Strike from the Sea (1978) Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1. Away From It All

  2. The Team

  3. Two Flags

  4. The Real Thing

  5. Found Wanting

  6. No Second Chance

  7. ‘It Will Get Harder’

  8. Drink Up, and Forget

  9. Victim

  10. Nobody Lives Forever

  11. Time to Go

  12. Obligations

  13. Target

  14. Survival

  15. The Secret

  16. Now or Never

  17. A Symbol

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Douglas Reeman joined the Navy in 1941. He did convoy duty in the Atlantic, the Arctic and the North Sea, and later served in motor torpedo boats. As he says, ‘I am always asked to account for the perennial appeal of the sea story, and its enduring appeal for people of so many nationalities and cultures. It would seem that the eternal and sometimes elusive triangle of man, ship and ocean, particularly under the stress of war, produces the best qualities of courage and compassion, irrespective of the rights and wrongs of the conflict . . . The sea has no understanding of righteous or unjust causes. It is the common enemy, respected by all who serve on it, ignored at their peril.’

  Reeman has written over thirty novels under his own name and more than twenty best-selling historical novels, featuring Richard Bolitho and his nephew Adam Bolitho, under the pseudonym Alexander Kent.

  Also by Douglas Reeman

  A Prayer for the Ship

  High Water

  Send a Gunboat

  Dive in the Sun

  The Hostile Shore

  The Last Raider

  With Blood and Iron

  H.M.S. Saracen

  Path of the Storm

  The Deep Silence

  The Pride and the Anguish

  To Risks Unknown

  The Greatest Enemy

  Rendezvous – South Atlantic

  Go In and Sink

  The Destroyers

  Winged Escort

  Surface with Daring

  A Ship Must Die

  Torpedo Run

  Badge of Glory

  The First to Land

  The Volunteers

  The Iron Pirate

  In Danger’s Hour

  The White Guns

  Killing Ground

  The Horizon

  Sunset

  A Dawn Like Thunder

  Battlecruiser

  Dust on the Sea

  For Valour

  Strike from

  the Sea

  Douglas Reeman

  To my friend Myron J. Smith Jr.

  who gave me the idea

  1

  Away from It All

  COMMANDER ROBERT AINSLIE sat very still in a cane-backed chair and surveyed the waiting-room without enthusiasm. It was painted white and almost completely bare but for a couple of chairs and a portrait of the King on the opposite wall. An onlooker, had there been one, would have imagined Ainslie to be listening, or crouching on the chair ready to leap up. In fact, he was trying to keep his spine away from the chair back, for despite the revolving fans above his head the room was stuffy and humid, and any sort of contact increased the discomfort and made his shirt cling to his skin like a damp rag.

  He looked at the shuttered window through which the harsh sunlight sliced across the room with silver bars. It seemed incredible that people could breathe out there, let alone use so much energy.

  Booted feet stamped lustily across some sort of square, and he heard a Royal Marine sergeant’s voice from a great distance away, controlling the marching men, manoeuvring them like a ring-master at a circus.

  ‘At the halt, on the right, f . . o . . r . . m squad!’

  The sudden silence was almost worse.

  Ainslie tried not to look at his watch, knowing it would only rouse his anger again. He could feel the weariness closing in on him and had to fight it back like something physical: Hold on a bit longer until he had ‘settled in’, as someone had remarked upon his arrival.

  It was hard to compare this place with Britain, he thought. November 1941 and the London he had left four days back had been a far cry from the naval base on Singapore Island. Four days of flying in various aircraft, watching the changing scenery at each touch-down, meeting the mixed bunch of passengers on their way to join service units, to replace dead or wounded, to set up headquarters, and all the countless other missions of a nation at war.

  As he had climbed stiffly from the aircraft on Singapore Island five hours ago he had sensed the difference immediately. Ainslie was thirty years old, and a professional naval officer to his fingertips. He had visited Singapore several times during his career and that made it all the more surprising, for apart from a lot more uniforms wandering about the airport, or thronging the streets through which he had been whisked in a staff car, nothing appeared to have altered.

  He thought again of Britain, and London in particular. Nightly air raids, rationing, blackout, and the grim knowledge that only the English Channel stood between liberty and the might of the German Army. Every ally had fallen to the seemingly invincible Axis war machine, and London’s streets were as full of those uniforms as Britain’s and her Commonwealth’s. Dutch and Danish, Norwegian and Free French, Belgian and Polish, Czechs and all the rest. They helped to remind everyone of the Germans’ successes almost as much as the sad defiance of their old allies.

  Only in the air above Britain and along the North African shores where the newly formed Eighth Army had somehow managed to hold the German advances had there been actual victories. The Battle of the Atlantic, which had mounted to an increasing ferocity with each bloody convoy, had long outpaced the margin of winning or losing. It had become a matter of survival. Daily the toll of ships lost to torpedo and bomb rose higher, and the Navy’s demands for more and more men increased accordingly. Officers were given commands normally offered to men of greater experience and service, trained ratings were spread thinly over the growing mass of recruits and volunteers to share their skills as best they could.

  Robert Ainslie had been a submariner for almost half of his service and had left his last command, the Tigress, just three months earlier after an unbroken commission in the embattled Mediterranean.

  Three months with the underground world of intelligence in the Admiralty’s bomb-proof bunkers or visiting the submarine base at Gosport where he had done his original underwater training. And now, after all that, and the arduous flight from England, Ainslie had been sitting in this waiting-room like a new boy at school.

  He could tell from the way he had been greeted by the base staff that they knew something of his work, if not his actual mission, which was supposed to be top secret – if anything could be kept secret when more than two people knew about it.

  Ainslie had tried to think that they felt out of things here in Singapore. The island, like the Malayan peninsula to the north, was untouched by war, and apparently clung rigidly to an almost colonial existence.

  But he was beginning to think differently. They actually resented him because he reminded them of that ‘other war’. He touched his reefer jacket with his fingers, the small effort making the sweat trickle down his armpit. He was still wearing the blue uniform he had donned in London. It was to be hoped his tropical gear had arrived safely, he thought wearily. His fingers moved along the ribbons on the left breast. Distinguished Service Cross and Bar. He had got used to them, and at home decorations were commonplace. But out here he was different, or so it appeared. An odd man out.

 
A door opened and a small, wiry man in a very crumpled grey suit came in and sat down in the other chair.

  Ainslie watched him, recalling their first meeting, and how his affection for the little man had grown. He looked like a badly paid schoolteacher, or a clerk from a City office. In fact, he was Commander Gregory Critchley of naval intelligence.

  Critchley took out a cigarette and lit it unhurriedly. He glanced round for an ashtray and, finding none, threw the match on the brightly polished floor.

  ‘Inhospitable bastards!’ He smiled at Ainslie, dropping his tired lines like another skin. ‘Not long now. I’ve spoken to someone.’ He chuckled. ‘I think we are about to be received.’

  Ainslie stood up carefully and walked to the window. The marines were drilling again, and he remembered hearing there was to be a big parade in the city in a few weeks’ time. A Christmas celebration apparently.

  It made him suddenly angry. He thought of the crowded air-raid shelters in London, a pub with its windows blasted out, a double-decker bus on its side amongst the rubble. Tired, brave, often pathetic people. How long would they hold out if they knew about this sort of red tape? he wondered.

  Critchley watched him through his cigarette smoke, reading his thoughts. He had come to like Ainslie very much. He even looked the part. Tall, with a clean-cut, youthful face, fair hair and bright blue eyes, he had an air of confidence about him which Critchley now knew to be deceptive. Despite the medals, the stories of Ainslie’s considerable courage and ability, he knew him to be very critical of himself, and conscious of the men who from choice or compulsion were made to follow him.

  Ainslie asked, ‘Don’t they want to win the bloody war? What’s the matter with everyone?’

  ‘Self-preservation, old son. They think they’re doing their job merely by standing firm in this “invincible fortress”, as they call it.’

  Ainslie turned back to the window again. ‘All the ships lost, all those men killed. You’d have thought they would have learned something, surely?’

  Critchley stood up, his head cocked to the sound of footsteps. ‘Keep your Scottish temper under its lid, Bob. They’ll come round. I’ll do the explaining, and you impress them with your splendid calm!’ He dug him in the ribs. ‘They are in our Navy, you know!’

  Ainslie picked up his new cap with its bright peak of oak leaves. ‘I was beginning to wonder!’

  A poker-faced flag-lieutenant ushered them into a large office where the chief of staff was standing beside his desk waiting to greet them. Ainslie had the impression he had arranged himself for their entrance. He was a full captain, and his white uniform, like his desk,-was as neat as a pin.

  Critchley announced, ‘This is Captain Armytage.’ He glanced calmly at the senior officer. ‘The commodore is away at Keppel Harbour, and the admiral’s apparently up country on an inspection.’

  Ainslie caught his tone, the merest hint of sarcasm.

  But the chief of staff shook their hands and offered them chairs.

  He said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. You know how it is. Lot to do just now.’

  Critchley asked mildly, ‘The war, sir?’

  ‘Well, yes. In a manner of speaking. There’s the regatta coming off, too. All part and parcel of morale, what?’

  He picked up a manilla folder and put it in the our tray. Then he said, ‘All a bit of a mystery. Your mission, that is. The admiral takes the view that Whitehall is getting too much steam up when they ought to be putting their minds to better things.

  Ainslie said, ‘Does he?’

  Critchley said quickly, ‘I think Commander Ainslie could put you in the picture better than I, sir. He is, after all, a professional at this kind of thing.’

  The captain’s brows came together in a frown. ‘I know why you’re here. I’m not a fool.’ He calmed himself with an effort and looked at Ainslie. ‘Tell me about it then.’

  Ainslie stared across the office, the neatness, the timeless order of things.

  ‘At the start of the war, sir, we and France had the two finest navies in the world. When France fell, it was imperative that all her ships which failed to join our fleet and the Free French under de Gaulle, or refused to intern themselves in neutral ports, must be put out of action.’

  Ainslie relived his own feelings as he spoke. It must have been a cruel decision for someone, he thought. The Royal Navy’s heaviest units had been forced to fire on their old ally, to sink her ships in the protected bases at Oran and Dakar and other anchorages outside occupied France. Many fine vessels had been sunk or severely damaged, and a lot of men killed. Men who had fought beside the British against the common enemy had shared the same fate as many a German and Italian. It would be a long time before the bitterness and the hurt was forgotten, let alone forgiven.

  Had those same ships fallen into enemy hands the war would be over right now. With supply routes cut, and her own forces crippled by lack of fuel and war materials, Britain’s capital would have fared no better than Paris or Warsaw.

  Ainslie heard himself say, ‘I have spent all my recent years in submarines.’

  Captain Armytage said crisply, ‘I am aware of your record, Commander.’ He fell silent as Ainslie’s eyes levelled on him.

  Ainslie said, ‘The French Navy built a submarine well ahead of her time, the Surcouf, something along the lines of our old M-class, but far more sophisticated, and successful. I went aboard her once when she came to England. A giant, with two big turret guns like a cruiser, and her own aircraft for spotting. She was built around 1931, and for three years she was the biggest submarine in the world.’

  He let his eyes rest on the chief of staff’s face, feeling the man’s sudden discomfort, sensing, too, Critchley’s rapt attention.

  ‘Then came the improved Surcouf boat, larger still, over four thousand tons submerged.’ He waited, thinking of her, of all the planning and the hazy ideas which had suddenly cleared like a prismatic gunsight. ‘The Soufrière.’

  The captain shifted in his chair. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Of course. Ainslie added quietly, ‘Two eight-inch guns, extremely powerful and rapid firing, plus ten torpedo tubes, her own seaplane, and a range of twelve thousand miles. If she chose to cut loose, she could rip our ocean supply routes to bits, from the East Indies to the Cape of Good Hope. It would take a fleet, a fleet which we do not possess, to hunt her down.’

  The room was very still and, apart from the gentle hum of fans and a far-off bark of commands, completely silent.

  Then Critchley said, ‘Soufrière was in Madagascar when France fell, sir. Then when feelings went this way and that about the Free French versus Petain’s Vichy impotence she slipped out and made for Indo-China, to their base at Saigon. We know she was there almost to the day when the Japs marched in and completed their occupation of the colony. It was said she was damaged, by the Japanese, by sabotage or accident, we don’t know. Yet. But our instructions are to seize her, before she falls into the enemy’s hands, or her own company decide to hand her over in exchange for some kind of reward. Patriotism is not just a British thing. The French Navy has its brand of honour, too.’

  Captain Armytage glanced at the clock. ‘I still don’t see the need. We could have her bombed if she tried to act against us.’ He discarded his own suggestion and added, ‘If we could find her in time, that is.’

  Critchley took out a fresh cigarette and looked at it. ‘Soufrière must be taken, sir. We believe that the Japanese will continue their expansion in the China Sea and Pacific, for unless the Americans choose to come into the war alongside us there is nothing to stop them.’ He looked meaningly at the wall map behind the desk. ‘They could even come here.’

  ‘Now that is rubbish.’ The captain seemed to recover slightly. ‘You may know all about missing subs and cloak and dagger escapades, but you obviously don’t know much about the defences here and in Malaya.’

  Critchley eyed him coolly. ‘Let us hope, sir, that the Japanese are also in ignorance.’

&
nbsp; The captain’s fingers drummed busily on the desk. ‘I’m still not convinced.’

  Critchley stood up abruptly. ‘Fortunately, it is not our choice, is it, sir?’

  ‘What the hell d’you mean? Just because –’

  Ainslie stepped forward without even realizing he was on his feet. ‘Commander Critchley means the decision has been made, sir. By the Admiralty, by the Cabinet, and obviously with the Prime Minister’s fullest support. Nobody wants to upset the French again, but neither do we want the Germans eating at Claridges!’

  The chief of staff flushed. ‘I am fully aware that in wartime some officers get promotion advanced more swiftly than in normal processes! I am equally conscious that others get an inflated sense of their own importance!’

  Ainslie shrugged. ‘I obey orders, sir. If Soufrière falls into enemy hands, for whatever reason, I shall go back to sea again in another submarine.’ He glanced around the office. ‘I will be the fortunate one.’

  The chief of staff looked away. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  Critchley stubbed out his cigarette and brushed some ash from his crumpled suit.

  ‘Fine, sir. We’ll begin tomorrow.’ He seemed not to see the captain’s anger. ‘Maybe the admiral will be here by then, too.’

  They left the office and Critchley said, ‘Not bad for openers, Bob. Now a bath and a nice big drink are indicated.’ He peered round for the staff car. ‘They’ve put us aboard a commandeered motor yacht. All the luxuries. Also, it’ll keep us from reminding everyone there’s a war on!’

  Later as they stood on a jetty, their faces searing in the afternoon glare, Critchley said, ‘Captain Armytage is probably right, of course. Soufrière’s quite likely out of commission for good. Maybe one of her people felt as we do, that no French vessel should help the Jerries.’

  Ainslie nodded, watching the launch which was coming to collect them sweeping around the lines of moored warships in a shower of fine spray. Beyond the ships, sweltering beneath taut awnings and limp flags, he could see the Malayan coastline, hazily green, shimmering above the water of the Johore Strait. He thought of his companion’s words to Armytage, spoken as much out of frustration as anything. But if the Japanese did declare war, could Britain withstand an even greater weight in the balance? If Critchley was right, and Armytage was deluding himself, it was not difficult to picture the Japanese Army swarming across this narrow strip of placid water. Singapore’s defences were famous and respected. But so, too, was the Maginot Line.