Strike from the Sea (1978) (6 page)

Halliday shouted, ‘Stand by to ram!’ He glared through the steamy mist. ‘That means, bloody well hang on!’

Lucas shrugged and gestured to some native stokers to stand clear of the clattering machinery. Ram? The
Soulrière
perhaps? He thought of Ainslie when he had first met the Free French officers who were to assist in this crazy task. Lucas had been prepared to dislike him. Ainslie must have had a good instinct for people, he thought. He had said, ‘Relax, gentlemen, I am a Scot. The Admiralty is taking no chances with you lot!’

Lucas forgot England with its green fields and vapour trails high overhead where the young pilots fought their daily duels, as with the shuddering force of running aground the
Kalistra
smashed through the barrier of boats. Stokers yelled up through the steam like souls in hell, but the great shining shaft was still in motion, and as far as Lucas could tell, they were not foundering.

Halliday bellowed, ‘Up on deck! They want you at the double!’ He gripped his arm as he dashed past, his hand leaving a black outline on the sleeve. ‘Watch yourself! I’ll need you later on!’

Lucas grinned. He never really knew about Halliday. If he cared for his safety, or merely for his experience.

The sunlight which greeted him was blinding, and as he was knocked sideways by a running party of armed seamen he was astonished to see the land right alongside.

He saw the gunnery lieutenant, Farrant, hands on hips, one foot theatrically placed on a bollard, watching the land and some bobbing pieces of timber which must once have been boats.

Farrant he did not like. The fact he was British had nothing to do with it. There were Farrants in every navy.

Farrant looked at him, his eyes cold. ‘About time.’

Lucas mopped his face. ‘So?’

More running feet, this time the first lieutenant’s. He shouted, ‘We’re going alongside, starboard side to.’ He swung Lucas round and pointed at the gaunt pier, the longhouse beyond. ‘The skipper thinks the sub’s in there.’

There were shouts of alarm as the deck gave a violent lurch before coming upright again. An uncharted rock, a wreck, nobody knew, and it was too late anyway.

Quinton turned to run back to the bridge. ‘By the way, fellows, there’s a Jap sub astern of us!’ Then he was gone.

Lucas watched his companions as they gathered along the bulwark and guardrail, their faces set, and no longer cheerful. They were all looking at the land, the village and the groups of people who were stampeding away from it.

Crudely, without warning, the war, not of their making, was amongst them.

Farrant was saying to his petty officer, ‘Now, Osborn, I want you to take the covering party. Have some grenades ready. You know the drill.’

Somewhere through the drifting funnel smoke and above the din of fans and racing machinery came a shot.

Farrant stared at the petty officer with astonishment. Osborn’s expression matched his, as with a gasp he dropped to his knees, a great pattern of blood spilling from his stomach and covering his webbing belt and weapons like paint.

Lucas ran to help him, but a seaman yelled hoarsely, ‘No good, sir! ’E’s done for!’

Lucas could scarcely believe it. A man had just died.

He turned as Farrant said harshly, ‘From your people, I should think. Better hide your rank markings. They might not take kindly to de Gaulle’s warriors.’

Lucas swung away, knowing that if he said anything to Farrant it would lead to far worse. He felt like killing him.

From his vibrating viewpoint on the bridge Ainslie had seen some of it and had guessed the rest. He would make Farrant’s ears burn later, but right now . . .

Forster shouted, ‘There she is, sir!’ He ducked as some bullets
smacked into the wheelhouse or shrieked over the water like demons. ‘
Look!
’

The
Kalistra
’s failure to anchor, and then her dramatic entrance plus the additional appearance of the Japanese submarine must have caught everyone off guard.

As Ainslie ordered the wheel hard over, and the old ship staggered round towards the pier, he saw the giant
Soufrière
for the first time. Beneath a framework of matting and bamboo, her hull trimmed as high as possible, she looked even larger in the confined space.

There was froth along one of her saddle tanks, and for an instant Ainslie imagined she was moving and began trying to plan how he would stop the freighter’s charge and turn her in time to prevent escape. But it was probably a generator or a pump, for when he saw the mooring lines to the pier he knew she was in no state to slip free.

He ran to the wing. ‘Guns! They may try to scuttle!’

He saw the lieutenant nod before urging some of his men towards the forecastle and the point of impact.

A few more shots cracked against the
Kalistra
and Menzies growled, ‘Why don’t we give
them
a basinful?’

Ainslie took his cap from the flag locker and jammed it over his unruly hair. Then he walked out into the sunlight, clearly visible to anyone on the shore or the submarine as he raised his megaphone and shouted. ‘This is the Royal Navy! I have orders to take control of your vessel immediately!’

From the deck below he heard his words being repeated in French. That was Lieutenant Cottier, Lucas’s companion.

Ainslie felt the sweat pouring down his chest and spine in a hot flood. Yet his blood was like ice as he waited for the sickening impact. The light going out as a bullet found its mark. Like poor Osborn.

Then across the water came the reply, sharp and metallic. ‘If you attempt to board my ship I will destroy her.’

Ainslie’s eyes narrowed. They were at least talking. That must be her captain, Poulain. He measured the distance as the
Kalistra
pounded towards the pier.

‘Half speed ahead.’ He felt the response, and seemed to sense the bows dropping with relief. Less than half a cable to go. ‘Wait for the order, Swain.’ He lifted the megaphone again. ‘There is a Japanese submarine about to enter the lagoon! Be
in no doubt as to what will happen to you and your people if I withdraw now.’ From one corner of his mouth he whispered, ‘Ease her a bit to starboard, Swain.
Easy
.’

Somewhere below him he heard a man cough, another humming fiercely between his teeth. Osborn lay where he had fallen, arms and legs outflung in his blood, his eyes fixed on some point above the masthead.

Everything depended on
Soufrière
’s company as much as her captain. What news that had slipped out of Indo-China had been terrifying. Japanese atrocities had been reported against men, women and children alike. Their own fate, should they deny their submarine to such a ruthless attacker, would be a terrible one.

He heard a seaman grunt with alarm as the submarine’s great gun turret, which stood as high as the freighter’s bridge, suddenly began to swing towards them, the two barrels moving until they were depressed and sighted on the
Kalistra
’s hull.

Ainslie looked straight along the nearest gun, feeling nothing, yet wanting to understand. He was about to die. It was bound to happen one day. But not like this.

He realized the gun was no longer in his line of sight. The turret had stopped turning, and he saw some white-clad sailors climbing through an upper hatch, their arms at their sides, their dejection like something physical.

The metallic voice called again, ‘Do you guarantee our safety?’

Ainslie wanted to measure the last yards, but dare not move now. He heard Quinton taking over the con. He must have guessed, understood his anxiety.

‘Yes. We are not at war with Japan. If that submarine interferes with us, we will be.’

Quinton said sharply, ‘Hard astarboard. Stop engine.’ The hull was already swinging heavily towards the pier. ‘Midships.’

The tension was unbearable, and all the while the
Soufrière
seemed to be growing larger as the freighter thrust over the last strip of water.

‘
Full astern!
’ Quinton ran to Ainslie’s side as the telegraph jangled noisily. Then as Gosling yelled, ‘No response on telegraph, sir!’ Quinton exclaimed, ‘Jesus! We’ll ram it.’

But Forster had managed to get through to Halliday on the voice-pipe, and within five yards of the narrowest part of the
pier the
Kalistra
shuddered to dead slow, until with a great sigh she came alongside, bringing down a small hut and a pile of empty oil drums.

Ainslie hurried from the bridge, Quinton on his heels. Seamen were already across the pier and groping for handholds on the submarine’s casing or around her big conning tower. Others were trying to make fast the freighter’s lines, urged on by threats and curses from Petty Officer Voysey.

As Ainslie reached a small brow which was the only connection with the
Soufrière
’s hull, he saw a group of French seamen being held at gunpoint by some of their companions.

He said quietly, ‘Take charge here, Number One. Be easy with them. There’ll be bitterness enough later.’ To Farrant and Lucas he added, ‘You come with me.’

Then he walked between his men and stood on the
Soufrière
’s grey deck. For a moment longer he looked at the tricolour which hung from the conning-tower staff, then he raised his hand to his cap in salute.

A tanned French lieutenant strode to meet him, his face grim.

He said, ‘This way, sir.’ He glanced questioningly at Lucas and shrugged. It could have meant anything.

Ainslie turned to question him, but Lucas was staring up at the flag, his eyes blurred with emotion, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

Ainslie reached out and touched his arm, seeing Halliday’s trade-mark on his sleeve.

‘One day, Lucas.
One
day you will be back.’

Then with a nod to the watching sailors, British and French, he followed the lieutenant through a massive watertight door and into the conning tower.

If it were possible, the
Soufrière
’s interior was even more impressive than her upper deck. The control room seemed twice as big as any Ainslie had seen, and the equipment, dials and torpedo firing controls shone like those of a newly commissioned boat. What was strange was the small number of her company in view. Just a handful here and there, staring at Ainslie and his companions as if they had landed from the moon.

The sounds of generators and fans were muted and remote, adding to the impression that this great submarine was sealed rather than enclosed.

The French officer stopped in a passageway by a curtained cabin and said, ‘The
capitaine
is waiting for you inside.’

Ainslie glanced at his companions. ‘Wait here.’

He had to force himself to speak calmly, to prevent any kind of urgency transmitting itself through them to the others and maybe spark off serious trouble. They could all be taken prisoner, or shot down like the petty officer. Everything depended on the next minutes, even seconds. He must shut out the need for action, the mental picture of that other submarine. Everything.

He stepped over the coaming and removed his cap, allowing the curtain to swing behind him. Again the cabin, a rare luxury for any submarine commander, was dramatic and impressive, a modem version of Jules Verne. Well-made bookcases, a curtained bunk and, bolted to the deck itself, a desk which would not look out of place in an office.

But his attention was immediately locked on the
Soufrière
’s captain. Michel Poulain was small and very neat, with a dark beard, greying at the edges, and intensely penetrating eyes. He stood up slowly, his eyes moving to indicate a vacant chair.

It was impossible, of course, but Ainslie had the notion that Poulain had been waiting and planning for this very meeting for months. Dreading it, but at the same time hoping for somebody to take away his self-made responsibility.

Poulain sat down again, very carefully. ‘I am sorry about your sailor who was shot.’ His English, like the man, was even, well modulated. ‘These things can happen.’

Ainslie leaned forward, feeling the silence pressing in on him, the great hull surrounding them like a shell.

‘What I said, Captain, was the truth. With the war as it is, we cannot afford to strengthen our enemy’s resources. Your submarine must be prevented from falling into enemy hands.’ He let the words hang in the air. ‘One way or the other.’

Poulain looked around the cabin as if he had not heard. ‘
Soufrière
is no longer a mere
sous-marin.
She is part of France. While she is in being there is something to hold on to, to believe in. Soon the war will end.’ For the first time he smiled, but it made him look incredibly sad. ‘You British delude yourselves. At worst you will be invaded and made to suffer all the horrors of occupation. At best you can hope for stalemate and some
kind of ignominious armistice which will leave you alone in helpless isolation.’

‘That is much how we are today.’ Ainslie tried not to listen to muffled footsteps overhead, his men or Poulain’s he had no way of knowing. ‘But we will not give in. It is not our way.’ He opened his hands as if to contain the cabin. ‘But your ship, I find it hard to call her a boat, could bring havoc to us, and so indirectly to France.’

Poulain sighed. ‘I had intended to take her nearer home. To North Africa perhaps. You will have seen that I am short-handed, less than half the proper complement.’ He gave an eloquent shrug. ‘They had their reasons for leaving me. I did not try to prevent them.’

Feet came pounding along the passageway, and then after a muttered conversation with Farrant, Quinton thrust his way past the curtain.

He nodded formally to Poulain and then said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but the Jap boat is coming into the lagoon now.’ He glanced at the Frenchman and added coldly, ‘I think we’d better get weaving.’

Poulain said quietly, ‘I respect your attitudes. You must do me the same favour.’ He stood up and moved about the cabin. ‘We cannot dive. We had trouble with the forward hydroplanes, an inspired madman tried to put them out of use for ever!’ His tone hardened. ‘I buried him at sea. I have had some repairs carried out, but not enough. However, with the extra oil I had intended to run on the surface by another, less troublesome route.’