heart-rending signal they had picked up during the night.

All hostilities were to cease on Singapore Island on fifteenth February when resistance would end and the British troops would lay down their arms. Lieutenant-General Percival would put the fate of his army and every living soul there into the enemy’s hands from that moment.

‘If only we knew how many ships there are, and what class. But by the time we’re close enough to know that, they’ll be on us like a ton of bricks.’

It was easy to share it with Quinton. It had always been like that.

‘If they’re coming, it will be this way.’ Quinton rasped his hand across his chin. ‘I’ll bet they send some ships nearer to Singapore to pick off any escapees and slam the gate on the rest of them.’ He leaned on the table, his armpits and spine making dark stains on his shirt. ‘We need six boats for this job, not just us!’

‘Could I suggest something, sir.’

Ainslie turned and saw Christie looking at him. ‘Shoot.’

‘If you’re prepared to risk surfacing in broad daylight, I’ll have a go at spotting for you.’ He grinned. ‘It’s not so daft as it sounds, sir.’

Quinton nodded. ‘Too damn right. It makes sense.’

‘Hold on, you two.’ Ainslie took time to examine the chart. Through the next group of islands. The water was deep enough, and the cover should be good. He felt the edge of excitement moving inside him, and said, ‘Grasping at straws. D’you realize what you’re asking?’

Christie shuffled his feet. ‘I do, sir. She’s a big submarine, and on the surface you’d be a sitting duck.’

‘It’s
you
I’m talking about.’ Ainslie watched him gravely. ‘If I have to leave you, you’ll be all on your own. You will have to ditch; or land in the islands. Or you could go looking for the convoy until your petrol runs out.’

Christie nodded. ‘I’ve thought about it. It’s worth a go, sir.’

Forster said helpfully, ‘I’ll get you some good charts. Just in case. Jack.’

‘Thanks.’ Christie sounded so relieved that the others stared at him. ‘I’ll fetch my mate.’ He hesitated by the watertight door. ‘One thing, sir. I’ll not let the bloody Nips take me, alive that is.’

Another hour passed while they moved closer to the next huddle of islands. Using both periscopes, they examined every angle and bearing without sighting even a gull.

Ainslie had the feeling it would be now or never. He compared his notes with Forster’s calculations and checked the estimated position of the enemy force on the chart.

Repeatedly he broke off to try and plot the convoy’s progress. Allowing for perfect conditions and no breakdowns they had still covered very little distance. He kept thinking of her face as he had held her against him. The thrusting, jostling throng by the jetty stairs had been a blurred background, somehow meaningless.

As the minutes had passed the din had grown louder and more threatening. Several times the police and soldiers guarding the waterfront had been forced to drive the crowds back to avoid swamping the boats below.

He had seen Natalie’s sister walking with some other women down the heavily guarded stairs to the boat which would take them out to an old freighter.

She had paused and looked at them, seemingly oblivious to the crowds and the danger still ahead.

‘We’re still running. Commander Ainslie.’ She had nodded to her sister. ‘I hope it works out this time.’

Then it had been time to go. A quick hug, a brief kiss, and he had seen her moving away from the jetty, almost hidden by waving arms as the refugees made a last contact with those being left behind.

He could remember the child, too. Exactly. Like a photograph. Her eyes had seemed too large for her face as he had stooped on his knees and kissed her.

‘Take care,’ he had said. What empty words when he had needed to say so much to both of them.

Ainslie took a towel and wiped his face again. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and did the same to his chest. As if he had to be clean, to be fresh.

‘Periscope depth again.’

Ainslie glanced at the Asdic compartment, but there was no warning from the operators.

He peered at the sea, the nearest island misty-green with a low necklace of surf on one side.

‘Sir!’ It was Forster on the other periscope. ‘Boat at red four-five!’

Ainslie clenched his jaw and swung the periscope smoothly on the bearing, clicking it to full power as the boat edged across his sights.

It was rolling heavily on the swell, tipping this way and that, as if trying to rid itself of its lolling passengers.

He hear Forster whisper, ‘Oh, my God.’

There were about a dozen in the boat, and but for their blistered faces and staring eyes could have been alive as they jerked and nodded to the motion.

Tall splinters stood like quills from the hull, and he could see that the plane must have crossed and re-crossed the boat with its machine-guns until the pilot was satisfied.

Two had been women, no more than girls. The rest were soldiers. God alone knew where they had been escaping from or to, but it had ended here.

‘Down periscope.’ He glanced at Quinton. ‘Diving stations. We’re going to get Christie airborne.’

The klaxon squawked loudly, and Halliday stood over his
panel and switchboard, hands on his hips like a schoolmaster.

Ainslie thought of Christie, how they had gone over the plan, what there was of it. If he sighted nothing, it might mean it was really a false alarm. If he saw the enemy, it would give
Soufrière
room to manoeuvre.

But he kept thinking of the drifting boat. The guilty people who had allowed it to happen should be made to see it, to take off the identity tags, to meet those staring, terrified eyes. One of the girls had been wearing an Australian bush hat. Someone had been trying to shade her from the glare when hell had burst in on them.

It could have been Natalie.

‘Standing by, sir.’

Ainslie tightened the strap of his binoculars and ran quickly up the ladder to loosen the upper locking wheel.