Алистер Маклин - South by Java Head

The man who stood before him was almost naked, clad only in the charred tatters of what had been a pair of blue trousers: they were still smoking, smouldering at the edges. Eyebrows and hair were singed and frizzled and the chest and arms red and scorched: the chest rose and fell very quickly in small shallow breaths, like a man whose lungs have been so long starved of air that he cannot find time to breathe deeply. His face was very pale.

“Jenkins!” Nicolson had advanced, seized the man by the shoulders then dropped his hands quickly as the other winced with pain. “How on earth – I saw the ’planes–”

“Somebody trapped, sir!” Jenkins interrupted. “For’ard pump-room.” He spoke hurriedly, urgently but jerkily, only a word or two for every breath. “Dived off the catwalk – landed on the hatch. Heard knocking, sir.”

“So you got the hell out of it? Is that it?” Nicolson asked softly.

“No, sir. Clips jammed.” Jenkins shook his head tiredly. “Couldn’t open them, sir.”

“There’s a pipe clipped to the hatch,” Nicolson said savagely. “You know that as well as I do.”

Jenkins said nothing, turned his palms up for inspection. Nicolson winced. There was no skin left, none at all, just red, raw flesh and the gleam of white bone.

“Good God!” Nicolson stared at the hands for a moment, then looked up at the pain-filled eyes. “My apologies, Jenkins. Go below. Wait outside the wireless office.” He turned round quickly as someone touched him on the shoulder. “Van Effen. I suppose you know that apart from being a bloody fool you’re the luckiest man alive?”

The tall Dutchman dropped two rifles, an automatic carbine and ammunition on the deck and straightened up. “You were right,” he said quietly. “I was wasting my time. All dead.” He nodded at Jenkins’s retreating back. “I heard him. That’s the small deckhouse just for’ard of the bridge, isn’t it? I’ll go.”

Nicolson looked at the calm grey eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Come with me if you like. Might need help to get him out, whoever he is.”

In the passage below they bumped into Vannier, staggering under the weight of an armful of blankets. “How are the boats, Fourth?” Nicolson asked quickly.

“Remarkable, sir. They’re hardly scratched. You’d think the Japs had left them alone on purpose.”

“Both of them?” Nicolson asked in astonishment.

“Yes, sir.”

“Gift horses,” Nicolson muttered. “Carry on, Fourth. Don’t forget the stretcher for the captain.”

Down on the main deck the heat was almost suffocating, and both men were gasping for oxygen before ten seconds had passed. The petrol fire in the cargo holds was twice, three times as fierce as it had been five minutes ago, and dimly, through the roar of the flames, they could hear an almost continuous rumble of explosions as the metal fuel barrels ruptured and burst in the intense heat. But Nicolson noticed these things with only a corner of his mind. He was standing by the water-tight steel door of the entrance house to the hatch, rapping on the surface with the end of the two-foot length of pipe that served as clip levers for these doors. As he waited for a reply, bent low over the hatch, he could see the sweat from his forehead dripping on to the hatch in an almost continuous trickle.

The air was so dry and parched, the metal so hot – they could feel the heat of the deck even through the soles of their shoes – that the drips of perspiration evaporated and vanished almost as they touched the deck… And then, so suddenly that both men started in spite of their tense expectation, there came an answering rap from inside, very faint but quite unmistakable, and Nicolson waited no longer. The clips were very stiff indeed – some explosive shock must have warped or shifted the metal – and it took a dozen powerful strokes from the sledge he carried to free the two jammed clips: the last retaining clip sheered at the first blow.

A gust of hot, fetid air swept up from the gloomy depths of the pump-room, but Nicolson and Van Effen ignored it and peered into the darkness. Then Van Effen had switched on his torch and they could clearly see the oil-streaked grey hair of a man climbing up towards the top of the ladder. And then two long arms reached down and, a moment later, the man was standing on deck beside him, a forearm flung up in reflex instinct to shield himself from the heat of the flames.

He was drenched in oil from head to foot, the whites of his eyes almost comically prominent in the black, smeared face.

Nicolson peered at him for a moment, and then said in astonishment: “Willy!”

“Even so,” Willoughby intoned. “None other. Good old Willy. Golden lads and lasses must, etc., but not superannuated second engineers. No ordinary mortals we.” He wiped some oil from his face. “Sing no sad songs for Willoughby.”

“But what the hell were you doing? – never mind. It can wait. Come on, Willy. No time to lose. We’re leaving.”

Willoughby panted for air as they climbed up to the bridge. “Dived in for shelter, my boy. Almost cut off in my prime. Where are we going?”

“As far away from this ship as possible,” Nicolson said grimly. “She’s due to go up any moment now.”

Willoughby turned round, shielding his eyes with his hand. “Only a petrol fire, Johnny. Always a chance that it’ll burn itself out.”

“Number one cargo tank’s gone up.”

“The boats, and with all speed,” Willoughby said hastily. “Old Willy would live and fight another day.”

Within five minutes both boats had been provisioned and lowered for embarkation. All the survivors, including the wounded, were gathered together, waiting. Nicolson looked at the captain.

“Ready when you give the word, sir.”

Findhorn smiled faintly: even that seemed an effort, for the smile ended in a grimace of pain. “A late hour for this modesty, Mr. Nicolson, You’re in charge, my boy.” He coughed, screwed shut his eyes, then looked up thoughtfully. “The ’planes, Mr. Nicolson. They could cut us to ribbons when we’re lowering into the water.”

“Why should they bother when they can have a far better go at us once we’re in the water?” Nicolson shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve no option, sir.”

“Of course. Forgive a foolish objection.” Findhorn leaned back and closed his eyes.

“There will be no trouble from the ’planes.” It was Van Effen speaking, and he seemed oddly sure of himself. He smiled at Nicolson. “You and I could have been dead twice over: they either cannot fire or do not wish to fire. There are other reasons, too, but time is short, Mr. Nicolson.”

“Time is short.” Nicolson nodded, then clenched his fists as a deep, rumbling roar reverberated throughout the ship. A heavy, prolonged shudder ran through the superstructure of the Viroma , a shudder that culminated in a sudden, sickening lurch as the deck dropped away under their feet, towards the stern.

Nicolson smiled faintly at Van Effen. “Time is indeed short, Van Effen. Must you illustrate your points quite so thoroughly?” He raised his voice. “Right, everybody, into the boats.”

The need for speed had been urgent before: it was desperate now. The bulkheads of number two tank had ruptured, and one of the tanks, possibly both, were open to the sea: the Viroma was already settling by the stern. But speed was a double-edged weapon and Nicolson only too clearly realised that undue haste and pressure would only drive the untrained passengers into panic, or, at best – and equally delaying – confusion. McKinnon and Van Effen were invaluable, shepherding the passengers to their positions, carrying the wounded and laying them down between the thwarts, talking quietly, encouragingly all the time.