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  H. M. A. S. Scimitar was ordered to join the American Fleet, but it soon became clear that the Americans didn’t have much time for the Aussie battleship. Even when Scimitar’s commander, Bruce Sainsbury V.C., reported that a secret Japanese airstrip was operating somewhere in the area, the warning was dismissed.

  Then the Japs hit the fleet, and hit it hard.

  Sainsbury volunteered to comb the ocean for the island airstrip, and promised to destroy it when he found it. If anyone could pull off such a dangerous mission, it was the Scimitar’s crew. But there was a weak link that might just turn a potential victory into a terrible defeat. Because one of Scimitar’s officers was a glory-hunter. Worse than that, he was also a coward …

  J E MACDONNELL 3: BATTLE ENSIGN

  By J E Macdonnell

  First published by Horwitz Publications in 1958

  ©1958, 2022 by J E Macdonnell

  First Digital Edition: October 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate

  Series Editor: Janet Whitehead

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  CHIEF PETTY OFFICER William Walker walked slowly up the narrow gangway of H.M.A.S. destroyer Scimitar and stepped on to the quarter-deck.

  His huge body would have attracted attention anywhere, but it was not because of his size that several seamen working on the upper-deck looked at him. He was, obviously, the new chief bosun’s mate. Ho had seaman written all over him—in his weathered face, seamed like a relief map, and in the professional manner in which he looked over the superstructure of the ship, with his head thrown back, so that the muscles of his thick neck arched down into his stiff white collar.

  Yet there was another reason for their interest. It escaped them at first, like something which should have leaped to their minds immediately, and yet was so foreign that they could not grasp its significance so soon. Then they had it, and the eyes of the group of men narrowed a little in surprise. The new chief bosun’s mate, the man who would be responsible to the first-lieutenant for the complete efficiency of the upper-deck, a martinet who would be in command of the whole seaman workforce, had failed to salute the quarter-deck when he stepped aboard.

  Chief Petty Officer Walker was aware of their interest. He was also used to it—being the only man in the Navy, so far as he knew, who was excused saluting. The Buffer—that was the time-honoured title of all chief bosun’s mates—signalled to an able-seaman to bring his kit-bag and hammock inboard, then walked heavily over to report to the officer of the day.

  He stopped some twenty feet distant from the lieutenant who was watching, with a supervisory eye, the slings of long-sharp-nosed shells swinging inboard on an ammunition derrick. The Buffer rubbed his stump of a chin with his left hand, and a slow grin lightened the weathered harshness of his brown face. Then he stepped forward briskly.

  “Morning, sir. Buffer joining, sir.”

  The lieutenant turned his bead and glanced over his shoulder. They were wide shoulders, almost as wide as the Buffer’s, but there the similarity ended. Below them, the officer’s waist tapered in—the flat waist, the narrow hips of the athlete, the boxer.

  “Oh. good morning, Buffer. I’m pleased to see you. The upper-deck’s in a shambles. I’d like you to …” His voice, deeply pleasant, the outward characteristic of a friendly nature, stopped. He swung right round, forgetting the ammunition. Walker looked back at him, his lips twitching. Yes, this was young Peter Bentley, all right. The face staring back at him was certainly good-looking, in a keen, aquiline fashion. It had a rich brown complexion, laid on generously by wind and sea; with an aspect of authority and challenging force, with the deep-set eyes gazing at Walker like the intense, merciless, steady eyes of a seabird. It was those intent eyes which Walker remembered most clearly of the man who, then a sub-lieutenant, now obviously a senior lieutenant, had been his officer of division some years before, in another destroyer.

  “Hooky Walker! Well I’m damned,” Lieutenant Bentley said softly. Without having to remember, he pushed out his left hand, and Walker gripped it in his.

  “How are yer, sir? Long time no see, eh?” Walker wriggled his shoulders inside his blue serge coat. Bentley tried not to look with fascination as the big seaman, in the most natural way, lifted his right arm and ran the needle-sharp point of a brightly shining steel hook round inside his collar. Walker saw the effort not to look, and grinned.

  “Funny thing about this hook. Always seems to cool, no matter what the weather.”

  “Oh? Is it?” Bentley said. “I seem to remember the thing round someone else’s collar. But I don’t think he thought it was cool.”

  “That Dago prisoner? Yeah.”

  Hooky chuckled. He looked around the bustling deck, at the infinity of activities which were plainly making the ship ready for sea.

  “Leading-Seaman Scudds! Watch those shells against the superstructure there! Can’t you see they’re fused?” Bentley bellowed this admonition past Hooky’s head.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The reply was sulky. Bentley’s reaction was immediate.

  “Leading-Seaman Scudds. Lay aft here!”

  A thin whip of a man with black hair and a wary face came aft to where Bentley and Hooky stood level with the gangway. He looked up at Bentley, then down at the second button of his uniform coat, which was level with his eyes. The officer was struck again by the strange expression of his face—his eyes were wary, but his lips were twisted into a perpetual half-smile.

  “Leading-Seaman Scudds,” said Bentley. He spoke quietly, so that the men round the derrick could not hear, but there was an intensity of feeling underlying his words which the chief bosun’s mate appreciated, and liked. “Those shells have got to be hoisted inboard and struck down into the magazines before noon, and you know it. So don’t answer like that when replying to an order. How do you expect to get the men working cheerfully if you sulk?”

  “The men are tired, sir. We was up till two o’clock last night.”

  “I’m aware of that, Scudds. I was up with them. Now get forrard and see what you can do.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The man turned and walked with a catlike litheness back to the group round the derrick.

  “Come on, you bastards,” Bentley and Hooky heard him say in an amicable tone. “Don’t you know we gotta get these bricks inboard by dinner-time? Orf yer spines then and get stuck into it!”

  Hooky listened and watched with interest Leading-Seaman Scudds would come directly under him; and he wasn’t sure whether the leading-seaman’s admonition to his men was sincere or a facetious jibe at the lieutenant

  “You know that bloke?” he asked quietly.

  “No.” Bentley drew the word out. His eyes too were on Scudds, now leaning over the guard-rail and watching a fresh sling of shells hooked on in the ammunition lighter below. “I only joined yesterday myself.”

  “Queer lookin’ bird, sir. Seems to be watchin’ you like a cat and grinnin’ at the same time.”

  “Yes. I noticed that the first time I saw him. But I think it’s a natural grimace. The men are tired—damned tired,” he added.

  “Huh!” Hooky snorted with the familiarity of his position and “old ships”. “I’d like to have seen ’em coalin’ ship in the old days.” He looked around him again, speculatively. “I hear she’s a pretty taut ship, sir?”

  “She’s new. and fast, and plenty of fire-power,” Bentley nodded. “How do I know? I’m the ruddy gunnery-officer! Wait till you see her fire-control table. And radar!”

  “I don’t want to,” Hooky grinned. He paused, then asked the question on which all his future happiness in this new destroyer would directly depend.

  “Who’s the first-lieutenant, sir?”

  “Number One?” Bentley spoke absently. His attention was on a boat which seemed to be curving in towards their starb’d gangway, the gangway opposite the pier and used only by officers and the captain. But the boat surged on in towards the big dry-dock ahead of the ship’s bow. “I met him for only a moment yesterday. Chap named Hawley.”

  “Hell!”

  “What’s that?” Bentley turned in mild surprise. Then his intent eyes fixed on Hooky as he saw the badly-hidden disgust in the big man’s face. “You know him?”

  Hooky nodded slowly. “Yes, sir, I know him.” He hesitated, and looked down at the steel deck. He could feel the lieutenant’s stare still on him. Hooky’s hesitation was brief. With any other officer, neither h
is training nor his inclination would have permitted him to comment further. But in that earlier ship he had been a petty-officer, the captain of Bentley’s division, in close daily contact with the officer, and almost completely in his confidence. His head came up, and he returned Bentley’s intent look with a wry grin.

  “Yes, I’ve shipped with him before,” he said. “We used to call him ‘Crawley’ Hawley.” Then, the information delivered, his voice became brisk. “I’ll get my gear stowed, sir. Then I’ll see what can be done about this mess on deck here.”

  But he did not go. Both men stood there, gazing at the busy length of deck which reached right forward to the break of the fo’c’sle. They saw the scene only instinctively, not consciously. Though he knew from long experience that you never judged a man on another’s assessment, Bentley was thinking that Hooky’s judgment had been invariably sound, and so Lieutenant Hawley must be a complete no-hoper. This belief was substantiated by Hooky’s unusual behaviour in delivering any opinion to a senior officer. The first-lieutenant, the captain's deputy, was a man of enormous influence, in any ship. If he were weak, the knowledge would run through the ship like a breath of wind, the whole ship’s company would tend to relax and slacken But in a destroyer, where discipline was of necessity easier than in a big vessel, the efficient running of the ship depended almost wholly on a pride and esprit de corps fostered largely by the first-lieutenant. Weakness or inefficiency in that officer could be a cancerous growth eating at the competence and smooth-running of the vessel.

  The chief bosun’s mate was even more closely affected. He would work directly with the first-lieutenant; would be responsible to him for the cleanliness of the upper-deck, its seamanlike efficiency, the working of the hands, a multitude of duties ranging from turning the boats’ falls and chipping the funnel to instructing ordinary-seamen and berthing the ship. And all this Hooky Walker had to perform with an officer nicknamed, with penetrating insight, “Crawley”.

  “Ah well,” the big man thought, and scraped his chin with his hook. “I’ve kept me nose clean so far. I’ll just give him a wide berth, that’s all. But a man’ll need to watch himself, that’s for sure!”

  “Captain’s boat approaching, sir.” reported the quartermaster hurriedly.

  Bentley forgot the first-lieutenant. He whipped his telescope up and trained it on the speeding motorboat, now sweeping in towards the starb’d gangway.

  “That’s him all right.” he muttered. His voice rose. “Bosun’s mate! Stand by to pipe the side Lively now!” He turned to Hooky. “Wait here, Buffer.” he said formally. “The captain will want to meet you.”

  “Aye, aye. sir,” Hooky answered crisply. The moments of intimacy were over, with the approach of that august being in the boat’s stern sheets. He lined himself beside Bentley, opposite the quartermaster and bosun’s mate, standing at right-angles to the gangway with their pipes up ready. Glancing down over the guard-rails, Bentley saw the bowman raise his boathook. “Pipe,” he ordered. There was a piercing shrill which was repeated as Captain Sainsbury took a long step from the boat onto the platform at the foot of the gangway, and then, taking them two at a lime, moved quickly up the steps. As he breasted the quarter-deck and saluted, the pipes faded away.

  He nodded to Bentley, whom he had met for the first time yesterday, and then his gaze fell on Hooky, his great chest puffed out in the rigidity of his attitude of attention. Before he spoke, Sainsbury deliberately enjoyed the look on that weathered, craggy face. Hooky’s head was up, his face set like stone, his eyes glaring straight ahead of him, apparently oblivious of the thin, vinegary-faced figure with its four gold rings, which had just come aboard. And Sainsbury knew what would happen when he spoke, for he had especially asked for Walker when his chief bosun’s mate had been drafted to another ship.

  He stopped in front of him, and looked up. Only then did the cliffy brows twitch, and the eyes drop their angle to meet his. But the face remained rigid. Then the captain said:

  “I suppose you still keep sharpening the end of that damned thing with emery paper?”

  The granite broke, collapsed, became flexible skin and muscle. The grey eyes twinkled. “It’ll still split a match down the middle, sir.”

  Bentley watched with interest the smile grow on his captain’s austere face—it was like slowly drawing the slit in a piece of rubber from either end. Then he abruptly made his face polite; the captain had turned to him.

  “Walker won me a bottle of whisky once with that trick,” he said. “From a couple of disbelieving Yank officers off an aircraft carrier.” His head turned back. “Nice to see you, Walker.” His nod concluded the conversation. His sharp eye flicked round the quarter-deck and come back to Bentley. “First-lieutenant?”

  Bentley hesitated. He had been expecting the question. The captain noted the pause, and at once, and casually, strolled away from the gangway group. Bentley fell into step beside him.

  “He’s ashore, sir.” There was nothing else he could say. When the captain asked a question, you didn’t cover up for an officer who should have been on board to receive him as you would for an erring schoolmate. You answered the question, at once, and then shut up.

  Sainsbury halted, and turned to look at the shells coming in over the side. The glance was eloquent enough. The ship was doing a fast ammunitioning job in Manus harbour, within range of enemy aircraft, possibly capital ships, and the first-lieutenant, with the job not completed, was ashore. Bentley felt strangely uncomfortable, partly because of the rocket Number One was due for, but mainly because he had put himself in a position where he would justly receive it. The first-lieutenant’s absence from the ship at this important time was a reflection on his brother officers, and on the ship.

  “I see,” Sainsbury said quietly. “You know where he is, of course?”

  “No, sir.” Now Bentley felt a definite feeling of anger. Hawley had slipped ashore just before he had come on watch, without informing either the quartermaster or officer of the day where he was going. And it was the O.O.D.’s duty to know where all absent members of the ship’s company were.

  Bentley waited, unconsciously tensed. But the captain merely said: “Ask him to speak to me when he returns, please,” returned Bentley’s salute, and then walked deliberately forward along the cluttered upper-deck to his sea-cabin.

  The last sling-load of shells was swinging up from the lighter when the quartermaster reported to Bentley: “First-lieutenant coming down the pier, sir.”

  “Very well,” Bentley replied, and looked at his watch. It said quarter to twelve. He had half-hoped that Hawley would have returned before his turn of duty ended at twelve. He knew why the captain wanted him and he would have preferred the relieving officer of the day to have delivered the message—with less than twenty-four hours in his new ship, Bentley did not welcome friction so soon. And if the approaching officer was anything as bad as Hooky had intimated, he would not receive Sainsbury’s summons pleasantly.

  He shrugged his wide shoulders and stepped up to the gangway, watching the first-lieutenant walking down the pier. He was not much more than Bentley’s twenty-eight years, but already he was paunchy. His well-watered stomach pressed against the restraining effect of the gold coat buttons; Bentley could see his lower lip forced out, but he knew it was not a facial gesture, but a permanent physical feature. Hawley’s left eye was half-closed. The combination of out-thrust lip and narrowed eye gave a peculiar expression of leering suspicion to his red face.

  Hawley came up the gangway and casually returned Bentley’s salute. “Old Man aboard yet?”

  The reference to be captain, in the hearing of the two able-seamen, irritated Bentley. His voice was a trifle sharp when he said: “Yes. He wants to set you in his cabin.”

  Hawley’s narrowed eye opened a little, then closed again.

  “Oh? What’s worrying you about it?”

  Bentley checked himself. Brought up in a hard school, he had learned to control himself when dealing with a superior officer. Emulating the captain, he turned and strolled off a few paces. Hawley hesitated, then followed him. His lip was stuck out further.

  “Well?” he growled. “What’s all the panic? I step off for a minute or two for a noggin with the Yanks and you look as if you’ve been scrubbed down to midshipman. Eh? What’s up?”