Алистер Маклин - South by Java Head

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 – 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 Maru 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 join 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 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.