Pride and the Anguish Read online

  He followed Yates’ disapproving stare around the wardroom, remembering all the pain and effort which had followed their arrival at the pier. There had been so much to do. The wounded to be taken by stretcher to the hospital, and the dead to be buried. For the latter there was no time for a sea burial, and within months their graves would be lost in the encroaching jungle.

  For the whole day they had worked like dazed automatons to get the ship ready to fight again. In spite of the repairs and the replacement of ammunition, routine must be maintained. Meals had to be produced for sailors too tired to notice what they were eating, and the men had to be coaxed or driven to the countless tasks which needed doing, when all they wanted to do was sleep. Sleep like the dead.

  And through it all Corbett had remained an ever-moving force. He showed no sign of fatigue or despair, and seemed to make no allowances for anything his men might be feeling. As he had said to Trewin that afternoon, “I want this ship on top line. You don’t win battles with slackness, eh?”

  To Trewin’s knowledge Corbett’s untiring energy had taken him ashore and back to the ship more than a dozen times. He had organised a telephone link with the base, and had even bullied the local military to supply some anti-aircraft guns for the inlet to cover the two ships at their moorings.

  Trewin had stepped ashore only twice. At the hospital and in the village he had been stunned by the change which had shown itself since his other visit. There were Malay refugees everywhere. Whole families were camping in the open or sitting amidst scanty possessions along the roadside. All had fled from the north, and not one of them seemed to know where to go or with what purpose.

  It was comforting to see more soldiers about. Mostly Australians, they moved in and around the village, sorting out lost families and supplying endless quantities of food and fresh water. They appeared cheerful enough, and treated the news from the north with the usual servicemen’s indifference. As one sergeant had said to Trewin, “What can you expect from flamin’ Indians? They’re lost without their friggin’ elephants!” He had gone off laughing to himself, a Malay baby in one arm and his rifle in the other.

  At the hospital things had been chaotic but under control. Every bed space, and each passageway as well, was filled to capacity with sick and injured refugees. The wounded sailors had been laid in Dr. Massey’s own quarters to wait for army transport to take them south. The Chinese and Malay nurses moved quietly amongst them like pale nuns, showing no emotion or strain, and not sparing themselves for an instant, in spite of the fact they had not slept for two days.

  Yates said suddenly, “Will you be needin’ me, sir?”

  Trewin shook his head absently. “No. But leave the bottle. You can get the messmen to clear up all this stuff tomorrow.”

  Yates shrugged. “We’ll be wantin’ it agin soon, I wouldn’t wonder.”

  He padded out of the wardroom and Trewin poured out another full measure of gin. As he leaned back in the chair he winced as a stab of pain lanced through his shoulder. The splinter was still there. He would have to do something about it. The gin dulled his aching mind, and it was hard to drive his thoughts into order.

  How quiet the ship felt. Just the whir of fans and the muted hum of a dynamo from aft. Occasionally he could hear the uneasy pacing of the quartermaster at the gangway and the squeak of fenders against the pier. But the ship was resting. Gathering her spent strength.

  Normally at this time the messdecks would be alive with noise and music. But when Trewin had done his rounds half an hour earlier he had found the men asleep. Some had not even reached their hammocks and lay like corpses at the mess tables, heads on forearms, their faces strained even in sleep as their minds relived the noise and fear of battle.

  He had looked into the petty officers’ mess. It had been the same there. The ship’s professionals had been in their bunks. Nothing had stirred.

  He had seen Chief Petty Officer Unwin, the coxswain, lying flat on his back, his mouth open, a filled but unlit pipe still grasped in one hand. On his chest, sleeping like a small extension of himself, had been Toby, the ship’s black-and-white cat, his body rising and falling in time with Unwin’s uneven breathing. The coxswain had taken out his teeth before climbing into his bunk, and in the shaded police light his face looked old and sunken. Yet this was the man who had stayed at the wheel during each attack, his ears deaf to all but the ever-demanding voice-pipe from the bridge.

  And Kane, the G.I., with one arm across his face, his clothes neatly folded beside his bunk. A true gunnery man, Trewin thought. He recalled Kane’s lean features beside the road as together they had stared at the line of sun-blackened heads with their obscene expressions of horror and grisly malevolence. Kane had been trained to control his emotions, yet even he had muttered, “Now I know there’s no God!”

  Trewin stood up violently and pushed the bottle aside. He would go to the sick bay and remove the splinter himself. He cursed as he remembered that Baker was ashore at the hospital and the sick bay was locked. It always was in harbour, by Corbett’s direction. Apparently it had once been raided by a cat-footed Chinese searching for drugs, and the captain had never forgotten the incident.

  Trewin seized his cap and walked out on to the deck. There was a small breeze, and after the wardroom it felt almost cold.

  Petty Officer Dancy shielded a cigarette in his palm and said, “All quiet, sir.”

  “I’m going to the hospital, Buffer. This splinter is bothering me.”

  “If you come to the mess I’ll have a go if you like, sir?”

  Trewin turned away. “No! I can manage!” He saw Dancy’s eyes glinting in the darkness and added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”

  He walked past the quartermaster and down the gangway. He saw Dancy pause to speak with the quartermaster and wondered if they were discussing him. He strode quickly and angrily up the dirt road, ignoring the little groups of villagers and refugees, his mind returning again to the signal which Corbett had received that afternoon.

  Corbett had seemed to be quite content with it. “It makes up just a little bit for what has happened, Trewin.” Corbett had been busy shaving when Trewin had entered his cabin. “The R.A.F. could not send fighter protection in time because all their planes were busy elsewhere.” He had turned to study Trewin’s grave features. “It doesn’t help the Shrike, but it shows that they tried, eh?”

  Trewin had waited, wondering why Corbett had bothered to call him from the work on deck.

  Corbett had wiped his blade carefully. “I’ve fixed up a telephone line with the troops ashore. Go and get through to base and tell them to pass a signal to the R.A.F. for me.” He sounded vague. “You know the sort of thing. Thanks for trying! and so forth.”

  Trewin had gone to find the army signal section, his mind buzzing with Corbett’s words. “Thanks for trying!” That was a big comfort to the Shrike!

  The line had been bad and noisy with interference, but Trewin had discovered that there was more to the signal than he had imagined. A harassed staff officer at the other end of the line had snapped, “The R.A.F. wanted to help you, old boy. But Rear-Admiral Fairfax-Loring refused to allow it. Said he wanted every available plane to cover his withdrawal.”

  Even now he could hardly believe it. The admiral’s small group had been nearer to ready help, yet he had stopped the air cover for the Porcupine which was in greater danger. What the hell was going on? Was it spite or stupidity? Either way it was beyond any sort of sane reasoning.

  Trewin recalled with sudden clarity the admiral’s words to Corbett on the darkened bridge. “Don’t spoil it by bringing up old scores!” It was unlikely that anyone would settle any scores, no matter how personal, in this way, but of one thing he was sure—somehow or other he would have it out with Corbett. Or, he quickened his stride in time with his thoughts, apply for a transfer back to England. Anywhere but in this ship and this place!

  He reached the hospital compound and groped his way up the w
ooden steps. All shutters were drawn, but chinks of light made a mockery of the black-out. Not that it mattered, he decided. The hospital was surrounded on all sides by jungle and steep hills. It would take a very eager pilot to find it as a potential target.

  Dr. James Massey was standing outside his room, arms folded, a long cheroot in his teeth. He looked tired and worn, and his white smock was daubed with dried blood. He nodded briefly, “Can I help you?” His tone was automatic, as if he had been asking that question since time began.

  Trewin said, “Just a wood splinter. I’d do it myself, but…”

  Massey said briskly, “Don’t do anything. Not out here.” He saw Trewin shift his shoulder awkwardly. “You’re more likely to die of blood-poisoning than anything in this place.” He gestured with his cheroot. “Get in there. Take your shirt off and wait until I send someone.” He turned away as a nurse called to him from one of the wards. Over his shoulder he remarked, “It seems as if the military have made a pretty mess of things.”

  Trewin walked into the room, suddenly wishing he had let Dancy have a go at the splinter as he had suggested. He did not trust first judgements, but something about Massey made him feel resentful. His offhand summing up of the fighting in the north, for instance. If there had been a mess made of it, it had been decided long ago, and certainly not by a handful of over-optimistic soldiers!

  “Ah, here you are.”

  Trewin swung round and stared at the girl who stood framed in the open door. She was wearing a khaki shirt and slacks, and her long black hair was tied back to the nape of her neck with a piece of bandage. She looked in her early twenties and was extremely attractive. Even the crumpled shirt could not disguise the firm curve of her body, and in the lamplight her tanned skin looked cool and smooth.

  She studied him gravely, watching the uncertainty on his face. “Well? You are the one with the splinter?” Her dark brown eyes flashed with sudden impatience. “Look, Lieutenant, I’ve got plenty to do here without waiting for you!”

  Trewin managed to reply, “It’s not important. It’s just that I couldn’t reach it myself…”

  She interrupted shortly, “Some of the sailors in the other ward are really ill! But they make less fuss than you are doing now!”

  Trewin caught sight of himself in a wall mirror and saw the lines of anger on his face. He looked and felt dirty and crushed, yet the words he wanted for this cool, arrogant girl would not come. With something like defeat he tore off his smoke-stained shirt and threw it on the floor.

  She was still watching him, her small hands firmly placed on her hips. Then her head moved towards the table. “Lie on that. I’ll get that old dressing off first.”

  Trewin rolled face down on the table, his face buried in his forearm. By pressing his eyes into the skin of his arm he could blot out the glare from the hissing pressure lamp, shut out everything but his feeling of desperate urgency. To get out of here. To return to the ship and get that bottle.

  He could hear the girl moving back from the wall cabinet. Then there was a sudden silence, and he could sense her standing beside him, very close and unmoving. As if from far away he heard himself say, “Well, don’t just stare at it! For God’s sake get it over with!” His body went rigid as she laid one hand on his back. It felt very soft and cool.

  She said quietly, “Forgive me. I did not know.”

  Trewin could not stop himself. The words seemed to force themselves between his clenched teeth, breaking down his control, pouring out in a flood. “Would you like to get someone else? Or would you rather leave me the bloody tools and let me do it?”

  He stiffened, holding his breath as the hand moved slowly up his back. It did not falter or flinch but moved on until it lay motionless again on his disfigured shoulder with its great patch of mutilated skin.

  She said, “It’s all right now. Just rest quietly.”

  Trewin lay silent as the hands removed the dressing. It was so easy, so gentle that he hardly noticed it. Then she moved around the top of the table, and he could feel the pressure of her waist against his arm.

  She paused. “Just another second.” There was a sharp stab of pain, followed by the enclosing warmth of a dressing. Then she added in the same level voice, “Let me help you up.”

  Trewin threw his legs over the side of the table and stood up, his fingers reaching for his tattered shirt. As he pulled it across his shoulders he looked at the girl, his mind suddenly empty. She was watching him, her eyes no longer impatient. She was still holding the scissors in one hand, and Trewin could see her breasts moving with emotion.

  She said quietly, “You don’t have to be ashamed. I’m the one who should feel that!”

  There was a step outside the door and she added quickly, “You must be Lieutenant Trewin.” She held out her hand. The action was impetuous yet very genuine. “I’m Clare Massey.”

  Trewin took it and stared down at it, fighting to control his confused thoughts.

  She said, “You’ve had a bad time.” She squeezed his fingers very slightly. “But things will get better, you’ll see.”

  Trewin looked into her eyes and then nodded. “Thank you.” He tried to smile but it would not come. “I should like to talk to you again. Later.”

  She nodded slowly. “Very well.” She released his hand and stood to one side to let him pass.

  He stared down at her, feeling her hand still on his back. At the moment of breaking he had wanted to shock her, drive her away with shame and disgust. But her simple gesture had held all those things back. Had driven them away with that one action. Later he might see it as pity or embarrassment. But now he would let nothing spoil it.

  As he walked away from the crowded hospital his step was almost brisk, and his mind was calmer than he could remember for a long while.

  6 | Then There Were Four

  TREWIN WEDGED HIMSELF firmly in a corner of the darkened taxi and watched the last dwellings of the city’s outskirts giving way to open country and small scattered clumps of trees. The Indian driver seemed glad to get away from the densely crowded streets and gunned his engine despite the deep, savage ruts in the road which had been left by a recent thunderstorm and its attendant downpour.

  Now the sky over Singapore was bright with stars, and the air tasted fresh and clean. Trewin had intended to walk to Corbett’s house, but the city’s atmosphere of desperate gaiety had left him dazed and slightly unnerved, so that he had seized the solitary taxi as something like a refuge.

  It was New Year’s Eve, and the Porcupine had moored to a buoy in Keppel Harbour just twenty-four hours earlier with her sister ship Beaver lashed snugly alongside. It was just over two weeks since Trewin had watched the Shrike’s death agony and her pitiful survivors hauled aboard the Porcupine’s deck. Two weeks in which the world and the war seemed to have contracted and shrunk to the smallest confines of the hull, a green blur of coastline and the merciless sky above.

  The gunboats had continued their duties without a break. They had carried troops, stopped and searched native craft for enemy guerillas, humped stores to the more isolated garrisons, and had hit back at the ever-prowling aircraft. There was never a let-up, and nobody aboard even bothered to ask about air cover any more.

  Grayling had returned to base for some quick repairs, but had reappeared on her patrol area in much the same condition, her hull scarred and pitted from the first fighter attack. With her she brought news of heavy and constant air raids on Singapore’s dockyard and base, and a reminder of the personal side to war.

  The Squalus, her bows smashed after ramming the Japanese landing craft in that first gesture of jubilant victory, had been sunk at her moorings while awaiting the attentions of the dockyard. Fortunately the loss of life was small, her company having been ashore enjoying the attractions of Singapore. Her captain, Lieutenant-Commander Nye, a man once known for his ready humour, had taken command of the Grayling to replace Quarrie who had died on his bridge under the air attacks, and he too seemed to bring the
realisation of despair and danger even closer by his presence. He was a good captain, but Grayling was only a substitute for his own ship, his Squalus. His humour too seemed to have gone with her.

  But at last they were given a small reprieve, and for most of them it was not a moment too soon. With ammunition down to a last few rounds, and fuel tanks below minimum requirements for safety, the little ships had sailed back to Singapore. The northern side of the island was deserted of ships, but for wrecks and tiny patrol boats, and rather than run the gauntlet of more air raids over the dockyard the gunboats had been ordered to the southern side, to Keppel Harbour and the approaches, which were anything but abandoned. Busy freighters and supply ships queued to unload their munitions and supplies, and from graceful troopers there came a steady stream of khaki reinforcements for the fighting up north.

  But once ashore Trewin had sensed the immediate end to reality. In spite of the casual attempt at a black-out the city was quite obviously in the throes of festivity and wild celebration. Restaurants and clubs were jammed to capacity, and even during the occasional air-raid alerts the queues waited with persistent optimism outside every cinema and theatre. It was as if the people were refusing to accept danger. Were drowning it with noise and high living. Shutting off the embattled peninsula like a tap.

  Yet the fighting drew remorselessly nearer, none the less. In the three weeks and two days since the first landings, the Japs had fought their way some two hundred miles down either coast. Over half of Malaya was in their hands, and never a day passed without some vague rumour of defending troops being cut off and decimated. All the impossible things were happening. The Japs were using tanks in plenty to smash down troops who had been assured that such weapons would find no way through the jungles of Malaya. Their aircraft controlled the skies, their ground forces moved with a speed and a mobility which was more than a match for mere bravery.