Pride and the Anguish Page 5

  “What the devil!” Corbett thrust the other man away and lurched to his feet, sending the chair crashing to one side. He saw Trewin and strode to the windows, where he flung back the shutters with a further crash.

  Trewin saw that the other man was a tall, distinguished-looking European with a neat dark beard. He had a calm, serious face, and as he turned his gaze from Corbett’s anger to Trewin’s uncertainty he said quietly, “I’m Dr. Massey. Do you mind telling me what you mean by bursting in here?” His voice was mild, but there was no mistaking the annoyance in his eyes.

  Corbett snapped, “This is my first lieutenant!” He turned on Trewin. “I might have expected something like this.”

  Trewin said, “I’m very sorry. I did not realise you were doing anything…”

  Corbett interrupted angrily, “You must forgive him, James. He imagines that he is the only one who has ever done anything worth while!”

  The doctor relaxed. “I was just examining your captain’s eye. I think there is a bit of inflammation, or maybe it’s dust there.” He looked at Corbett searchingly. “As I was saying when we were interrupted.”

  Trewin said, “I have a signal, sir. It was urgent or I would not have come.”

  Corbett appeared to have recovered himself. “Well, now that you are here you’d better let me have it.” To Massey he added calmly, “If it’s not one thing it’s another.”

  Trewin held out the flimsy, but Corbett said, “Read the thing out. That damn light has half blinded me!”

  Trewin glanced uncertainly at Massey, and Corbett shouted, “For God’s sake, I’ve known the doctor for years! Are you afraid he’ll tell everyone what it says?”

  “We are to assume state Medway, sir.” The pencilled letters on the signal seemed to dance, and Trewin saw that his hand was shaking with suppressed anger. When he lifted his head he noticed that Corbett was quite controlled, as if nothing had happened.

  “Very well, Trewin. That wasn’t too bad, now, was it?” He turned to Massey. “All blow over, I expect. Still, it’s just as well to be ready.”

  Trewin walked from the room and waited in the passage outside the door. He heard Corbett and Massey speaking quietly together and felt the same dull sensation of resentment and anger creeping through him once more. It seemed to take so little to get him on edge now. In spite of every precaution he repeatedly had to find time to cool down, to reason with himself like a wary spectator. He plucked his shirt away from his shoulder and tried to see himself as he had once been before Crete.

  At the very beginning of the war, for instance, when serving aboard an escort destroyer, he had had a captain who was generally considered mad by everyone who crossed his path. A character larger than life, he had goaded his officers almost beyond endurance, yet when the storm broke and the ship ran the gauntlet of the Atlantic for the first time Trewin had been the first to admit to his complete coolness under fire, his ready grasp of every phase of attack. While Trewin and his fellow officers seized the rare opportunities of sleep, a few hours at a time in damp blankets while the ship rolled drunkenly across the steep Atlantic troughs, the captain had stayed stolidly on his bridge. Whenever Trewin had fought off the clinging desire to sleep and had climbed once more to the nightmare of wind and sea, the captain had always been there, waiting and watching, like some superior being.

  But once the ship had returned to harbour the same captain had returned to his old outward mould of insulting impatience.

  Why then was it that Corbett was getting under his skin so much? He tried to tell himself it was because of his own bitterness at not getting another command. But deep inside his soul, gnawing like some half-healed disease, he thought he knew the real answer.

  Unlike the men who had died beside him in the water at Crete, or those who had survived as broken shadows of their former selves, he had been spared for a later, more treacherous fate. His body was healing from the burns and the agony of his dying ship, but his mind was still undecided which path to follow.

  He looked up as Corbett stepped into the passage, his face once more alert and controlled.

  “Right, Trewin. Back to the ship. We’ll return to Singapore immediately. The rest of the group will be on their way there, too.”

  They fell in step together and walked quickly along the dirt road. Corbett said suddenly, “I met Dr. Massey several years back, before the war. He has been a good friend in many ways. Had a great career ahead of him in England but threw it all up to come out here and work for these people. His wife died in a fire just after he came out here to start work.” Corbett shook his head. “That didn’t help much. But I think he’s got over it now. And he had his daughter with him, of course.”

  Trewin did not answer. Massey was probably just one more failure, he thought bitterly. Could not stand his own inability to find success in England so he had come out to Malaya in the role of benefactor.

  Corbett glanced at him coldly. “Without such men this country would be nothing.”

  They reached the pier and Corbett said, “Now just remember what I told you. Our flotilla of gunboats has been welded into something to be proud of. I won’t stand for anything or anyone getting in the way of efficiency or one hundred per cent readiness to perform whatever duty is thrown our way, d’you understand?”

  Trewin saw the side party waiting by the gangway. “Yes, sir.”

  Corbett saluted as the pipes trilled in the unmoving air. “And don’t grit your teeth, Trewin. I can’t stand people who sulk!”

  Mallory sauntered across the sidedeck and watched Corbett hurry towards the bridge. “You told him then?”

  “I did.” Trewin suddenly wanted to be left alone. To go to his cabin and take a drink. Or sulk, as Corbett had put it.

  But in spite of his anger Mallory’s unruffled question helped to ease away the tension which had gripped him all the way to the ship. He said wearily, “I suppose I’ll get used to this sort of life…eventually!”

  Mallory grinned. “The first ten years are the worst!”

  They both looked up as Corbett called from the bridge ladder, “When you are ready, gentlemen!”

  Mallory said under his breath, “Given some encouragement I could take quite a dislike to that one.”

  Fifteen minutes later the Porcupine sidled clear of the pier and with her screws churning the water into white froth backed out into the centre of the river.

  As before Trewin conned the ship downstream while Corbett remained silent and watchful in his tall chair. Only when the bows lifted slightly to the sea’s greeting did he say anything.

  Then to the bridge at large he remarked, “That was a little better. But there’s still room for improvement.” He sat back in his chair and tilted his cap across his eyes.

  Trewin sighed and handed over the watch to Mallory. With men like Corbett you could never win, he thought.

  3 | In the Space of an Hour

  THE NIGHTMARE MOUNTED to its usual terrible climax, and with a sudden cry Trewin rolled on to his side and switched on the bedside light. For a full minute he stared dazedly around the neat hotel room while his disordered thoughts moved back into some sort of pattern. He was sweating badly, and he could feel his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. How long would it be before he could shake off the repetitive dream? he wondered. It had no true order or realism, yet the distorted faces and leaping flames were always there.

  Wearily he climbed from the damp sheets and stood beside the bed. With something like hatred he stared at the empty gin bottle on the table and at his clothes which lay where he had thrown them just a few hours earlier. His watch told him it was almost four in the morning, and he knew he would not be able to get back to sleep.

  He had hoped that a change of surroundings, if only for one night, would make some sort of difference. Wandering from hotel to hotel, or allowing himself to be carried this way and that by the ceaseless, jostling throng of townspeople should have produced a sensation to replace the anticlimax which had gree
ted the Porcupine’s return to Singapore Island. What sense of emergency there might have been seemed to have given way to an atmosphere not unlike a strange carnival. As the gunboat had dropped anchor ahead of her consorts any idea of impending danger or urgency seemed to fade.

  The crowded waterfront had abounded with optimism and relief, and even Trewin had to admit there was some foundation for the wild gaiety. In the centre of the crowded anchorage, dominating every other ship by their size and power, were two great capital ships and their newly arrived escorts. The battleship Prince of Wales and the battlecruiser Repulse seemed to represent a visible sign that this time there was to be no nonsense. That sure shield which every Briton had come to take for granted had reached out protectively even to Singapore.

  Of course there had been no shortage of rumours. The Japanese were moving ships and troop convoys westward from Indo-China. They would invade Siam, or they might even attack the American bases in the Pacific. But one thing was sure, they would not be so stupid as to try a seaborne attack on Malaya without ships to match the new power of the Royal Navy.

  For five days the Porcupine had remained in a state of semi-readiness, and even that had been broken by ceremonial and drills as the newcomers to the fleet had been royally entertained both ashore and afloat. Then on the Sunday, immediately after Divisions on the Porcupine’s small quarterdeck, Corbett had granted local leave to all but the duty watch. Trewin had decided, almost without thinking, that he would spend his brief freedom in luxury. Now, after a night of colour and noise, of unfamiliar food and heavy drinking, he was able to appreciate his mistake.

  With a sigh he held his head in the handbasin and let the lukewarm water run over his hair.

  It was strange how the appearance of the big ships in the anchorage had affected Corbett, he thought. He had been almost gay compared with his usual cold watchfulness. As the Porcupine had cruised past the battleships and the towering upperworks and gun turrets had cast a black shadow across the gunboat’s bridge Corbett had said, “Well, this should make the moaning minnies change their tune, eh?” The pipes had trilled a salute, and from the deck of the Prince of Wales had come the acknowledgement of a bugle.

  But after five repetitive days Trewin had had enough of it. No one knew for sure what was happening, and what was worse, nobody seemed to care.

  As he had wandered aimlessly through the crowded streets of the city he had seen the shop windows bright with Christmas gifts, and after the hard sunshine of the day it made the place seem all the more unreal and alien.

  He stared at himself in the mirror and decided he should have stayed aboard. Mallory was the duty officer, and although he had not asked directly, Trewin knew he was desperate to get ashore for his own kind of enjoyment. Tweedie and Hammond had left the ship and gone their own ways, and Corbett had gone home to his wife—the face in the photograph on his desk.

  He walked to the open window and leaned his hands on the sill. He could feel the night air cooling the heat of his naked body, and he could see the endless lights and reflections of a city which never slept.

  The full moon cast a silver reflection on the sea beyond Keppel Harbour framed between two tall hotel buildings, and he could see small dancing lights far out on the calm water where Chinese fishermen worked busily to supply the island’s teeming population. There were aircraft flying somewhere to the north, their distant, regular throbbing somehow confident and reassuring.

  In the next room he heard the dull murmur of a man’s voice and a responsive female giggle before they both lapsed once more into silence. Trewin stared down at his disordered bed and tried not to listen to the furtive sounds in the adjoining room. They were too much a memory. Too much a part of something lost in the past.

  He jumped as the bedside telephone jangled noisily. He sat on the bed and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”

  “Thank God!” It was Mallory. “I’ve been trying to get through to your hotel but all the lines are humming like bloody hell!”

  Trewin sat quite still, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. “Well?”

  “There’s a flap on!” In the background Trewin could hear the shrill of a bosun’s pipe and the clang of metal. Mallory continued quickly, “The R.A.F. have reported unidentified aircraft approaching the city! You’d better get your skates on and return to the ship at once!”

  Trewin’s mind became suddenly clear. “Right. Have you sent out a recall?”

  Mallory sounded strained. “As best I can. I sent a messenger to fetch Corbett.”

  Trewin reached for his underpants. “Clear away the anti-aircraft guns and make sure that you’ve blacked out the whole ship.” He dropped the telephone and began to pull on his clothes. Through the window nothing had changed, and the sky was shining with a million coloured reflections. Perhaps it was yet another false alarm.

  He swept his razor and scanty belongings into his pockets and hurried for the door. At the end of the corridor he almost ran into a pair of shadowed figures who were half lying against one of the windows. The girl was in a long evening dress, and even in the half-light Trewin could see that her breasts were bare and her eyes were closed as her eager companion sought to complete his conquest.

  Trewin hurried by and heard the man shout, “Bloody fool! Must be stoned!” The girl laughed, but the laugh was cut short as the floor seemed to buck beneath Trewin’s feet and the whole corridor rang to the maniac sound of shattering glass. Then came the explosions, hard, nearby detonations which rocked the hotel like a ship in a sudden storm, and which filled the warm air with clouds of choking dust.

  Trewin thought of the aircraft noises and reeled down the deserted stairway, his ears deaf to the shouts and shrill screams from the rooms behind him. As he reached the ground floor he had to fight his way through stampeding figures, mostly in night attire, and a handful of hotel servants who seemed too stricken to move.

  Another pattern of loud explosions rocked the building, and glass spewed inwards across the reception desk and splintered against the floor.

  A thickset man with a white moustache, dressed in a purple bathrobe, pulled at Trewin’s arm and shouted into his face, “What the hell is going on?” When Trewin pushed him aside he yelled wildly, “That’s right, run, you bastard! That’s about all you’re fit for!”

  In the crowded street it was even worse. Screaming crowds surged in every direction. Above the din of aircraft engines and the shrill whistle of bombs Trewin heard the tell-tale rumble of falling masonry, the exploring crackle of fire.

  It was all the more frightful because the whole city still blazed with lights. As he ran along the road he saw the same cardboard Father Christmas standing in one big window, his painted grin all the more grotesque because of the broken glass and twisted steel in the shell beyond.

  Police whistles called above the cries, and Trewin saw an ambulance trying to force its way through a throng of shouting Europeans in dinner jackets and gay evening dresses who had just emerged from one of the nearby clubs.

  A man shouted, “They’ve hit Raffles place! Guthrie’s has been knocked for six!” He sounded both angry and incredulous.

  There were searchlights now, pale and slender across the bright sky, and once when Trewin looked up he thought he could see the dancing silver shapes of slow-moving aircraft.

  He heard a woman sobbing hysterically, “What is it? What are they doing?”

  A man’s voice, harsh and desperate. “It’s all right, dear. It’s only a practice of some kind.”

  An Australian soldier, hatless and clasping a bottle in each hand, shouted, “Some bleeding practice, mate!”

  Trewin found a taxi parked in a sidestreet, a grave-faced Indian driver sitting behind the wheel. He snapped, “Take me to the base!”

  The Indian eyed him thoughtfully. “It’s thirteen miles, boss.” He peered up at a tall column of smoke beyond the street. “It could be dangerous!”

  Trewin wrenched open the door. “Move!” He stared at the man’s
turbaned head. “Or I’ll drive the bloody thing myself!”

  The taxi jerked into motion and Trewin heard the tyres crunching over broken glass as it moved out into the stampeding people and din of traffic.

  The drive seemed endless. Several times they had to wait while abandoned cars were dragged from the road by sweating, angry soldiers. And on several occasions Trewin had to fight off vague, distorted faces which surged against the doors like part of his nightmares.

  At the waterfront he found some sort of order at last. Apart from the occasional flash of gunfire from the anchored ships, the whole area was in darkness. Motor boats chugged back and forth, full to the gunwales with men of every age and rank who were trying to reach their ships. Some were yelling questions which nobody ever seemed to answer, others were still too dazed or drunk to care.

  By the time Trewin climbed back aboard the Porcupine the sky was already brighter and the sound of aircraft was gone. Men were clustered at the guns, and others stood uncertainly by the guardrails watching the glowing fires ashore and listening to the distant wail of sirens and the murmur of a million voices.

  Mallory gripped Trewin’s sleeve. “You made it then.” He sounded relieved. “It’s been like a madhouse here!”

  Trewin ran up the bridge ladder and entered Corbett’s day cabin. Corbett was speaking into the shore telephone, but his pale eyes fastened on Trewin’s face as he waved him to a chair.

  He said, “Very well, sir. I got that.” His fingers drummed on the desk in a sharp tattoo. “I said I got that!” He slammed down the telephone angrily. “Bloody civilians! They should have ratings on the switchboard.”

  Corbett looked alert and neat, and Trewin found time to wonder how he had managed to arrive aboard before him, if at all.

  “Prepare to get under way.” Corbett stood up and stared absently at a chart. “This is the real thing, I’m afraid.” He looked hard at Trewin’s face and added shortly, “Our military defences at Kota Bharu to the north are under attack. Intelligence reports a strong Japanese assault over the border in Siam as well.” He tapped the chart. “Two landings there apparently. Patani and Singora. But the Malayan one is the more serious. Kota Bharu has our main northern airfield. They say the enemy are pouring in troops and aircraft by the hour, and the whole coast is under bombardment from warships.”