South by Java Head

CHAPTER SIX

Dawn, a cloudless, windless dawn with a lightening eastern sky mother-of-pearl in its opalescent beauty, found the Viroma far to the south-eastwards of the Rhio channel, twenty miles due north of the Rifleman Rock and almost half-way towards the Carimata Straits. The big tanker was travelling under full power, a wisp of hazed blue drifting aft from its funnel, the after-decks shaking in teeth-rattling vibration as Carradale, the chief engineer, pushed the big engine to its limit, and then a little beyond.

The typhoon of that long night was gone, the great winds had vanished as if they had never been. But for the salt-stained decks and upperworks and the long, heaving swell that would not die away for many hours yet, it might all have been a dream. But it had been no dream while it had lasted: a nightmare, perhaps, but no dream, not with Captain Findhorn driving the lurching, staggering tanker through the great quartering seas and cyclonic winds for hour upon endless hour, with no thought for the grievous punishment the Viroma was taking, with no thought for the comfort and welfare of passengers and crew, with no thought for anything but to put as many miles as possible between himself and Singapore before the day broke and the enemy could see them again. The delicately-hued pastel shades to the east faded and whitened and vanished, all in a matter of minutes, and the big blurred silhouette of the sun climbed swiftly above the horizon, stretching out a broad, shimmering band of dazzling white across the sea, between itself and the Viroma. Not quite an unbroken band, however: something lay in the water, miles away, a big fishing-boat perhaps, or a small coaster, hull down, black as midnight against the rising sun and steaming steadily east, soon diminished to a little black speck in the distance and then nothing at all. Captain Findhorn, on the bridge with Barrett, watched and wondered until it was gone. Perhaps it had seen them, perhaps not. Perhaps it was Japanese, or pro-Japanese, perhaps not. Perhaps it carried a radio, perhaps it didn't. There was nothing they could do about it anyway.

The sun, as it always does in the open sea, seemed to rise straight up into the sky. By half-past seven it was already hot, hot enough to dry out the rain and sea-soaked decks and upperworks of the Viroma, hot enough for Findhorn to hang up his oilskins and move far out on to the wing of the bridge to bask in its heat and draw in great lungfuls of the fresh morning air ― it wouldn't, he knew, be fresh much longer. Findhorn himself felt fresh enough, if a little tired in his bones: about half-way through the middle watch, when the teeth of the typhoon had lost their edge, Nicolson had persuaded him to go to his cabin and he had slept like a dead man for over three hours.

"Good morning, sir. Quite a change this, isn't it?" Nicolson's soft voice, directly behind him, jerked Findhorn out of his reverie. He turned round.

"Morning, Johnny. What are you doing up at this unearthly hour?" Nicolson, Findhorn knew, couldn't have had much more than a couple of hours' sleep, but he had the rested look of a man with at least eight solid hours behind him. Not for the first time Findhorn had to remind himself that, where durability and resilience were concerned, John Nicolson was a man apart.

"Unearthly hour?" Nicolson glanced at his watch. "It's almost eight o'clock." He grinned. "Conscience and the calls of duty, sir. I've just been making a quick round of our non-paying guests."

"No complaints?" Findhorn asked humorously.

"I gather that most of them were a bit under the weather during the night, but otherwise no complaints."

"And those who might have know a damn' sight better than to make them," Findhorn nodded. "How are the sick nurses?"

"The two Chinese girls and the elderly ones are much better. A couple of them were down in the hospital and smoke-room when I was there, changing bandages. All five of the soldiers there were in fine form and hungry as hunters."

"An excellent sign," Findhorn interrupted dryly. "How about the two boys in the hospital?"

"Holding their own, the nurses say. I think that they suffer a good deal of pain, which is more than our worthy Brigadier and his pal are doing. You can hear 'em snoring twenty feet away and the engineers' office smells like a distillery."

"And Miss Plenderleith?"

"Taking her constitutional, of course. From one end of the fore and aft gangway to the other. The English cherish the delusion that they are a nautical race: Miss Plenderleith is enjoying herself thoroughly. And then there are three soldiers in the dining-saloon ― Corporal Fraser and his two men. They've got a chair apiece, and they're all sitting very comfortably with their 303's and Brens cradled in their hands. I think they're praying for Siran or one of his men to take an extra deep breath so that they can have a cast-iron excuse for shooting a lot of big holes through them. Siran and his pals know exactly how these boys are feeling about them; they're only taking very small breaths indeed and blinking one eye at a time."

"I tend to share your confidence in the guards." Findhorn looked sideways at his chief officer, a quizzical expression on his face. "And how is our worthy Captain Siran looking this morning? A trifle worse of the wear, you would say?"

"Not he. Anyone can see that he's slept the deep, untroubled sleep of a man with the conscience of a new-born child." Nicolson stared out to sea for a few moments, then said quietly: "I'd appreciate the opportunity of giving the hangman any assistance he may require."

"You'd probably be one of the last in a long queue," Findhorn said grimly. "I don't want to sound melodramatic, Johnny, but I think the man's an inhuman fiend and should be shot down the same way as you'd destroy a mad dog."

"It'll probably come to that one of these days." Nicolson shook his head. "Mad or not, he's queer enough."

"Meaning?"

"He's English, or three parts English, I'll bet my last penny. He's come up through one of the big public schools, and it's an odds-on guess that he's had a damn' sight more education than I ever had. What's a man like that doing in charge of a miniature hell-ship like the Kerry Dancer!"

Findhorn shrugged. "Lord knows. I could give you a dozen explanations, all different and with only one thing in common ― they'd all be wrong. You'll find half the dead-beats and black sheep of the world within a couple of hundred miles of Singapore ― but he wouldn't come in either category, so that still doesn't answer your question. Frankly, I'm at a loss." Findhorn drummed his fingers on the dodger rail. "He baffles me, but, by Harry, he's not the only one!"

"Van Effen? Our worthy Brigadier?"

"Among others." Findhorn shook his head. "Our passengers are a strange bunch, but not half as strange as the way they act. Take the Brigadier and this Muslim priest. They're thick as thieves. Unusual, you might say?"

"Incredible. The doors of the Bengal and Singapore Clubs would be for ever shut against him. Not done, in capital letters." Nicolson grinned. "Think of the shock and the fearful mortality rate if it were known ― in the upper military circles, I mean: all the best bars in the East littered with apoplectic cases, sundowners still clutched in their stiffening hands. Brigadier Farnholme is carrying a fearful responsibility."

Findhorn smiled faintly. "And you still think he's not a phoney?"

"No, sir ― neither do you. Colonel Blimp, Grade A ― then he does or says something off-beat, completely out of character. He just doesn't classify easily. Inconsiderate of him, very."

"Very," Findhorn murmured dryly. "Then there's his other pal, Van Effen. Why the devil should Siran show such tender concern for his health?"

"It's difficult," Nicolson admitted. "Especially when Van Effen didn't show much concern for his, what with threatening to blow holes in his spine and trying to throttle him. But I'm inclined to believe Van Effen. I like him."

"I believe him, too. But Farnholme just doesn't believe him ― he knows Van Effen is telling the truth ― and when I ask him why he backwaters at high speed and advances piffling reasons that wouldn't convince a five year old." Findhorn sighed wearily. "Just about as puerile and unconvincing as the reasons Miss Plenderleith gave me for wanting to see me when I went to her cabin just after you and Siran had finished your ― ah ― discussion."

"So you went after all?" Nicolson smiled. "I'm sorry I missed that."

"You knew?"

"Vannier told me. I practically had to drag him to the saloon to get him to give you her message. What did she say?"

"First of all she denied having sent for me at all, then gave me some nonsense about when would we arrive in port and could she send a cable to her sister in England, just something fabricated on the spur of the moment, obviously. She's worried about something and I think she was going to tell me what it was, then changed her mind." Captain Findhorn shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the problem. "Did you know that Miss Plenderleith came from Borneo too? She's been headmistress in a girls' school there and hung on to the last minute."

"I know. We had a long conversation on the catwalk this morning. Called me 'young man' all the time and made me wonder whether I had washed behind the ears." Nicolson looked speculatively at the captain. "Just to add to your worries, I'll tell you something else you don't know. Miss Plenderleith had a visitor, a gentleman friend, in her cabin last night."

"What! Did she tell you this?"

"Good lord, no. Walters told me. He was just stretching out on his settee after coming off watch last night when he heard a knock on Miss Plenderleith's door ― pretty soft, but he heard it: his settee in the wireless office is right up against the bulkhead of his cabin. Walters says he was curious enough to listen at, the communicating door, but it was shut tight and he couldn't hear much, it was all very whispery and conspiratorial. But one of the voices was very deep, a man's murmur for certain. He was there almost ten minutes, then he left."

"Midnight assignations in Miss Plenderleith's cabin!" Findhorn still hadn't recovered from his astonishment. "I would have thought she would have screamed her head off."

"Not her!" Nicolson grinned and shook his head positively. "She's a pillar of respectability, all right, but any midnight visitor would have been hauled in, lectured over the old girl's wagging forefinger and sent on his way a chastened man, bent on leading a better life. But this was no lecture, I gather, but a very hush-hush discussion."

"Walters any idea who it was?"

"None at all ― just that it was a man's voice and that he himself was too damn' tired and sleepy to, worry about it anyway."

"Yes. Maybe he has the right idea at that." Findhorn took off his cap and mopped his dark head with a handkerchief: only eight o'clock, but already the sun was beginning to burn. "We've more to do than worry about them anyway. I just can't figure them out. They're a strange bunch ― each one I talk to seems queerer than the last."

"Including Miss Drachmann?" Nicolson suggested.

"Good heavens, no! I'd trade the bunch of them for that girl." Findhorn replaced his cap and shook his head slowly, his eyes distant. "A shocking case, Johnny ― what a ghastly mess those diabolical little butchers made of her face." His eyes came into focus again, and he looked sharply at Nicolson. "How much of what you told her last night was true?"

"About what the surgeons could do for her, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Not much. I don't know a great deal, but that scar will have stretched and set long before anyone can do anything about it. They can still do something, of course ― but they're not miracle workers: none of them claims to be."

"Then damn it all, mister, you'd no right to give her the impression they are." Findhorn was as near anger as his phlegmatic nature would allow. "My God, think of the disillusionment!"

"Eat, drink and be merry," Nicolson quoted softly. "Do you think you'll ever see England again, sir?"

Findhorn looked at him for a long moment, craggy brows drawn deep over his eyes, then nodded in slow understanding and turned away. "Funny how we keep thinking in terms of peace and normality," he murmured. "Sorry, boy, sorry. Yet I've been thinking about nothing else since the sun came up. Young Peter, the nurses, everyone ― mostly the child and that girl, I don't know why." He was silent for a few moments, eyes quartering the cloudless horizon, then added with only apparent inconsequence: "It's a lovely day, Johnny."

"It's a lovely day to die," Nicolson said sombrely. Then he caught the captain's eye and smiled, briefly. "It's a long time waiting, but the Japanese are polite little gentlemen ― ask Miss Drachmann: they always have been polite little gentlemen: I don't think they'll keep us waiting much longer."

But the.Japanese did keep" tltec? Waiting. They kept them waiting a long, long time. Not long, perhaps, as the world reckons seconds and minutes and hours, but when men, despairing men too long on the rack of suspense, momentarily await and expect the inevitable, then the seconds and the minutes and the hours lose any significance as absolute units of time and, instead, become relative only to the razor-edged expectancy of the passing moment, to the ever-present anticipation of what must inexorably come. And so the seconds crawled by and became minutes, and the minutes stretched themselves out interminably and lengthened into an hour, and then another hour, and still the skies were empty and the line of the shimmering horizon remained smooth and still and unbroken. Why the enemy ― and Findhorn knew hundreds of ships and planes must be scouring the seas for them ― held off so long was quite beyond his understanding: he could only hazard the guess that they must have swept that area the previous afternoon after they had turned back to the aid of the Kerry Dancer and were now searching the seas farther to the south. Or perhaps they thought the Viroma had been lost in the typhoon ― and even as that explanation crossed his mind Findhorn dismissed it as wishful thinking and knew that the Japanese would think nothing of the kind…. Whatever the reason, the Viroma was still alone, still rolling south-eastwards in a vast expanse of empty sea and sky. Another hour passed, and then another and it was high noon, a blazing, burning sun riding almost vertically overhead in the oven of the sky and for the first time Captain Findhorn was allowing himself the luxury of the first tentative stirrings of hope: the Cari-mata Straits and darkness and the Java Sea and they might dare begin to think of home again. The sun rolled over its zenith, noon passed, and the minutes crept on again, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, each minute dragging longer and longer as hope began to rise once more. And then, at twenty-four minutes past noon, hope had turned to dust and the long wait was over.

A gunner on the fo'c'sle saw it first ― a tiny black speck far to the south-west, materialising out of the heat haze, high above the horizon. For a few seconds it seemed to remain there, stationary in the sky, a black, meaningless dot suspended in the air, and then, almost all at once, it was no longer tiny but visibly swelling in size with every breath the watchers took, and no longer meaningless, but taking shape, hardening in definition through the shimmering haze until the outline of fuselage and wings could be clearly seen, so clearly as to be unmistakable. A Japanese Zero fighter, probably fitted with long-range tanks, and even as the watchers on the Viroma recognised it the muted thunder of the aero engine came at them across the stillness of the sea.

The Zero droned in steadily, losing height by the second and heading straight for them. It seemed at first as if the pilot intended flying straight across the Viroma, but, less than a mile away, he banked sharply to starboard and started to circle the ship at a height of about five hundred feet. He made no move to attack, and not a gun fired aboard the Viroma. Captain Findhorn's orders to his gunners had been explicit ― ù no firing except in self-defence: their ammunition was limited and they had to conserve it for the inevitable bombers. Besides, there was always the chance that the pilot might be deceived by the newly-painted name of Siyushu Mam and the large flag of the Rising Sun which had taken the place of Resistencia and the flag of the Argentine Republic a couple of days previously ― about one chance in ten thousand, Findhorn thought grimly. The brazen effrontery and the sheer unexpectedness that had carried the Viroma thus far had outlived their usefulness.

For almost ten minutes the Zero continued to circle the Viroma, never much more than half a mile away, banking steeply most of the time. Then two more 'planes ― Zero fighters also ― droned up from the south-west and joined the first. Twice all three of them circled the ship, then the first pilot broke formation and made two fore-and-aft runs, less than a hundred yards away, the canopy of his cockpit pushed right back so that the watchers on the bridge could see his face ― or what little of it was visible behind helmet, goggles on forehead and transmitter mouthpiece ― as the pilot took in every detail of the ship. Then he banked away sharply and rejoined the others: within seconds they were in line ahead formation, dipping their wings in mocking salute and heading north-west, climbing steadily all the time.

Nicolson let go his breath in a long, soundless sigh and turned to Findhorn. "That bloke will never know how lucky he is." He jerked his thumb upwards towards the Hotchkiss emplacements. "Even our pop-gun merchants up top could have chewed him into little bits."

"I know, I know." His back against the dodger screen, Findhorn stared bleakly after the disappearing fighters. "And what good would it have done? Just wasted valuable ammunition, that's all. He wasn't doing us any harm ― all the harm he could do he'd done long before he came anywhere near us. Our description, right down to the last rivet, our position, course and speed ― his command H.Q. got that over the radio long before he came anywhere near us." Findhorn lowered his glasses and turned round heavily. "We can't do anything about our description and position, but we can about our course. 200, Mr. Nicolson, if you please. We'll try for the Macclesfield Channel."

"Aye, aye, sir." Nicolson hesitated. "Think it'll make any difference, sir?"

"None whatsoever." Findhorn's voice was just a little weary. "Somewhere within two hundred and fifty miles from here laden bombers ― altitude bombers, dive-bombers, torpedo bombers ― are already taking off from Japanese airfields. Scores of them. Prestige is vital. If we escaped, Japan would be the laughing-stock of their precious Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, and they can't afford to lose anybody's confidence." Findhorn looked directly at Nicolson, his eyes quiet and sad and remote. "I'm sorry, Johnny, sorry for little Peter and the girl and all the rest of them. They'll get us all right. They got the Prince of Wales and the Repulse: they'll massacre us. They'll be here in just over an hour."

"So why alter course, sir?"

"So why do anything. Give us another ten minutes, perhaps, before they locate us. A gesture, my boy ― empty, I know, but still a gesture. Even the lamb turns and runs before the wolf-pack tears him to pieces." Findhorn paused a moment, then smiled. "And speaking of lambs, Johnny, you might go below and drive our little flock into the fold."

Ten minutes later Nicolson was back on the bridge. Findhorn.looked at him expectantly.

"All safely corralled, Mr. Nicolson?"

"Afraid not, sir." Nicolson touched the three golden bars on his epaulets. "The soldiers of today are singularly unimpressed by authority. Hear anything, sir?"

Findhorn looked at him in puzzlement, listened, then nodded his head. "Footsteps, Sounds like a regiment up above."

Nicolson nodded. "Corporal Fraser and his two merry men. When I told them to get into the pantry and stay there the corporal asked me to raffle myself. His feelings were hurt, I think. They can muster three rifles and a sub-machine-gun between them, and I suspect they'll be ten times as effective as the two characters with the Hotchkisses up there."

"And the rest?"

"Same story with the other soldiers ― off with their guns right aft. No heroics anywhere ― all four of them just kind of grim and thoughtful. Just kids. The sick men are still in the hospital ― too sick to be moved. Safe there as anywhere, I suppose: there's a couple of nurses with them."

"Four of them?" Findhorn frowned. "But I thought――-"

"There were five," Nicolson acknowledged. "Fifth's a shell-shock case, I imagine. Alex something ― don't know his name. He's useless ― nerves shot to ribbons. I dragged him along to joiri the others in the pantry.

"All the others accounted for. Old Farnholme wasn't too keen on leaving the engineers' office but when I pointed out that the pantry was the only compartment in the superstructure that didn't open to the outside, that it had steel instead of the usual wooden bulkheads, and that it had a couple of protective bulkheads fore and aft and three on either side he was ù over there like a shot."

Findhorn's mouth twisted. "Our gallant army. Colonel Blimp to the ramparts, but not when the guns start firing. A bad taste in the mouth, Johnny, and quite out of character. The saving grace of the Blimps of this world is that they don't know what fear is."

"Neither does Farnholme." Nicolson was positive. "I'd take very long odds on that. But I think he's worried about something, badly worried." Nicolson shook his head. "He's a queer old bird, sir, and he's some very personal reason for taking shelter: but it's got nothing to do with saving his own skin."

"Perhaps you're right." Findhorn shrugged. "I don't see that it matters anyway, not now. Van Effen with him?"

"In the dining-saloon. He thought Siran and his pals might pick an awkward time to start trouble. He has his gun on them. They won't start anything." Nicolson smiled faintly.

"Van Effen strikes me as a very competent gentleman indeed."

"You left Siran and his men in the saloon?" Findhorn pursed his lips. "Our suicide parlour. Wide open to fore-and-aft strafing attacks and a cannon shell wouldn't even notice the shuttering on these windows." It was more a question than statement, and Findhorn matched it with his look, half-quizzical, half-expectant, but Nicolson merely shrugged his shoulders and turned away, the cold blue eyes lost in indifference and quartering the sun-hazed horizon to the north.

The Japanese returned at twelve minutes past two o'clock in the afternoon, and they came in force. Three or four planes would have been enough: the Japanese sent fifty. There were no delays, no tentative skirmishing, no preliminary altitude bombing, just the long curving sweep to the south-west and then that single, shattering attack out of the sun, a calculated, precision-engineered attack of dovetailing torpedo-bombers, dive-bombers and Zeros, an attack the skill of whose execution was surpassed only by its single-minded savagery and ferocity. From the moment that the first Zero swept in at deck level, shells from its twin cannon smashing into the bridge, until the last torpedo-bomber lifted and banked away from the concussive blast of its own detonating torpedo, only three minutes passed. But they were three minutes that transformed the Viroma from the finest, most modern tanker of the Anglo-Arabian fleet, from twelve thousand tons of flawless steel with all the guns on deck chattering their puny defiance at the incoming enemy, to a battered, blazing, smoke-enshrouded shambles with all the guns fallen silent, the engines gone and nearly all the crew dying or already dead. Massacre, ruthless, inhuman massacre with but one saving grace ― the merciless fury of the attack tempered only by its merciful speed.

Massacre, but massacre aimed not at the ship primarily, but at the men who manned the ship. The Japanese, obviously flying under strict orders, had executed these, and brilliantly. They had concentrated their attacks on the engine-room, bridge, fo'c'sle and gun positions, the first of these suffering grievously: two torpedoes and at least a dozen bombs had entered the machinery space and the decks above: half the stern was blown away and in the after part of the ship there were no survivors at all. Of all the gunners, only two survived ― Jenkins, an able seaman who had manned a fo'c'sle gun, and Corporal Fraser. Perhaps Corporal Fraser would not be a survivor for long: half his already crippled left arm had been shot away and he was too weak, too shocked, to make more than a token attempt to stem the welling arterial blood.

On the bridge, crouched flat on the floor behind the armoured steel bulkheads of the wheelhouse, half-stunned with the blast and concussion of exploding cannon shells, both Findhorn and Nicolson dimly realised the significance of the plan of attack, the reason for the overwhelming weight of bombers used in the onslaught and the heavy escort of Zero fighters. They realised, too, why the bridge remained miraculously immune from bombs, why no torpedo had as yet smashed into any of the oil cargo tanks ― a target impossible to miss ― and torn the heart out of the Viroma. The Japanese weren't trying to destroy the Viroma: they were trying to save the Viroma and to destroy the crew. What matter if they blew the stern off the ship ― her nine great oil tanks, still intact, and the fo'c'sle had enough reserve buoyancy to keep the ship afloat: awash, perhaps, but still afloat. And if they could ensure that none of the Viroma's crew lived to blow up or scuttle the shattered ship, ten thousand tons of oil would be theirs for the taking: millions of gallons of high grade fuel for their ships and tanks and planes.

And then, quite suddenly, the almost continuous roar and teeth-chattering vibration of bursting bombs and torpedoes were at an end, the off-beat drone of heavy bomber engines faded quickly in the distance and the abrupt, comparative silence was almost as hurting to the ear as the clamour that had just ended. Wearily Nicolson shook his head to clear it of the shock and sound and smoke and choking dust, levered himself groggily to his hands and knees, caught the handle of the screen door and pulled himself to his feet, then dropped to the deck like a stone as cannon shells whistled evilly through the smashed windows just above his head and exploded against the chartroom bulkhead, filling the wheelhouse with the shocking blast of sound and a lethal storm of splintered steel.

For a few seconds Nicolson remained prone on the deck, face down with his hands over his ears and his cradling forearms protecting his head, half-dazed and cursing himself silently for his precipitate, unthinking folly in rising so quickly to his feet. He should have known better than to imagine for a moment that the entire Japanese assault force would withdraw. It had been inevitable that they would leave some planes behind to take care of any survivor who might move out on deck and try to rob them of their prize ― and these planes, Zero fighters, would remain to the limit of their long range tanks.

Slowly, this time, moving with infinite caution, Nicolson rose to his feet again and peered out over the jagged glass in the bottom of the shattered window frame. Puzzled for a moment, he tried to orientate himself and the ship, then realised from the black bar of shadow from the foremast what had happened. A torpedo must have blown off or jammed the rudder, for the Viroma, losing way rapidly in the water until she was now almost stopped, had swung right round through a hundred and eighty degrees and was facing in the direction she had come. And then, almost at the same time, Nicolson saw something else again, something that made the position of the Viroma of no importance at all, something that made a mockery of the vigil of the planes watching and waiting in the sky.

It hadn't been miscalculation on the part of the bomber pilots, just ignorance. When they had attacked the fo'c'sle, destroying guns and gunners and using armour piercing cannon shells to penetrate the fo'c'sle deck and kill any of the crew members sheltering beneath, it must have been a reasonable supposition to them that that was all they were doing. But what they did not know, what they could have had no means of knowing, was that the storage space beneath the fo'c'sle deck, the 'tween-deck cargo hold beneath that and the even larger hold beneath that were not empty. They were full, completely, rilled to capacity with hundreds of closely stacked barrels, with tens of thousands of gallons of high-octane aircraft fuel ― petrol intended for the shattered, burnt-out wrecks that now littered the Selengar airfield.

The flames rose a hundred, two hundred feet into the still, breathless air, a great, solid column so white, so intensely hot and free from smoke that it was all but invisible in the bright glare of the afternoon sun, not flames really but a broad shimmering band of super-heated air that narrowed as it climbed and ended in a twisting, wavering point that reached far up beyond the tip of the foremast and died in a feathery wisp of pale blue smoke. Every now and then another barrel would explode deep in the hold and, just for a moment, a gout of thick smoke would lace the almost invisible flame and then, as quickly, it would be gone. And the fire, Nicolson knew, was only starting. When the flames really got hold, when the barrels started bursting by the dozen, the aviation spirit in the for'ard fuel tank, number nine, would go up like an exploding ammunition dump. The heat of the flames already fierce on his forehead, he stared at the fo'c'sle a few moments longer, trying to estimate how much time they had left. But it was impossible to know, impossible even to guess. Perhaps only two minutes, perhaps as long as twenty ― after two years of war the toughness of tankers, their reluctance to die, had become almost legendary… But certainly not more than twenty minutes.

Nicolson's attention was suddenly caught by something moving among the maze of pipes on the deck, just aft of the foremast. It was a man, dressed only in a pair of tattered blue denims, stumbling and falling as he made his way towards a ladder that led up to the catwalk. He seemed dazed and kept rubbing his forearm across his eyes, as if he couldn't see too well, but he managed to reach the foot of the ladder, drag himself to the top and began, at a lurching run, to make his way along the catwalk to the bridge superstructure. Nicolson could see him clearly now ― Able Seaman Jenkins, trainer of the fo'c'sle pom-pom. And someone else had seen him too and Nicolson had time only for a desperate shout of warning before he flung himself to the deck and listened, with clenched fists, to the hammerblows of exploding cannon shells as the Zero pulled out of its short, sudden dive and raked the fore-deck from fo'c'sle to bridge.

This time Nicolson didn't get to his feet. Getting to his feet inside that wheelhouse, he realised, was a good way of committing suicide. There could be only one good reason for getting to his feet, and that was to see how Jenkins was. But he didn't have to look to know how Jenkins was. Jenkins should have bided his time and chosen his chance for making his dash, but perhaps he had been too dazed: or perhaps the only alternative he'd had was between running and being killed, and staying and being incinerated.

Nicolson shook his head to clear away the fumes and smell of cordite, pushed himself to a sitting position and looked round the scarred and shattered wheelhouse. There were four people in it apart from himself ― and there had only been three a moment ago. McKinnon, the bo'sun, had just arrived, just as the last shells had exploded inside the bridge. He was half-crouched, half-lying across the threshold of the chartroom door, propped on one elbow and looking cautiously around him. He was unhurt, but taking no chances before moving any further.

"Keep your head down!" Nicolson advised him urgently. "Don't stand up or you'll get it blown off." Even to himself his voice sounded hoarse and whispery and unreal.

Evans, the duty quartermaster, was sitting on his duckboard grill, his back to the wheel and swearing softly, fluently, continuously in his high-pitched Welsh voice. Blood dripped from a long gash on his forehead on to his knees, but he ignored it and concentrated on wrapping a makeshift bandage round his left forearm. How badly the arm was gashed Nicolson couldn't tell: but every fresh strip of ragged white linen torn from his shirt became bright red and saturated the moment it touched his arm.

Vannier was lying against the deck in the far corner. Nicolson crawled across the deck and lifted his head, gently. The fourth officer had a cut and bruised temple, but seemed otherwise unharmed: he was quite unconscious, but breathing quietly and evenly. Carefully, Nicolson lowered his head to the deck and turned to look at Findhorn. The captain was sitting watching him on the other side of the bridge, back against the bulkhead, palms and splayed fingers resting on the deck beside him. The old man looks a bit pale, Nicolson, thought: he's not a kid any longer, not fit for it, especially this kind of fun and games. He gestured at Vannier.

"Just knocked out, sir. He's as lucky as the rest of us ― all alive, if not exactly kicking." Nicolson made his voice sound more cheerful than he felt. Even as he stopped speaking he saw Findhorn bending forward to get up, his fingernails whitening as he put pressure on his hands. "Easy does it, sir!" Nicolson called out sharply. "Stay where you are. There are some characters snooping around outside just begging for a sight of you."

Findhorn nodded and relaxed, leaning back against the bulkhead. He said nothing. Nicholson looked at him sharply. "You all right, sir?"

Findhorn nodded again and made to speak. But no words came, only a strange gravelly cough and suddenly his lips were flecked with bright bubbles of blood, blood that trickled down his chin and dripped slowly on to the fresh, white crispness of his tunic shirt. Nicolson was on his feet in a moment, crossed the wheelhouse in a stumbling run and fell on his knees in front of the captain.

Findhorn smiled at him and tried to speak, but again there was only the bubbling cough and more blood at his mouth, bright arterial blood that contrasted pitifully with the whiteness of the lips. His eyes were sick and glazed.

Quickly, urgently, Nicolson searched body and head for evidence of a wound. At first he could see nothing, then all at once he had it ― he'd mistaken it for one of the drops of blood soaking into Findhorn's shirt. But this was no blood-drip, but a hole ― a small, insignificant looking hole, quite circular and reddening at the edges. That was Nicolson's first shocked reaction ― how small a hole it was, and how harmless. Almost in the centre of the captain's chest, but not quite. It was perhaps an inch or so to the left of the breastbone and two inches above the heart.