Pride and the Anguish Page 9

  The port Oerlikon broke into a fierce rattle and then fell silent as Trewin yelled, “Hold your fire, damn you!” He saw the gunner’s face staring at him, angry and embarrassed. “Don’t open up until the range falls below a thousand yards!” He looked grimly at the other Oerlikon to make sure the man had understood him.

  The rating beside him shouted, “Aircraft, sir! Bearing red one one five! Angle of sight two oh!” He dashed the sweat from his eyes. “Approach angle three oh left!”

  Trewin clung to a stanchion as the deck canted in response to the wheel. He could see the first plane clearly now. Coming down fast in a shallow dive and swinging astern towards Grayling. The wafer-thin wings rocked from side to side, bracketed with shell bursts, but with the sunlight gleaming on its blood-red insignia it tore down on its quarry.

  Then the Oerlikon opened fire, the green tracers lifting and joining to form a bright cone of fire across the aircraft’s path. Trewin watched the fast-moving aircraft as it dived still closer to the water, so that it seemed to be pursued by its reflection into the converging maelstrom of cannon shells and machine-gun fire.

  Trewin yelled, “Here comes the next!” He pointed towards the sun as the second fighter streaked across the blue water, so low down that the surface rippled like corn in a strong wind. Vague and distorted above the crash of gunfire and exploding cannon shells he heard the hoarse rattle of machine-guns almost swallowed completely in the rising scream of the fighter’s engine. He saw the water churned alive from the fighter’s guns, and heard the clang of metal from somewhere on the sidedeck.

  The man at his side ducked as the plane’s shadow blacked out the deck for a split second and the guns swung round in a full circle to follow it.

  It was a small, snub-nosed aircraft, probably from a carrier, Trewin thought. He could see the sunlight on the perspex cockpit cover, the black outline of the pilot’s head as he gunned the engine and threw the fighter almost on its side as it climbed steeply away from the ship.

  The guns turned away, smoking and impotent, to search out the next attacker. They did not have to wait long. The final pair of fighters flew in wingtip to wingtip, their guns blazing even before they were in range. Again they went for the Grayling, and Trewin could see the gunboat’s hull surrounded with leaping white feathers of spray as the bullets hammered across her in a torrent of steel.

  One of the fighters swung drunkenly aside from its charge, and with black smoke pouring from its tail dropped dangerously close to the sea. Trewin could see the flashing tracers reaching after it, plucking pieces from its wings, as the plane’s engine coughed and reared in a final effort to escape.

  The pilot might have succeeded but for the distant headland. Or maybe he was already dead at the controls. But as Trewin watched with cold fascination the aircraft dropped its nose and ploughed straight into the hillside above the coast road, vanishing instantly in a bright red explosion.

  Some of the gunners were cheering, and Trewin yelled, “Watch your front!” He swung his glasses to follow the remaining fighters. They were already swinging away in a tight arc, climbing for another attack.

  He shifted his glasses slightly to look at the other ships. Both were on station, and every gun seemed to be trained and ready. The first kill would be a great encouragement. And the odds were getting better. It was strange that the Japs had sent only four fighters, he thought. They must have hundreds on the peninsula already, and more at sea on their carriers.

  He swung round, caught off guard as a man shouted wildly, “Aircraft! Bearing green nine oh!”

  There were two of them, twin-engined and flying very low. The fighter which had fallen to the gunboats’ combined attack had set the whole hillside ablaze, so that the trees and dry gorse made one bank of leaping flames from the hilltop down to the water’s edge. Over the lip of the hill, and seeming to fly through the flames themselves, the two new attackers swept down towards the ships before many of the gunners were aware what was happening.

  “X” gun swung swiftly on its mounting, the breech opening and closing with a click across yet another shell, the sweating seamen kicking the used and smoking cartridge cases aside as they fought to follow the low, roaring shapes.

  Trewin saw the bombs tumbling from the leading plane’s belly even as the first shell burst drifted some twenty feet above its tail. Porcupine’s guns fell silent, unable to bear on the fast-turning bombers as they passed astern of Grayling and climbed away in a tight turn.

  There was one bright flash, and as Trewin craned over the rail he saw Shrike fall out of line, her forecastle and bridge hidden in a great pall of black smoke.

  “Three fighters attacking, sir!” The communications rating was holding his earphones against his head, shutting out the echoing roar of the exploding bombs, the scream of attacking aircraft.

  This time the fighters concentrated on the Grayling. In spite of the combined barrage of fire laid across their path they pressed home their attack, so that through his glasses Trewin could see the holes appearing in the gunboat’s superstructure and funnel and pieces of deck planking lifting skywards as if thrown by some invisible maniac.

  But another fighter got caught in the mesh of leaping tracers, and dived straight into the sea within feet of the Grayling’s stern. Spouting flames and smoke it bounced several times, throwing up spray like a maddened shark, then with one final bang it tore apart and sank out of sight.

  Trewin looked again at the Shrike. Already she seemed to have grown smaller as she fell further and further astern. She was listing steeply, and the dense smoke hung above her shattered decks, rising and spreading until even the sun seemed to lose its power.

  A Chinese messenger climbed gasping over the rim of the battery deck, his head encased in a steel helmet which only made him look more defenceless. “Cap’n want you on bridge, sir!” His black eyes were fixed on the Shrike as he spoke, and Trewin could see the fear on his face like a mask.

  “Very well.” He slapped the gun captain on the arm. “Take over, Dunwoody!” He paused to scan the horizon with his glasses. The two fighters were already mere slivers of silver, half shrouded in sea haze. “They’ll not be back yet, and the bombers seem to have gone, too.”

  The big leading seaman wiped his mouth and grimaced. “They’ve done for Shrike, sir.” He sounded hoarse. “Christ, I can see flames!”

  Trewin pushed by him and ran towards the bridge. As he passed the Oerlikons with their gunners leaning back in the harnesses he yelled, “Check your magazines! They might be back!”

  The seamen stared at him without recognition. They understood and would obey, but their minds were lost in the fury and sickness of battle.

  As he climbed up the ladder Trewin felt his weight growing on his fingers, and when he glanced down he saw that the water was leaping beneath him in a surge of white froth as the Porcupine’s helm went hard over.

  Corbett was standing by the screen, his glasses hanging on his chest as he watched the ship’s wake curve away in a crisp arc. “Ah, Trewin!” He looked away and said sharply, “Midships! Tell the cox’n to steer straight for the Shrike!”

  At the rear of the bridge Phelps, the red-haired signalman, was standing straddle-legged on the tilting deck, his Aldis cradled on his elbow as he flashed a signal towards the Grayling.

  Corbett said, “Grayling is to cover us, Trewin. I am going to help Shrike. Take her in tow if I can.”

  “Grayling ’as acknowledged, sir!” Phelps lowered his Aldis and wrinkled his freckled face against the glare. “She reports that all guns are still operational, but that she’s ’ad twelve men wounded, sir.”

  Corbett did not seem to hear. “Signal Shrike and ask her what has happened.” To Trewin he added quietly, “That was a pretty sharp attack, eh?” He rubbed the teak rail behind the screen and said, “She did very well.”

  Trewin felt a hot breath across his neck, and when he turned he saw that the Shrike’s main deck was enveloped in flames from end to end. Exploding ammun
ition crackled in an insane barrage, and he could see that the little ship’s list had grown more acute in the last few minutes. He said flatly, “She’s going! It must have been a direct hit!”

  Corbett stared at the other ship, his eyes glittering in the flames. “She was hit twice, as a matter of fact.” His mouth hardened. “We’ll do what we can.”

  Trewin made himself watch the Shrike’s last agony as more internal explosions rocked her hull and sent her foremast crashing into the water alongside. He had seen many ships go like this, and he was disturbed to find that he was nevertheless moved by what he saw. Perhaps it was because of the unruffled surroundings. The clear sky and calm, placid water with the green line of hills abeam. And the ship herself made some difference, he thought dully. She was too old, too fragile for this sort of war. For any war.

  “Slow ahead together!” Corbett lifted his glasses. “Stand by with rafts and heaving lines!”

  Men were already leaping from the Shrike’s sidedeck which was barely inches above the water. Small white figures which jumped from gun mountings and the scarred battery deck, to break the surface again black and obscene through the great slick of oil which surrounded the ship like blood.

  “Stop together!” The Porcupine glided slowly through the oil and odd pieces of wreckage, while grim-faced seamen lined the rails and waited to haul the survivors aboard.

  Rafts were lowered and tied alongside, and Trewin saw Baker, the ship’s sickbay attendant, already down in one of them, his red-cross bag slung on his shoulder as he gestured towards the nearest swimmers.

  Corbett said, “Tell them to get a move on! We’re a sitting duck at the moment.” He shielded his face as another internal explosion shook the Shrike as if she were a toy.

  She tilted slowly on her side, and Trewin heard the grate and crash of heavy machinery tearing loose and thundering through the hull. This time she did not resist, and with an increasing roar of inrushing water she rolled right over, her mainmast and shattered funnel cleaving through a few struggling survivors who were either too weak or too wounded to get clear.

  Her flat, weed-coated bilges showed for a few more minutes, and as the first swimmers were hauled choking and retching on to the Porcupine’s deck the Shrike lifted her bows and vanished in a welter of air bubbles and oily flotsam.

  There were very few survivors. Trewin counted twenty all told. The two bombs had hit the bridge and penetrated the engine room. By rights there should have been nobody rescued at all.

  While the Porcupine gathered way again and steamed in a circle around the few bobbing remains of her old consort, the lookouts reported two more aircraft approaching from the south. But as the gun crews swung their muzzles towards them Trewin heard the bridge tannoy intone, “These are friendly aircraft!”

  The men on deck watched in silence as the two elderly Buffaloes dipped their stubby wings and roared noisily overhead. From the bridge an Aldis flashed briefly, and together the two aircraft turned towards the shore.

  Baker, the sickbay attendant, was trying to wipe oil fuel from the face of a wounded petty officer. With each attempt the man screamed, and his face seemed to come away like bloody waste in Baker’s fingers. As the two shadows flashed overhead Baker looked up, his face pale and shocked. “Where were you, you bastards?” His voice sounded about to crack. “You rotten, cowardly bastards!”

  Trewin dropped his hand on to the sickbay attendant’s shoulder. “Easy, Baker!” He saw the man’s mouth quiver. “You’re more use to us right now than they would be!”

  Baker nodded dumbly and then turned back to the moaning man at his knees. His face was still stricken, but Trewin saw that his hands were firm and gentle as he continued with his task.

  Trewin returned to the bridge where Corbett remained by the screen, still staring towards the unmoving slick of oil. He said, “Make to Grayling that we will head for Talang Inlet. We can send the survivors to the hospital there.” Almost to himself he continued, “I knew her captain very well. He was a good officer.”

  Trewin looked down at his hands. They were quite relaxed, and he was almost more shocked to discover that he could feel nothing but relief that he had survived yet once more.

  Corbett was looking at him, his eyes empty and cold. “I asked for air support, Trewin. It was denied.” He turned away as if angry with himself for displaying an unnecessary confidence. “I expect they have their reasons.”

  Trewin studied him calmly. “Anyway, they’ll have an excuse, sir, I have no doubt of that.”

  Corbett replied as if he had not heard Trewin’s bitterness. “Grayling are claiming both aircraft for themselves. You’ll have to see that our gunners get the next bag.”

  Mallory called, “Steady on new course, sir! One five zero!” He cleared his throat noisily. “That was a bit scary all round, I’d say.”

  Corbett climbed on to his chair and leaned forward to watch “A” gun swinging back into line. For once he seemed disinclined to contradict or rebuke the Australian.

  Trewin brushed the dust and flaked paintwork from his shirt and said quietly, “We’re not out of the wood yet!”

  From somewhere below a voice cried out in sudden agony. Trewin thought of the dazed and blinded soldier and the headless corpses beside the empty road. Of the Shrike’s tired acceptance of her fate and the cool arrogance of her destroyers. The doorway on to this particular war had been opened very slightly, but what he had seen had been more terrible than he had visualised, even in his worst nightmares.

  He looked at Corbett’s shoulders and wondered what he really thought about it all. If he had been equally shocked, he was certainly hiding the fact well enough.

  All at once Trewin felt something like hatred for him. For him and his ship. This poor, creeping ship which had become Corbett’s whole world. The stupid, meaningless remarks which acted like a shield for what they were all really thinking and enduring. Like a headmaster’s report at the end of term.

  The ship had done quite well…Very well…Or not well enough…

  He felt the sweat running down his spine and he wanted to run from the bridge with its air of silent purpose. He walked to the screen and took several long breaths. It was madness to let it get a hold like this. You had to fight it like a living enemy. Otherwise the despair closed around you, stifling, grinding you down until you were without meaning or reality. Like those poor, oil-sodden things who were gasping out their lives at the hands of a half-trained sickbay attendant, or, the brave soldier who was even now issuing his empty orders to the men who had left him to die.

  With a start he realised the signalman was staring up at him, his round, freckled face curious and questioning. Trewin asked sharply, “What is it, Phelps?”

  “Char, sir? Do you want a cup?”

  Trewin felt the grin spreading across his face in spite of his screaming nerves. “Thank you, Bunts. Yes, I would, very much.”

  He watched the young signalman ladling the over-sweetened tea out of an enamel jug, his face entirely engrossed. His were the sort who never cracked, Trewin thought vaguely. They went on obeying orders until there were no more to give and none to give them.

  He leaned against the warm, vibrating steel and looked into the cup. The tea was nearly cold and there were flecks of grit floating on the surface. But at that moment, as Trewin fought his lonely battle with himself, it tasted better than champagne.

  LEADING STEWARD YATES placed a glass of gin on the wardroom table by Trewin’s elbow and ran a finger around the collar of his white jacket. “’Ot, annit, sir?” Yates stared round the untidy litter of rolled bandages, discarded stretchers and dirty crockery which stayed as reminders of the wounded sailors who had been taken ashore to the Talang hospital. It was late evening, and with the deadlights closed across the wardroom scuttles the air was sticky and oppressive, in spite of the revolving deckhead fans.

  Trewin tasted the gin and grimaced. It was warm and made a sour passage to his empty stomach. He was dog-tired and his eyes felt
as if they were lined with sand. He was still dressed in the same stained clothes, his face was stiff and stubbled, and yet he felt incapable of any more movement.

  At first light the Porcupine and the Grayling had felt their way into the Talang Inlet, their crews weary at their stations, the guns still cocked skywards in readiness to repel another attack. And after leaving the place where Shrike had fought her last battle, the two ships had indeed been attacked. As before, the aircraft had dived out of the sun, searching and probing for an opening, their machine-guns churning the water into a wilderness of foam and flying steel.

  Porcupine had remained luckier than her consort. Grayling had been raked on each attack, and seven men had died, including Quarrie, her captain.

  Porcupine had not completely escaped. During the final attack, made by two large fighters, the port Oerlikon had jammed, and at that very moment one of the aircraft had been making its final approach some twenty feet above the water. Trewin had seen the gunner struggling in his harness and yelling to his loading number for a fresh magazine. He had watched the deck planking rip apart around the mounting, had seen the gunner torn from his feet and hurled screaming from his broken harness. From a man to a bloody pile of rags in the twinkling of an eye. Trewin had run from behind his shield and pushing the shocked seaman with the fresh magazine aside had swung the gun round and after the roaring fighter. He had hardly noticed the second plane, and had concentrated his whole being on the wafer shape which moved sideways through his gunsight. He had heard the bullets striking sparks from the superstructure around him and had shut out the shouts of warning from the other gunners. Only when the magazine had emptied and both aircraft were winging away towards the shore did he realise that there was blood running down his arm. Leading sickbay attendant Baker had come running with a dressing but Trewin had snatched it away from him, his mind dulled with anger and sudden despair.

  Now as he sat in the deserted wardroom he could feel the dressing tugging at his shoulder where a wood splinter had ripped up from the deck with the force of an arrow.