Pride and the Anguish (35 page)

Tweedie spoke again. “Permission to open fire, sir?”

Corbett snapped, “Hold it!” He gestured to Trewin. “This pilot is behaving very strangely. He must have seen us.”

Trewin viewed the approaching plane from a different light. It was true. The seaplane should be hauling off now to wireless the
Porcupine
's course and position to the searching ships and bombers. It was holding the same height and bearing, and unless something happened very quickly, would fly directly over the gunboat's port bow.

Corbett said, “Stand fast ‘A' and ‘X' Guns! I want all short-range weapons to fire when I give the order.” There was no emotion in his voice. He might just as easily have been discussing a point of discipline.

Several times he lowered his glasses to wipe his eyes, and Trewin saw something like anger on his face as he rubbed vigorously with his knuckles. He saw too that the glasses were set at full power.

Corbett said slowly, “He's probably never seen a gunboat before. My guess is that he doesn't even know about us yet.” He curled his lip. “Well, he is about to find out!”

Trewin gripped the vibrating screen and watched the flying
boat through narrowed eyes. He did not need glasses any more, and the air throbbed with the plane's high-pitched engines as it flew doggedly towards the ship.

Corbett reached out and rested his hand on the red button. He was staring straight at the aircraft, his eyes running and blinded as he refused to turn away from the sunlight beyond the glittering fusilage.

At the last second the pilot seemed to realise what was happening. Maybe a long flight had tired him, or perhaps he was expecting to rendezvous with a ship similar in his own mind to the British gunboat. But as the bell screamed above the roar of engines and the air was filled with the jubilant bang and rattle of Oerlikons and machine-guns, the flying boat swung dizzily into a steep climb, its great shadow blotting out the sun as it lifted drunkenly up and over the bows.

Trewin saw the bright orange flashes ripple along its fat underbelly and the quick bursts of smoke from one of the engines. The plane carried two bombs, one on either wing, probably for use against submarines, but as the smoke thickened to envelop the tail and floats he knew it would never get the chance to use them.

Men were cheering and shouting like children. Even the gunners, strapped and jerking with their weapons, were mouthing unheard words with the rest.

Bullets and cannon shells were following and ripping pieces from the flying boat, and even more ammunition was streaking uselessly towards the sun. Nobody cared about wastage any more. They were hitting back. For once they were winning.

Then, surprisingly, the flying boat levelled off, one of its engines well alight and its perspex cockpit cover shining from fires within.

Masters shouted, “'E's goin' to ditch! Look at 'im go!”

They could hear the plane's motors coughing and roaring like the sounds of a dying beast, but somehow it stayed airborne, and as the guns fell silent Trewin felt Corbett's fingers
on his arm like a steel vice.

“Hard aport! Put the helm
over
!”

Trewin dragged his eyes from the burning plane and threw himself at the voice-pipes.

He heard Unwin's crisp reply, “Hard aport, sir! Thirty-five of port wheel on, sir!”

The whole ship swayed as if about to capsize as the rudders clashed with the racing screws and threw the gunboat into a savage turn. The startled shouts and curses gave way to other cries when some saw what had made the captain act so desperately.

The flying boat was turning, the pilot using all his skill and strength to hold it above the water as it belched flames and black smoke and glided nearer and nearer to its own reflection.

A man shouted, “It's coming straight for us!”

Corbett's voice was like a knife. “Midships! Steady!”

The ship's sudden turn took her slightly away from the aircraft's desperate attack, and as the bell rang again every gun which could bear opened up to challenge the pilot's suicide attempt to drop his aircraft directly on the
Porcupine
's hull like one giant bomb.

A wing crumpled like paper, and with a great bellow of noise the aircraft lifted its nose, staggered and fell into the sea within fifty feet of the quarterdeck.

But it was not quite finished. While blazing fuel spread around the sinking fuselage and two figures tried vainly to free themselves from their private furnace, one of the bombs exploded.

The explosion was below the surface, but Trewin felt the ship lurch as if hit by a shell. Splinters whined above the sidedeck and whimpered away over the sea, and one of the marine bandsmen who had run from his gun position to watch the plane fall was picked from his feet and hurled back against the unyielding steel like a piece of rubbish in a strong wind. Trewin tore his eyes away as the man's blood ran across the canting deck and splashed unheeded down the side of a ventilator.

Corbett was shouting, “Slow ahead together! Report damage!”

Trewin knew what he was thinking but made himself stay silent as he stood watching the engine-room telephone.

Corbett snatched it from its hook before it had finished ringing. “Yes?” His pale eyes were fixed on Trewin's face. “I see. Right!” He strode back to his chair. “Rudders are intact and functioning perfectly.” His chest was heaving beneath his smoke-stained shirt. “Bring her round on course. We must get a move on.”

Masters said humbly, “Masthead reports sighting the islands, sir. Fine on the starboard bow.”

Corbett did not reply. He looked hard at Trewin and then said, “Number three fuel tank has been punctured. There's no risk to the hull as yet, and I've you to thank for taking on a full fuel load before we sailed.”

He walked to the bridge wing and stared fixedly astern. Trewin followed him and saw some of the seamen at the rails, they too were peering back along the sharpening wake. There was no sign of the flying boat, and for a moment longer he wondered what they were looking at.

Then he saw it. A long, unbroken silver line, spreading and mingling with the wake, but staying to mark their passing long after the latter had faded.

Corbett said distantly, “There are twenty tons of fuel in that bunker, Trewin. That's a lot of oil.” He turned and walked back to his chair.

Trewin stayed by the rail, his eyes watching the spreading trail of fuel which followed the ship like blood from a hunted animal.

Far astern there was a small haze of smoke to mark the flying boat's grave. Trewin stared at it until his eyes smarted with pain. Why didn't you kill us properly? Did you have to prolong the suffering this way?

He turned and saw Phelps, the signalman, watching him. He tried to smile at him but his mouth refused to move. He walked
to the opposite side and groped for his pipe. But when he took it from his pocket he remembered the soldier in the burning village. A man with a shooting stick and a pipe he was unable to fill because his hands refused to obey him. He felt the nerves screaming at the back of his mind, like voices from a cave. There was a sudden snap, and when he looked down he saw that the pipe had broken between his fingers.

Phelps said, “I can fix that for you, sir.”

Trewin replied harshly, “Mind your own bloody business!”

Corbett half turned in his chair and looked across at him. The expression was cold, and felt to Trewin like a douche of ice water. It was as if Corbett understood and was telling him to go on playing the game to its end.

He thrust the broken pipe into his pocket and stepped up to the screen. By holding his body tight against the steel plates he could exclude everybody from his sight and his mind. Ahead there was only the sea, and the horizon which never got any nearer.

T
REWIN RESTED
his hands on the vibrating voice-pipes and looked up at Corbett's silhouette as he craned forward across the screen. “Both engines slow ahead, sir. Seven oh revolutions.”

Corbett muttered, “Very good.” Over his shoulder he said, “We will head for the centre island. We should be more concealed there.”

It was very quiet on the upper bridge, and every eye was fixed upon the widening spread of green islands and brown-backed reefs, which all at once seemed to reach out to encircle the ship. It had taken longer than most people had expected to reach the protection of this small group of isolated islands, but the deception in time and distance was only visual. Each of the islands was higher than one would have anticipated from its small area, with hills rising two or three hundred feet above the burnished blue sea.

Corbett said calmly, “We'll anchor in two fathoms. Put out a stream anchor from aft to stop us swinging. It'll be a pretty tight fit in there.”

Trewin saw Mallory exchange a quick glance with the yeoman. Corbett's casual remarks about the islands and the dangerously confined anchorage had obviously impressed them. But Trewin knew that Corbett was no longer giving facts from memory. He had left the bridge for the first time just ten minutes earlier, as the ship had crossed the ten-fathom line and settled on her final approach towards the centre of the islands. Trewin had heard him slam the chartroom door, and minutes later when he had returned to the bridge he had seen the circular shape of the big magnifying glass inside Corbett's breast pocket. Now, behind those expressionless eyes, he probably had a complete picture of the islands, imprinted there by a few minutes of desperate concentration.

A flock of white sea birds rose in unison from a nearby reef and circled angrily above the slow-moving gunboat, their shrill cries only helping to add to the tension. Behind the bridge the Oerlikons swung outboard to cover the nearest islands, and on the forecastle the anchor party huddled together as if suddenly conscious of their vulnerability.

The tallest hill on the centre island looked very green and cool in spite of the relentless sun, and Trewin stared with sudden longing at the wide sweep of trees which came right down the hillside to the water's edge to cover the narrow strip of beach in deep shadow.

Two more weed-covered reefs parted across the bows, and Trewin saw the proposed anchorage opening up like a small lagoon. There would be little room to manoeuvre, but the choice was a good one. He knew that the leaking fuel would stand little chance of spreading much beyond the protective rocks and sandbars, and any searching aircraft would have to fly very near to spot the tell-tale stain around the camouflaged hull. Provided their luck held, the wide slick of oil which had marked their passage for the past few miles would be carried away by the current, and it might be some time before some extra diligent pilot became suspicious.

Corbett said, “Tell Hammond to stand by!”

Trewin climbed up beside him and lifted his hand towards the bows. The men around the cable were intent on their work, and Hammond was shading his eyes to look up at the bridge. Around the upperdeck gunners and look-outs watched the land as Corbett guided his ship towards the tiny bay.

At first Trewin imagined it was a shadow on the water or a strange trick of light. He blinked to clear his vision and looked again. Behind him a voice said, “Four fathoms, sir.”

Trewin glanced quickly at Corbett, but he was still staring ahead, his features composed and impassive. When he looked forward again he knew he was not mistaken. He swung round. “Full astern together! Emergency!”

It seemed to take an age before anyone moved or passed his order to the wheelhouse, and all the time the dark, rust-coloured shape loomed nearer to the
Porcupine
's probing stem.

Corbett leaned forward. “What is it? What's happening?” For a few seconds he sounded startled, even unnerved.

Trewin felt the churning screws dragging at the hull and kept his eyes fixed on the jagged, rust-covered wreck which lay directly across the ship's path within feet of the surface. The distance became constant, and then as the screws took hold the ship began to move reluctantly astern.

He said tightly, “There's a wreck right ahead, sir.” Without moving his eyes from it he added, “Stop together.” The backwash from the screws churned up a surrounding froth of sand and disturbed weed, as well as a strong stench of leaking fuel to remind him of the gunboat's hidden wounds.

Corbett replied thickly, “Thank you.” He was looking over the screen, but it was obvious to Trewin that he still saw nothing of the wreck which in seconds would have torn out the
Porcupine
's bottom like cardboard.

Trewin did not wait. “Slow ahead together. Port fifteen.”

With her rounded flank almost brushing the submerged hulk the ship swung into the undisturbed calm of the anchorage, and as she slipped past Trewin found himself staring down through the clear water at the listing, shattered wreck which had tried so hard to claim a companion for her lonely vigil.

Corbett said, “I'll take her now, Trewin.” He seemed controlled once more.

Trewin stepped down beside the table and peered at the chart. Mallory whispered savagely, “It's not marked, see for yourself! D'you think I'd have kept quiet about a thing like that, for God's sake?”

Trewin felt the sweat running freely down his spine. He replied, “It was probably missed when they surveyed the place last.” His voice sounded brittle.

Mallory stared at him. “That doesn't explain why
he
missed
it.” He waited for an answer, then added stubbornly, “Well? What the hell is the matter with him?”

Trewin said, “It was covered in weed.”

“Well, you saw it!” There was defiance in Mallory's eyes. “I'm not satisfied that…”

Trewin faced him. He could feel his hands shaking from both shock and anger, but he could not stop himself. “I don't give a bloody damn whether you're satisfied or not! I've already warned you once! This is the last time, see?”