The Greatest Enemy Read online

  But the Terrapin at least seemed content to wait and see, and, as with all ships, that had to be enough.

  3 Exercise Action!

  STANDISH CLIMBED ON to the upper bridge and lightly touched the peak of his cap as Irvine saluted and said, ‘Good morning, Number One. It’s going to be another sizzler.’

  ‘Looks like it.’ Standish glanced down at the vibrating chart table with its much used instruments and tried to assemble his thoughts for the coming day.

  It was a few minutes to eight o’clock, and, as Irvine had just remarked, it had the promise of a hot day, in more ways than one. Standish had in fact been up for several hours, going round the ship as the hands cleaned up decks before breakfast, checking and watching while the normal sea-routine got under way. He had found it hard to sleep, and the activity on the deck had helped to steady him, to clear his mind from its usual nagging despair.

  Irvine who was waiting to hand over the watch said abruptly, ‘Still ten knots. Course three-four-eight.’

  A bosun’s mate looked up from his handset. ‘Red Watch closed up at cruising stations, sir. Able Seaman Macnair on the wheel.’

  ‘Very good.’ Standish walked up on to the gratings adding, ‘You’d better get some breakfast, Pilot. You may be required shortly.’

  Irvine grimaced. ‘First day at sea and we’re doing drills. What does the Old Man have in mind?’

  Standish shrugged, feeling the heat across his shoulders in a humid embrace. ‘No idea.’

  Irvine grunted and clattered down the bridge ladder.

  It was quite new for a whole watch to turn up for duty before time, Standish thought vaguely. There was a strange expectancy over the whole ship. He had even noticed it during a brief breakfast, where the officers had sat munching in silence, each no doubt contemplating the efficiency or otherwise of his own department. He conceded that it was not a bad way to start off a new command. He had done it himself in the past. Run through the usual drills just to keep the ship’s company awake to their responsibilities. It never did any harm.

  The tannoy squeaked and the the bosun’s mate’s voice echoed above and below deck with weary indifference.

  ‘Out pipes. Both watches for exercise in five minutes.’

  There was a step on the coaming and Standish turned to see Dalziel crossing from the small chartroom abaft the bridge.

  He saluted. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  Dalziel nodded amiably. He looked bright and eager, his skin glowing as if from a cold shower.

  ‘Belay that last pipe, Number One. You can clear lower deck and have the hands lay aft. I intend to address them.’

  The bosun’s mate saw Standish nod and picked up the microphone.

  ‘Clear lower deck! All hands lay aft to the quarterdeck!’

  There was a long pause, and then in a growing flood the seamen and off duty watchkeepers began to make their way along either side deck towards the stern.

  Dalziel peered down and said, ‘Two or three odd ones there. Thought we had some Wrens aboard for a moment.’ He frowned. ‘Can’t abide long hair. Makes them look scruffy.’

  Standish kept his face immobile. ‘I’ll tell the coxswain, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Dalziel fidgeted with his shirt buttons. ‘And you might tell Irvine to indent for new charts. The ones I’ve just examined are covered with more tea and coffee stains than useful information.’

  Corbin appeared at the top of the ladder and saluted.

  ‘Lower deck cleared, sir.’

  He was a giant of a man, a true product of a navy which was now little seen. He had been born and raised in a London slum, and been encouraged into the Service at the age of fifteen by a mother who changed her admirers almost as often as her clothes. The hard life and early upbringing had made Corbin shed everything which might remind him of his past. He had become Navy through and through, but had somehow managed to retain a strong sense of humanity which the more foolish of his subordinates had sometimes mistaken for weakness.

  Dalziel smiled. ‘Thank you, Swain.’ To Standish he added, ‘I’ll be a few minutes and then we can go to drills.’

  Standish walked back to the forepart of the bridge and relaxed slightly.

  Across the gently spiralling bows the sea was stretched taut like a sheet of glittering blue silk, above which the sky seemed washed out by comparison and gave a sure hint of the heat to come. A layman might have imagined the ship to be alone on a vast ocean, for there was neither land nor another vessel to be seen in any direction. But the chart, like the steadily revolving radar, showed the Terrapin to be steaming up the Malaysian coastline, which now lay some twenty-five miles across the port beam. It was even possible to imagine a smudge of land there, but Standish knew it to be a haze, a strange, pale mist which broke down the edge of both horizons and merged sea and sky in an unmatched, glaring void.

  He said suddenly, ‘Switch on the quarterdeck microphone, Spinks.’

  The bosun’s mate threw a switch and Dalziel’s crisp voice flooded into the bridge, making both the signalman and one of the lookouts jump with alarm.

  Dalziel was saying, ‘I have not yet had much time to speak with you as a company. Just a few individuals to get a general picture, eh? But time will tell me more, and until then I want to put you in the picture, to tell you exactly what I require from my people as a whole.’

  Standish had a sudden vision of the cans of beef which Dalziel had so eagerly described to him when he had come aboard, and wondered what some of the listening men would say if they saw themselves in the same category.

  ‘I had you brought aft at this particular time for a good reason.’ There was a small pause and Dalziel’s voice became muffled as he turned away from the microphone. ‘Over there, some twenty miles on the starboard beam is the resting place of two great ships. It is almost thirty years since Repulse and Prince of Wales went to the bottom, carrying with them many hundreds of brave and resolute men.’ His voice became clearer again. ‘In less than an hour, in the twinkling of an eye, two great ships, and with them the whole balance of naval power in these waters, were lost.’

  Standish darted a glance at the young signalman. He was about nineteen, with a round open face unmarked by memory or much serious thought. But as Dalziel spoke he was staring across the screen, as if expecting to see some sign, some mark of the disaster he had just heard described.

  ‘But this was no great deed in the making. These ships were not destroyed on some vital mission. They were thrown away by men whose minds had become addled and cramped by peace, by a system which believed that everything would be all right on the day, that nothing mattered but financial profit, self-advancement and personal comfort.’

  Standish walked to the port side and found himself waiting for Dalziel to continue.

  ‘For the want of a nail, someone once said, eh? Well, for the want of some simple common sense we lost two great ships, and consequently our foothold in the Far East.’ The voice faded again. ‘Over the other beam is Malaya. When most of you were either babies or just an evil gleam in your father’s eye, there was a tragedy going on out there. Men were fighting and dying, some cursing their own flag and country, because at the moment of truth they knew, they knew they had been betrayed by the very fools they had trusted!’

  Irvine walked from the chartroom, some breadcrumbs on the front of his shirt.

  ‘God, did you hear him?’

  Standish held up his hand. ‘Listen. He’s still speaking.’

  ‘Well, today there are no great ships and few emblems of country. The world, our world is divided in two pieces, and we fight to preserve all that we hold dear as best we can. But we have enemies other than those across the Iron Curtain. Enemies within, of the same ilk as those who threw away those two proud ships.’

  There was another pause and Standish could imagine Dalziel standing on a liferaft, hands behind him, head thrust forward as he looked around at his command.

  ‘My requirements are simple. Loyalty, obedien
ce and constant vigilance. This ship has been allowed to get stale. That state of affairs ceased to exist at midday on Sunday last!’

  There was a murmur of voices and then Corbin’s carrying tones as he brought the assembled men to attention.

  ‘Switch off.’ Standish looked down at his hands. He had almost expected to see them shaking.

  Irvine muttered, ‘God knows what our layabouts’ll make of that. Most of them were expecting to be shipped home to mother, or to see what the naughty neighbour has been up to with the little woman.’ He ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. ‘Now they’ll be seeing a communist under every bunk.’

  ‘Not a bad thing either.’

  They both turned to see Dalziel already at the head of the ladder.

  Irvine said, ‘Sorry, sir, but I was just trying to see it from their point of view.’

  ‘Well, don’t bother, Pilot. See it from mine!’ Dalziel’s chest was heaving as if he had run from the quarterdeck. ‘Now, Number One, let us get started. Tell Wishart to put his people to work stripping and preparing ‘A’ gun. We will have a shoot this afternoon. This forenoon we will have boat lowering and fire drill, a bit of damage control.’ He paused and looked at Irvine. ‘If you must come on the bridge with half your breakfast on your shirt then you might at least wear your cap!’

  He turned back to Standish, his voice brisk and controlled. ‘Send for Pigott and Hornby, and then tell Caley to exercise the T.A.S. team.’ He rubbed his hands, a dry, rasping sound. ‘Well, Number One?’

  Standish found himself smiling. ‘Right away, sir.’

  Minutes later the whole business was under way, with petty officers and seamen, mechanics and even stewards struggling with unaccustomed drills, while Dalziel peered down at the milling confusion with obvious satisfaction. And he made sure they all knew he was watching them, Standish thought.

  Hornby and Pigott reached the bridge together, mystified no doubt by their unexpected summons.

  Dalziel nodded. ‘Ah, Pigott. I want you to get your supply chaps busy. Get all the spare crates on deck as quickly as you can. The bigger the better.’

  Pigott regarded him suspiciously. ‘I have to sign for those, sir.’ When Dalziel said nothing he added firmly, ‘I’m answerable for all my empty crates.’

  ‘You are answerable to me, Pigott.’ Dalziel eyed him cheerfully. ‘When you have gathered all the crates on the main deck you will give my compliments to the Chief and tell him I require some empty oil drums, the five-gallon type will do very well.’

  Pigott opened his mouth and then shut it again as Dalziel added, ‘I know. He’s answerable for all his drums! Well, just see that they’re on deck in thirty minutes, right?’

  Pigott had reached the head of the ladder when Dalziel called, ‘When you’ve finished you can come back here and take over the watch from Number One.’

  Pigott turned and stared at him, his pale eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

  ‘But I’m not a watchkeeping officer, sir.’

  ‘Suppose all of ’em were suddenly to get killed, or drop dead from some of that food you so jealously guard in your stores, eh?’ He grinned. ‘What would you do? Just sit on your arse and wait for a bloody miracle?’ He slapped his palms together. ‘Now come on, Pigott, jump about!’

  As the supply officer ran down the ladder Standish said quietly, ‘He means well sir.’

  ‘Quite. So did Eichmann, I believe!’

  Dalziel turned his eyes on Hornby who was staring at him like a fat, mesmerized rabbit.

  ‘Take twenty men and transform Pigott’s boxes and drums into a raft.’

  If he had asked for some blood Hornby could not have been more startled.

  ‘Raft, sir?’

  Dalziel shot Standish a grin. ‘Why does everyone repeat every damn thing I say?’ To Hornby he roared, ‘Yes, a bloody raft!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Hornby licked his lips. ‘I’ll try, sir.’

  Dalziel said gently, ‘Of course you will. I never doubted it. In any case it will take some of that blubber off you, eh?’ He pulled out a stop-watch from his pocket adding half to himself, ‘Can’t abide fat officers. Obesity and complacency go hand in hand in my experience.’

  He thrust the watch into his pocket. ‘Number three fire party has taken all of five minutes so far, and not a damn hose in view.’ He beckoned to the bosun’s mate. ‘Get down there and tell the senior rating I’ll light a fire under his rump if he doesn’t shift himself.’

  He rubbed his hands. ‘Well, Number One, things are moving.’ He snatched up the red handset almost before it had stopped buzzing.

  ‘Captain speaking. Oh yes, Chief, those drums.’ He looked at Standish and winked. ‘Ah yes, I see. Quite so. I agree with you in principle, Chief, but I do require drums.’ He paused. ‘And of course their removal would make room for some extra spares which I might be able to get for you when we touch port again, eh?’

  He replaced the handset very gently. ‘Thought that would do the trick.’ Then he peered at Hornby. ‘Still here?’ And as the electrical officer hurried for the ladder he added quietly, ‘A big body, but I suspect there is a tiny man lurking within.’

  Thirty minutes later Pigott returned to report that the required articles had been assembled.

  ‘Capital.’ Dalziel gestured towards the chart table. ‘Course is three-four-eight. Carry on here while we go and watch young Wishart.’

  Standish followed him to the ladder. When he looked back he saw Pigott still staring at the chart, his expression one of complete bewilderment.

  Beside the twin four-inch mounting they found Wishart amidst his men, his shirt smeared with gun grease, his face set in a frown of concentration.

  Petty Officer Motts, the G.I., saw Dalziel and saluted.

  ‘Good as new, sir. Just another hour or two an’ we’ll ’ave ’em as clean as whistles.’

  Dalziel nodded. ‘That’s what I like. Enthusiasm.’ He looked at Wishart. ‘This afternoon we will put Hornby’s raft in the water and you can shoot at it.’

  Wishart glanced at Standish and replied grimly, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  ‘We might find time for the four Bofors, Number One.’ Dalziel peered at his watch. ‘But they may have to wait.’

  Standish followed him along the port side, having to step out to keep pace with him. As he passed amongst the busy seamen he watched their faces, expecting open resentment or even scorn.

  But they seemed dazed, shocked perhaps by what they could do once they were set into motion. If Dalziel could make it last, it might just work, he thought.

  Dalziel halted below the whaler’s davits and looked at him calmly. After a moment he said, ‘I understand that your wife ran off with some other chap, is that right?’

  * * *

  It was late evening when the Terrapin crossed the ten fathom line and headed towards the twin headlands which guarded the entrance of Kuala Papan. The sun had all but disappeared beyond the deeply shadowed hills, so that the thick jungle which ran inland as far as the eye could see was made to merge in a carpet of burnished copper.

  By the time the frigate had groped her way into the sheltered water below one of the towering headlands it was practically dark, and as the anchor had splashed into a welter of dancing phosphorescence Standish had found himself wondering what might have happened if Dalziel had left his entrance any later.

  For now, while the ship swung gently at her cable it was quite apparent that there were neither buoys nor beacons of any sort to mark the deep water channel, and there seemed to be no sort of pilot to help the unfortunate stranger into safety. Perhaps out here strangers had no right to protection, he thought vaguely. It was a desolate place, hemmed in by jungle and steep hills with only a small fishing village to show any sort of human life. Kuala Papan’s main claim to fame seemed to be its stone pier and a road which ran inland to serve several plantations and one mine. Both pier and road had been built by the Japanese, and as Standish stood smoking his pipe at the quar
terdeck guardrail he found it easy to visualise the misery and pain which had gone to their construction. On nights like this, with the stars so large they seemed to link the headlands on either side of the estuary, thousands of starved and brutally treated prisoners-of-war must have lain at the mercy of mosquitos and countless other insects, too wretched to find comfort from a brief respite, too fearful of the odds against their survival to think about any future.

  On the opposite side of the inlet he could see the massive shape of the U.S.S. Sibuyan, aboard which Dalziel was now in conference with the American admiral. Her upper deck and twin derricks were well lit with arc lamps, and a small guard-boat spluttered slowly around her hull at regular intervals. Of about 10,000 tons, the Sibuyan was one of the strange, multipurpose vessels which the Americans seemed to use more and more frequently in their efforts to contain the undeclared war around them. Rated as an amphibious force flagship she carried helicopters as well as guns, and contained all the resources to sustain a small fleet of lesser craft, as well as provide the necessary communications and headquarters facilities for her commanding admiral.

  Standish tapped his pipe on the rail and saw the ash glowing above the uneasy water before being extinguished on the current. Around and below him the Terrapin was quiet again after the excitement and confusion of the day. From speakers on the forward messdeck he could hear the muffled pulsating beat of a pop group, and from an open scuttle in the petty officers’ mess the sudden ripple of laughter and clink of glasses.

  When at last, weary and gasping for breath, the ship’s company had stood down from exercises, Standish had expected Dalziel to show some sort of disappointment. The drills had been, for the most part, a disaster, but as the ship had altered course westward towards the land Dalziel had squatted on his bridge chair making notes in his little book at a furious speed, pausing every so often to peer down at the forecastle or to take a few rapid paces back and forth as if to settle something in his mind.