Alistair MacLean - South by Java Head

“Corporal Fraser and one of my own men. They heard the engine of the motor-boat—we never heard it, obviously, because the sound of our own drowned it—and went across to investigate. Only two men in it, both armed with rifles The only man who spoke was a Highlander—chap from the Western Isles, Fraser says, and he’d know. Very uncommunicative indeed, Fraser says, although he asked plenty of questions himself. Then Fraser heard the Kerry Dancer’s boat coming back, and they had to go. He thinks one of the men followed him, but he can’t be sure.”

“‘Curious’ is hardly the word to describe it, Lieutenant.” Farnholme bit his lower lip thoughtfully and stared out to sea. “And Fraser has no idea where they came from, or what kind of ship they had or where they were going?”

“He knows nothing,” Parker said positively. “They might have come straight from the moon for all Fraser knows.”

They talked about it for a few minutes, then Farnholme dismissed the matter.

“No good talking about it, Parker, so let’s forget it. It’s over and done with and no harm to anyone—we got clear away, which is all that matters.” Deliberately he changed the subject. “Got everything organised?”

“Yes, more or less. Siran’s going to co-operate, no doubt about that—his own neck’s at stake just as much as ours and he’s fully aware of it. The bomb or torpedo that gets us isn’t very likely to miss him. I’ve a man watching him, one watching the quarter-master and one keeping an eye on the duty engineer. Most of the rest of my men are asleep in the fo’c’sle—and heaven knows they need all the sleep they can get. I’ve got four of them asleep in the midships cabin—very handy in emergency.”

“Good, good.” Farnholme nodded his head in approval. “And the two Chinese nurses and the elderly Malayan one?”

“Also in one of the midships cabins. They’re pretty sick and dazed, all three of them.”

“And Van Effen?”

“Asleep on deck, under a boat. Just outside the wheel-house, not ten feet from the captain.” Parker grinned. “He’s no longer mad at you, but his knife is still pretty deep in Siran. It seemed a good place to have Van Effen sleep. A reliable sort of chap.”

“He’s all of that. How about food?”

“Lousy, but plenty of it. Enough for a week or ten days.”

“I hope we get the chance to eat it all,” Farnholme said grimly. “One more thing. Have you impressed on everyone, especially Siran, that I’m now pretty small beer around these parts and that there’s only one man that matters—yourself?”

“I don’t think you’re as well thought of as you were previously,” Parker said modestly.

“Excellent.” Unconsciously, almost, Farnholme touched the belt under his shirt. “But don’t over-do it—just ignore me whenever possible. By the way, there’s something you can do for me on your way for’ard. You know the radio shack?”

“Behind the wheelhouse? Yes, I’ve seen it.”

“The operator, Willie Loon or something like that, sleeps in it. I think he’s a pretty decent sort of lad—God knows what he’s doing aboard this floating coffin—but I don’t want to approach him myself. Find out from him what his set’s transmitting radius is and let me know before dawn. I’ll probably have a call to make round about that time.”

“Yes, sir.” Parker hesitated, made to speak, then changed his mind about the question he had been going to ask. “No time like the present. I’ll go and find out now. Good night.”

“Good night, Lieutenant.” Farnholme remained leaning over the taffrail for a few more minutes, listening to the asthmatic clanking of the Kerry Dancer’s superannuated engine as she throbbed her way steadily east-south-east through the calm and oily sea. By and by he straightened up with a sigh, turned and went below. The whisky bottles were in one of his bags in the aftercastle and he had his reputation to sustain.

Most men would have objected strongly to being waked at half-past three in the morning and asked a purely technical question about their work, but not Willie Loon. He merely sat up in his bunk, smiled at Lieutenant Parker, told him that the effective range of his transmitter was barely five hundred miles and smiled again. The smile on his round pleasant face was the essence of good will and cheerfulness, and Parker had no doubt but that Farnholme had been a hundred per cent correct in his assessment of Willie Loon’s character. He didn’t belong here.

Parker thanked him, and turned to go. On his way out he noticed on the transmitting table something he had never expected to see on a ship such as the Kerry Dancer —a round, iced cake, not too expertly made, it’s top liberally beskewered with tiny candles. Parker blinked, then looked at Willie Loon.

“What on earth is this for?”

“A birthday cake.” Willie Loon beamed proudly at him. “My wife—that’s her picture there—made it. Two months ago, now, to be sure I would have it. It is very pretty, is it not?”

“It’s beautiful,” Lieutenant Parker said carefully. He looked at the picture again. “Beautiful as the girl who made it. You must be a very lucky man.”

“I am.” Again he smiled, blissfully. “I am very lucky indeed, sir.”

“And when’s the birthday?”

“Today. That is why the cake is out. I am twenty-four years old today.”

“Today!” Parker shook his head. “You’ve certainly picked a wonderful day to have a birthday on, by all the signs. But it’s got to be some time, I suppose. Good luck, and many happy returns of the day.”

He turned, stepped over the storm combing, and closed the door softly behind him.

THREE

Willie Loon died when he was twenty-four years of age. He died on his twenty-fourth birthday, at the high noon of day, with the harsh glare of the equatorial sunlight striking savagely through the barred skylight above his head. A white light, a bright merciless light that mocked the smoking flame from the solitary candle still burning on the birthday cake, a yellow flame that bloomed and faded, bloomed and faded, regularly, monotonously, as the ship rolled and the black bar of shadow from the skylight passed and repassed across it—across the candle, across the cake and across the picture of Anna May, the shy-smiling Batavian girl who had baked it.

But Willie Loon could not see the candle or the cake or the picture of his young wife, for he was blind. He could not understand why this should be so, for the last of these hammer-blows of just ten seconds ago had struck the back of his head, not the front. He could not even see his radio transmitting key, but that did not matter, for Mr. Johnson of the Marconi school had always insisted that no one could be a real Marconi man until he was as good in pitch darkness as he was in the light of day. And Mr. Johnson had also said that the Marconi man should be the last to leave his post, that he should leave the ship together with his captain. And so Willie Loon’s hand moved up and down, up and down, in the staccato, off-beat rhythm of the trained operator, triggering off the key, sending the same call over and over again: S.O.S., enemy air attack, 0.45 N, 104.24 E, on fire: S.O.S., enemy air attack, 0.45 N, 104.24 E, on fire: S.O.S. …

His back hurt, hurt abominably. Machine-gun bullets, he did not know how many, but they hurt, badly. But better that, he thought tiredly, than the transmitter. If his back hadn’t been there the transmitter would have been smashed, there would have been no distress signal, no hope at all. A fine Marconi man he would have been with the most important message of his life to send and no way of sending it … But he was sending that message, the most important message of his life, although already his hand was becoming terribly heavy and the transmitting key was starting to jump around from side to side, eluding the fumbling, sightless fingers.