Enemy in Sight Read online

  “I know nothing about them, sir,” he said simply.

  The bugle voice rose in a laugh—it rounded like a motorbike. “That makes two of us, my boy. But the dockyard people are on the ball. You’ll have three weeks to familiarise yourself. They tell me that will be sufficient—they’re only tiny things, you know.” He turned his head as the S.O.O. said something in a low voice.

  “Eh? Oh yes. Yes. All right then.” His gaze came back to Bentley. “I should have mentioned it earlier. What we have in mind is purely a volunteer show.” His raised black brows were a question mark. But before Bentley could speak, he went on:

  “I mean that, Bentley. I know and you know that calling for volunteers in the Service is only a form. A stupid form—if a man doesn’t step forward he’s branded as windy. But I mean it this time—this is a show for volunteers. You will clearly understand that I shall think nothing the less of you if you decline—after that aerodrome business, your nerve is not in question. In fact, if you’ve got any sense at all, you will pull out. The more I think about this crazy idea, the less I think of it—if you know what I mean. But—er—a somewhat higher authority than mine wants it carried out. Now—how do you feel?”

  Bentley was impressed by this long explanation from a man who for years had been used to his slightest wish being implemented at once. The feeling dispelled his awe of the gold braid facing him.

  “I could answer that better If I knew what the job was, sir.” His voice was polite, but firm.

  “Fair enough.”

  The admiral got up heavily, pushed his chair to one side, and walked to a large map on the wall behind his desk. He laid a large finger on the Netherlands East Indies. His head was turned back to look at the lieutenant.

  “You know Sabang?”

  “Yes, sir. Jap-held naval base.”

  “Exactly. It’s on an island just off the northern tip of Sumatra. The Jap has large concentrations of shipping there, oil wharves, and aerodromes. Also a heavy-cruiser squadron.” He turned from the map and placed both hands on the back of the chair. “That midget submarine—her name is Whelp—will go in and place a tonnage of special high-explosive under one of those cruisers.” He waited.

  “I see, sir,” Bentley said slowly. There seemed something wrong about all this. Then he had it. “But why send a midget all the way up there, sir? Wouldn’t an air-strike be much more effective—and quicker?”

  “Good question,” the admiral grunted. “And here’s the answer. They are land-based—plenty of aircraft to call on in reserve. We’d have to send in a carrier, supported by a full battle fleet. You should know better than most what land-based planes can do to a fleet.”

  Bentley knew all right—not five weeks previously he and Sainsbury had seen two American battleships bombed to death by aircraft from the aerodrome Bentley had later blown up.

  “But there’s a more important reason that that,” the admiral went on. “A submarine’s a deadly weapon. One large sub in that harbour could sink twelve cruisers, with a bit of luck—and if she could get in, which she can’t. You can detect an enemy surface fleet, you can pick up his aircraft with radar, and prepare to receive. But you never know when a submarine’s in the offing. Now. We know that we wouldn’t have a hope of getting a normal sub into Sabang Harbour. So we get a midget in, and blow up a cruiser. The Japs will assume it’s a normal-sized sub. And they’ll believe that their precious base is wide open to submarine attack from then on. They’ll have to take the elementary precaution of hauling their heavy fleet units back—possibly to Singapore, maybe to the Philippines. And that will make it a damned sight harder for them to attack our merchant shipping in the Indian Ocean. You see?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “M’mm.” the syllable was a growl. “That’s how it is on paper. The trifling detail you have to overcome is how to get in. We have a pretty sound intelligence team in the Indies, and we know—or think we know—what the Japs have in the way of deterrents to submarine attack. Nets, minefields and so on. I’ll let you have a map of the defences; you can pick it to pieces at your leisure.” He lowered his head so that he was looking up at Bentley.

  “I still don’t know if you’ll be in this.”

  Bentley had made up his mind as soon as he knew he would have three weeks to learn all about his strange new command. He countered the admiral’s statement with a question.

  “How many in the crew, sir?”

  “Three beside yourself. A sub-lieutenant—mainly for acoustic work, hydrophones and such-like—an engine-room artificer, and a cox’n—leading-seaman.”

  “Are they detailed yet?”

  “No. I want a commander first—the crew will not be difficult.”

  He paused, his eyes still on the younger man. “You are entitled to know why I thought of you, Bentley. This job will be the extreme of independent command. I can’t afford to waste time finding out what lieutenant is fitted for that. After your fracas ashore with the party, I know you are fitted. You’ve proved on one job—so you’re pooled for this. The old Navy routine.”

  Bentley smiled. The admiral had repeated Sainsbury’s earlier prognostication.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’d like to tackle it. On one condition.”

  The S.O.O. looked at him, frowning. Bentley felt the look, and ignored it After all, it was his neck …

  “What’s that?” the admiral’s tone was reasonable.

  “I’d like to pick my own crew.”

  “M’mm. I don’t see why not,” the other said, after a pause. “Yes,” he decided suddenly. “You must have men you already know. What’s just as important—they must know you. All right then. Let’s have ’em.”

  Bentley looked sideways at his captain.

  “You won’t like this, sir,” he said, diffidently.

  Sainsbury’s mouth pinched into a smile. He did not move from the window.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I knew you’d want Peacock as soon as the admiral mentioned acoustics and hydrophones. However, my asdic team is trained well enough now.” Bentley grinned with relief. “You will also,” Sainsbury went on in his thin voice, “ask me for Hooky Walker. No doubt the admiral will provide me with a new chief bosun’s mate.”

  “What the devil’s that all about?” the admiral grunted, his eyes twinkling.

  Sainsbury now levered himself upright. “Lieutenant Peacock, sir, my asdic officer. He’s the lad who designed the new Mark IV asdic set.”

  The admiral nodded.

  “What Peacock doesn’t know about underwater acoustics it’s not much use asking anybody else about,” Sainsbury went on. “Hooky Walker is my chief buffer. I understand, from certain things which now and again come to even a captain’s notice, that he and Bentley were old-ships together. Walker—he carries a steel hook in lieu of a hand—was also on the aerodrome raid.”

  “I see,” the admiral was openly smiling now, a creasing of his craggy face. Bentley was thinking: So the Old Boy knows more than a bit of what goes on, aloof though he is. How the hell did he find out about me and Hooky …?

  “Walker will certainly be in it,” Sainsbury was saying. “Peacock ... I’m not so sure. He doesn’t strike me as being cut out for cloak-and-dagger work.”

  “Mention a new kind of acoustics and he’ll jump at it,” Bentley grinned. “He would be priceless in this sort of thing, sir,” he added.

  “I see he would,” the admiral commented. “You’ll need extremely sharp underwater ears to get by those minefields.” He picked up a folded sheaf of papers. Bentley could see they were plainly, almost glaringly, marked: “SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL.” He handed them over. “These are the plans of Sabang Harbour. You’ll learn what’s in here by heart, and leave the plans behind.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bentley took the papers. A small thrill began to twist somewhere in his stomach.

  “All right, Hawkins. You can take over from here.”

  The S.O.O. came forward, coughing a little.

  “I’ll need to see you with your crew this afternoon,” he said in a brittle voice to Bentley. “But here’s the main details. You will be towed north by the submarine that’s just come in. She’s British, and experienced. On the trip up, the Whelp will be manned by a passage crew. You’ll need to be fresh when you get there. You will do your training in Hervey Bay; three men from the dockyard will take care of that. You will also do a brief frogman’s course. That part is not so important, as you will be inside your craft for the whole operation—we hope. There will also be some training in wire-cutting—submarine nets and so forth. We cannot advise you on how to carry out the attack—that will depend entirely on what you find in Sabang. You will leave for Hervey Bay tomorrow, in Voracious. She sails at three a.m. with Whelp in tow—in darkness. The midget will submerge if any ships—warships or merchantmen—are sighted. That’s all.”

  The dry voice ceased. The admiral came round the big desk. He stopped in front of Bentley.

  “This is superfluous, of course, Bentley. But no one—no one, understand—is to hear about this. Not one person aboard even your own ship. Voracious’s captain will get his final orders in Darwin—he doesn’t yet know where you’re bound. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Right. Get back now and quietly pack what gear you want. As little as possible. You won’t return to Sydney. After lunch bring your crew up here.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Bentley said, and looked at Sainsbury. The captain moved to the door. Bentley was passing through it when the admiral growled.

  “Good luck—and happy returns.”

  Bentley grinned back tightly, and closed the door.

  Pilot was still officer of the day when they got back. The pipes
shrilled, Sainsbury returned the salute, and walked forward to his cabin. Pilot pounced at once.

  “Well? What the hell’s up?”

  It was an unusual occurrence, his being sent for by the admiral, and Sainsbury had given him the let-out on the walk back to the destroyer. So Bentley answered easily.

  “Big flap about nothing, really. The old boy just said a few nice words about the aerodrome raid. the whole ship came in for a wrap-up.”

  “That all?” Pilot was plainly disappointed. Yet he believed Bentley without question—the reason was feasible enough. Bentley felt a momentary dislike of lying to his best friend in the ship, but he knew Pilot would do the same to him, under similar circumstances.

  Self-preservation was a stronger instinct even than truth, and Bentley was under no illusions about the danger in the coming operation. To get himself back alive from the heavily-defended enemy base he would have lied just as easily to his own mother—or father.

  To turn Pilot’s mind to other things, he said:

  “I see the Jag was collected?”

  “Yep. And by a pair of trousers. As I said, chum, you’re slipping. Though I don’t think even you’d run to a skirt with a Jag attached.”

  The big navigator grinned at him amiably. I’d like you with me, Bentley thought, but you know as much about acoustics as I do. Aloud, he said:

  “Y’know, Pilot, women—my women—seem to fascinate you. I diagnose frustration. Why don’t you take a few hours off and do something about it?”

  The navigator swung at him with his telescope, and the boxer slipped easily to one side. He walked along the deck, grinning. Ten paces from the quarter-deck and the grin slipped from his burned face. He searched the deck, and found what he was looking for near the port sea boat. He walked up and said, “Leave that, Hooky.”

  The chief bosun’s mate straightened from a plank he was examining, surprise on his face. He had known Bentley for a long time, in different ships, but a first-lieutenant did not address his chief bosun’s mate like that on the upper-deck.

  “Yes, sir,” he said automatically, and in the same manner rubbed the shining point of his steel hook up and down on the front of his khaki shirt.

  “What’s the quietest spot in the ship?” was Bentley’s next surprising question.

  Hooky answered at once—Bentley’s face was serious, and he was not prone to sunstroke. “Asdic compartment.”

  “Good. Get hold of Lieutenant Peacock and bring him down there right away.”

  “He’s there now, sir. I saw him get the key from the keyboard ten minutes ago.”

  “Anybody with him?”

  “Haven’t a clue, sir.”

  “All right. Come on.”

  Bentley led the way. Hooky close behind him. They did not speak. Down three or four ladders, along in frequented passages, deeper down into the bowels of the ship, until they were walking almost on her thin bottom.

  Here was the asdic compartment, holding the dome and its oscillator, whose shafts of sound speared out and rebounded from a submerged submarine. They stepped off the foot of a vertical steel ladder, and Bentley peered into the small, white-painted room. There was a smell of paint, and, pervading its cleanness. the sour odour of bilge-water.

  Peacock was bent over the dome, which was raised with its cover off. He was a small man of olive complexion, and his large brown eyes were fixed intently on a piece of quartz he held in his hand. He was quite unaware of their presence.

  “That bloke’s a fanatic,” Hooky grinned.

  “Or a genius. Hey, Ping!” At his nickname—it was one given to all asdic officers, by virtue of the pinging sound their sets made in transmission—Peacock swung his head round. His dreamy, liquid eyes looked at them in surprise.

  “Oh, hullo, Number One.” His voice was quiet, and pleased. He got up, smiling. “Come down for a look around?”

  “No thanks,” Bentley grinned. “You’d talk me blind. You’re on your own,” he added, needlessly. “Good. In here, Hooky. I want words with you two.”

  Peacock looked at Hooky, whom he hardly knew, for their spheres, asdic and seamanship, were poles apart. But the giant chief petty officer’s face told him nothing. Peacock carefully laid down the piece of quartz—it was the heart of the oscillator—and stood looking at Bentley, waiting.

  The Old Man’s right, Bentley thought in a quick rush of doubt. Peacock looked more like a poet than a fighter. But then how about the Old Man himself? And he couldn’t pick a better asdic man than this one if he tried all week.

  Speaking quickly and tersely, he told them. They listened, not speaking, their faces quite expressionless.

  “I’m taking you, Hooky,” Bentley ended, “because you’re silly enough to be in anything. You, Ping, because the Japs will have all sorts of underwater devices to stop us. That’s your bit of country. And this Whelp thing carries pretty nifty hydrophone arrangements, I believe.” He stopped, and looked from one to the other. “Well?”

  “Sure, I’ll be in it,” Hooky growled. “Ruddy man’s been detailed off, anyway!”

  Bentley looked at Peacock.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Number One.” His big brown eyes blinked. “I know nothing whatsoever about submarines. I’ve never even been aboard one.”

  “That’s the least of our worries. We’re doing a three-weeks’ conversion course up in Hervey Bay. I’ve done the normal sub course, as you know. Three weeks of work in this thing and I’ll be able to handle it all right. Your job will be on the asdic and hydrophones. Not much different to here, I should say. How about it?”

  Peacock looked down at the steel deck, polished like a mirror with emery paper. Then he looked up, quickly.

  “I’m a bloody silly fool,” he said surprisingly; Bentley had never beard him swear before. “But I’ll come.”

  “Good show,” the big lieutenant grinned. “We leave for Hervey Bay in the Voracious at three in the morning. After lunch S.O.O. wants to bash our ears. After dinner tonight we get stuck into this map of the defences. Have got?”

  They nodded, confused by his rapid handling of the situation.

  “Pack as little as you can. We’ll be in frogmen suits for the operation, and khaki for the rest. Okay? I’ve got a lot to do. Any questions before I shove off?”

  “Hell no!” said Hooky with heavy sarcasm. “We’re right on the ball!” He ruffled his greying hair with the point of his hook. “Strike me up a gum tree,” he invited. “One minute a man’s thinkin’ about a floosy ashore, the next he’s headin’ for Sabang—wherever the hell that is!”

  “Right. See you later. Meet me at the gangway at two o’clock. And not a sign to anyone, remember.”

  He grinned at them and climbed quickly up the ladder.

  Chapter Three

  THE S.O.O. HAD kept them there for almost three hours. The vulturine officer had been more helpful than Bentley had expected, giving them solid advice on the delicate problems of creeping through antisubmarine nets and avoiding minefields. He had been, he told them dryly, in command of a submarine once.

  Bentley thought it might be better if they returned on board separately. Hooky had intimated that he would hang behind the two officers, in the meantime taking what might be his last drink at a wharf side pub up the road. Bentley stepped alone over the gangway and went straight below to the wardroom. He would pack later, when the ship was asleep.

  He pulled back the wardroom curtain and noticed idly that all officers were in the mess, having a pre-dinner drink. He saw also a large man in Army officer’s uniform standing talking to Pilot at the far end of the mess. Several heads turned to look at him as he entered, and he braced himself for questions—remembering clearly the S.O.O.’s parting injunction about the imperative need for absolute secrecy. Then Pilot saw him and came towards him.

  Bentley dropped his cap on the rack to the left of the door. He noticed that Pilot’s face was serious, and that he was walking quickly.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the navigator started. “This Army bloke’s been waiting for two hours to see you. I can’t get from him what he wants, but he won’t shove off till ...”