“Months,” Gellatly murmured, and his face was alert with appreciation. Then he looked up at Bentley quickly. “But if their station was smashed how did they get back on the air again so fast?”

  “That’s the whole point,” Bentley told him. “I didn’t say the station was smashed—the aerial was blown to hell. And they had another one rigged the next day. Look. Our aerial’s up the foremast, right? Where are our sets? Some of ’em are right down in the transmitting station, feet below water level.”

  Gellatly drew on his cigarette until the tip glowed red. His eyes were on the chart.

  “So you think,” he said, and no one noticed the omission of “sir,” “that only the aerial is up on the hill? The main transmitting station is lower down—near the beach, maybe?”

  “It must be,” Bentley nodded. “After what those bombers did to the aerial site—and if the main station had been there—the Japs could not possibly have got it working again inside a week. Intelligence believes that a land-line runs up to the aerial from the station lower down—precisely the same as it does in this ship.”

  “Then we’re after the station,” Gellatly said.

  “You’re after the station. If you can fix it—and only a few demolition charges would make one hell of a mess of that electronic equipment—you give the whole invasion fleet miles of security in their approach. More than that—unless that radar station is fixed, and properly, the whole invasion plan might have to be called off.”

  Gellatly slowly ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. So that was it. All their weeks of training in demolition, the dives down on to the old wreck out past Bradley’s Head, the constant practice and theorising—all now funnelled into the one clear objective. Smashing the most powerful radar station in the South Pacific. The magnitude of his responsibility appalled him. If he failed, and the invasion was still mounted, that warning station could mean swarms of vengeful bombers over the ships of the fleet.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, his voice steady. “What’s the drill for putting us ashore?”

  Watching Gellatly’s hard brown face, hearing the evenness of his voice, Randall felt a sudden and definite admiration for the petty officer. This job would take guts ...

  “That’s up to you,” Bentley said flatly. “How do you feel about a rubber dinghy—the sort of thing we landed those commandos in off North Africa?”

  Gellatly shook his head.

  “I don’t like it, sir. We’d get in all right, but when we leave all hell will have broken loose. We wouldn’t stand a chance of getting away in a dinghy.”

  “Fair enough. The alternative is to be dropped from an assault craft.”

  Gellatly nodded.

  “Right,” Bentley went on. “I’ve organized one for the job.” He turned again to the chart, his pencil pointing to a mark which was little more than a dot on the whiteness of the parchment. “Here. Nitendi Island. Twenty miles due east of Mortie. The assault boat will be delivered there. We sneak up on it at night, early, and it takes you aboard and drops you off the beach of Mortie. If all goes well, you’ll be back aboard in darkness and we can get to hell out of it.” He looked at the diver. “Any questions?”

  “Millions, sir,” Gellatly grinned tightly. “But one’ll do. The coxswain of that assault craft. Has he had any experience in dropping and picking up frogmen?”

  Bentley pursed his lips. His face was thoughtful.

  “Surely the Yanks would have foreseen that?” he said slowly. “Frankly, Gellatly, I don’t know. I can only assume they’d put an experienced man in charge.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t assume that, sir,” the diver answered, and his voice was respectful, and firm. “The whole mission depends on that coxswain—especially the picking up part.”

  “I’m with you there,” Randall growled.

  The captain stared at him. His forefinger and thumb pulled at the loose skin of his throat.

  “It’s too late now,” he decided at last. “We’ll make Nitendi tomorrow night. I can’t break wireless silence. You know that.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gellatly said, his face worried. More than the other two, he appreciated the importance of a skilled cox’n in the picking up boat. They had practised dropping and picking up for hours in Sydney Harbour, and even with a seasoned cox’n it had taken them weeks to perfect the drill. And out there, off the aroused beaches of Mortie Island, it would be suicide to have to wait for a botching cox’n to go round again and come in along the line to get them inboard. He looked abruptly up at Bentley.

  “There is a way, sir,” he said, his voice definite.

  “Yes?”

  “Put a man we know in that boat. A man like Hooky Walker.”

  Bentley’s eyes had narrowed as Gellatly spoke. Then he shook his head.

  “Hooky’s had no experience in picking up frogmen. None at all.”

  “No, sir. But you wouldn’t find a better cox’n anywhere. He’s handled pretty well everything, from skiffs to cruisers.”

  “But not assault boats picking up frogmen.”

  “Agreed.” Gellatly was confident. “But we’ve got plenty of time yet. I know he’s a first-class cox’n. All he needs to learn is the special drill. And I can drum that into him quickly enough.”

  Bentley looked down sideways at the chart. His face was still with thought. When his head came up there was a grin on his face.

  “All right,” he decided crisply, “Hooky’ll be in that all right. Though it will be a bit tough on the Yank.”

  “That’s too bad,” Randall murmured, and lit another cigarette.

  They talked some more, technical details, and Gellatly was moving towards the door, heading for his team, when the thought struck him. It halted him and swung him about to face them.

  “Radar,” he said, and came back into the cabin. “If it’s so efficient, sir, they’ll be waiting for us with a reception committee.”

  “That’s all right.” Randall answered him. He was the gunnery officer as well as first lieutenant, and radar was especially in his province. “Look.” He picked up the pencil and drew a long, elliptical shape on a sheet of paper. Pointing to the lower line of the ellipse where it curved up, he said:

  “This is the shape of a radar transmission. Because the aerial’s so high up, you should be able to get in underneath the transmission.” He peered at Gellatly’s face, and was satisfied at what he saw. “This is secret, Gellatly, so keep it to yourself. That’s the reason why our torpedo-bombers, coming in at about ten degrees above the surface, can get in under Jap radar. You can do the same with the assault craft.”

  Gellatly in turn looked into Randall’s big, tough face. He, too, was satisfied at what he saw.

  “I see, sir. That about ties it up then.”

  Bentley nodded. “Any further queries at all, Gellatly, come straight to me or the first lieutenant. Now you’d better get below and put your men in the picture. And Hooky.”

  “That, sir,” the diver grinned, “will be a pleasure. Especially the last. It leaves only the cox’n to catch up with. But he’ll keep.”

  He stepped outside and softly closed the door.

  Chapter Six

  NITENDI ISLAND WAS on the radar scopes when Gellatly felt his way along the dark upper-deck and mounted to the bridge. He stepped on to the compass-platform and was at once impressed with its sense of quiet efficiency. There was no light here whatever, but dimly he could make out three or four figures, quiet, alert. He identified Randall’s big frame, and guessed it was Bentley beside him. He approached them and said:

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Bentley turned at once. “Yes, Gellatly?”

  “Er—we’ll be anchoring at the island, sir?” He had forgotten its name. “For some time?”

  “Yes. But it’s quite deserted. Nothing there but a lump of rock, birds. Why?”

  Gellatly hesitated. Bentley peered at him curiously in the dim light.

  “The boys were talking, sir. This is the gist of it. It may seem a bit far-fetched—maybe I’ve been soaked in the subject too long—but they reckon that if we can bring frogmen up here, there’s nothing to say that the japs haven’t got some of the same animal.”

  “Yes, fair enough,” Bentley said slowly when he paused.

  “We’re going to anchor only a few miles off the island. Maybe their radar has spotted us. I don’t know. But maybe we should take some precautions—deterrent action—against frogmen attacking us.”

  Bentley smiled. “I don’t think that’s necessary, Gellatly. It’d be a long shot if they knew we were here.”

  “Yes, sir, but it’s possible,” Gellatly pressed. “Maybe it’s because I know now how easy it is to stick a few limpets to a ship’s hull,” he smiled self-consciously.

  Bentley humoured him. “What are your precautions, then?”

  “Normally we’d tow a roll of barbed-wire round the ship in a motor boat. That rips a frogman’s suit, possibly his counter-lung. He must surface then.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t carry barbed-wire,” Bentley smiled. Gellatly saw that smile. His face set doggedly.

  “No, sir, but there’s hand grenades. We carry enough of them. The rudder and screws are the main worry. A limpet mine won’t do much damage to the hull generally, but it can make a mess of screws or rudder.”

  “I see.” Plainly, Bentley was not worried about the possibility of enemy frogmen. He turned to Randall.

  “What do you think, Bob?”

  “I think Gellatly’s worrying a hit overmuch, sir, but maybe we could give this deterrent action business a go—just to give the crew a bit of practice. You never know when we might need it.”

  Meaning, of course, thought Gellatly, that you don’t think you need it here. Abruptly, he felt a keen sense of superiority to these two experienced officers, at the same time as he recognised their inability to feel his own concern. If only they knew how easy it was ... Like that black night when, for exercise, he and Corby and Whitey, with Henley’s approval, had swum underwater to the American cruiser moored at Number Two buoy off Garden Island and placed a small charge against her bow. They had been almost too successful. When the charge had gone up with a loud clang, the cruiser had gone frantically to action stations, with searchlights and guns swinging all over the harbour. The frogmen had got back into their boat, and had gone alongside the big ship’s gangway.

  They had not been received sceptically there. Gellatly remembered. Not after Pearl Harbor. The captain had been intensely interested in their performance, and thence forward had maintained a constant deterrent guard round his ship, acting on Henley’s teaching.

  But here ... Perhaps he was being a bit over-zealous: perhaps they might think his new speciality had swollen his head a bit. But he knew it was so easy …

  “All right, Gellatly,” Bentley said indulgently. “But go easy on the grenades or you’ll have Mr. Lasenby on your back.”

  Dismissed, Gellatly climbed back down the ladder. He made his careful way along the dark deck to the gunner’s cabin.

  The ship was stopped. The cable-officer on the fo’c’sle let go his anchor very carefully, link by link through the hawse pipe. There was nothing here to hear them, of course, but the island, looming sombrely up above them in its single peak seemed darkly menacing. They were only twenty miles from Jap-held territory, and the enemy could conceivably have patrol boats out guarding his beaches.

  There was no wind in the little cove, and the destroyer was quite still, her anchor-cable dropping straight down into the dark water. Further aft near the funnel the watch on deck were turning the motorboat out, not too sure of what this exercise meant. The five frogmen watched them, dressed in their black rubber suits, lounging against the guard-rails. But there was no joking now—the frogmen had had an easy trip up from Moresby, but brother, were they going to earn it now!

  The motor-boat was turned out, and Gellatly let his eyes pass over the cove, then out to sea. There was no sign of the assault craft which was to take them in. He was not worried—they had an hour yet, and they did not want to get ashore to the radar station too early, with all hands up and about.

  “Right, Clive, boat’s in the water,” Hooky’s deep voice said beside him. “A dozen grenades. You comin’ with me? Might as well—this whole silly bloody game’s your idea anyway.”

  “Sure, Happy, I’m coming. Wouldn’t you be surprised if we collected one little Jap frog, eh?”

  “My oath I would!” said Hooky vehemently.

  “Come on, let’s get it over with. The assault boat’ll be in shortly.”

  Gellatly could not help feeling a little melodramatic himself under the accumulated scepticism of the whole ship’s company. Frogmen had never visited them before, in all their wide sailings—why the hell should they now? He pushed all thought of his cynical messmates from his mind and followed Hooky down into the boat.

  They circled the ship slowly, and the grenades made a dull, water-dampened sound as they exploded beneath her screws and rudder. They dropped one or two at the bow, near the cable, for that was where, Gellatly told them in the boat, a frogman would rest himself before diving to fix his limpets.

  His information was received in silence. He could feel their impatience with this foolish nightly vigil.

  They had circled the ship three times with no sign that Gellatly was satisfied, when Hooky growled:

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough. All we’ve done is frighten the fishes for miles around. We’re getting back inboard.”

  “Hell, no!” the frogman remonstrated. “We haven’t been down half an hour yet.”

  A quiet laugh floated back from the bow—the bow-man probably. Hooky swung on his friend.

  “Look, Clive, wake up to yourself, cobs. This bloody frogmen business is gettin’ you down—and me. There ain’t even an undersized morwong in miles of us now. We’re wastin’ our time.” He raised his head and his voice, calling to the upper deck.

  “Inboard there! Stand-by to hoist the boat.”

  Gellatly opened his mouth to speak. He looked at Hooky’s stern face and sat down on a thwart instead. Maybe all of them thought like Hooky—thought he was pulling the weight of his new knowledge a bit too much. He found himself hoping that there was a Jap frogman heading for them round the corner of the cove, limpets strapped round his waist. Realization of what he was thinking brought a self-conscious grin to his face. Hooky was right—they were quite safe here, even from morwongs. He had better admit it to himself and satisfy himself with the fact of his thoroughness.

  But there was one thing he was determined on. Whitey had declared himself not completely satisfied with the fit of his face-mask that morning. There was only one way to test it properly, and that was in deep water. They had a long, dangerous swim ahead of them, and only equipment one hundred per cent efficient would do. As soon as the boat was hoisted, and they had clambered out, he searched among the crowd for Whitey. He was interrupted by a voice calling down from the bridge:

  “Catch anything, Gellatly?” Randall asked, and he did not wholly succeed in keeping the grin out of his voice.

  “No, sir,” the diver answered flatly, “I reckon you’re quite safe here.”

  “Thank Gawd for that!” an anonymous voice called from the shadows round the funnel. “Now I’ll see me old mother again!”

  The laughter was instantaneous. His face hard, Gellatly turned away. He found Whitey over against the superstructure.

  “All right,” he said curtly. “Dress up.”

  Whitey bent without speaking and came up with his gear. Gellatly helped him on with it—fixing the twin cylinders of light alloy on his broad shoulders, strapping on his weights.

  They worked leisurely; there was plenty of time. A dozen men gathered round them curiously, for Whitey looked queerly sinister in his tightly-fitting black suit, his skull-clasping helmet and the big glass face-mask. When he was ready, Gellatly said:

  “Hold it a minute. I’d better tell the skipper.”

  He was away for some time. Bentley had been about to send for him. The ship had just received an Intelligence report from a recce aircraft which had flown over Mortie that afternoon. The photographic interpretation section had discovered what looked like a path worn in the jungle a little to the right of a clump of bamboos, which were clearly visible from the sea. That path might lead to the hidden radar station.

  “It might also lead to a latrine,” Bentley said, “but it’s all you’ve got, so you might as well try it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Gellatly answered. “I’ll put my man over now, sir.”

  Bentley nodded. “Don’t be long,” he said, “the boat’s due in any minute.”

  Gellatly hurried back to Whitey.

  Whitey was outside the guard-rail near the hoisted motor-boat when his chief reached him, some two hundred feet from Wind Rode’s stern.

  “All set,” Gellatly told him. “Don’t be too long.” Whitey knew what he meant—the endurance of their cylinders was limited, and they might be under water a long time.

  Gellatly said: “Diver well?” Whitey answered: “Diver well,” and Gellatly clapped him on the shoulder. The big aborigine dropped straight down, entering the water with barely a splash, almost soundlessly.

  Close by the ship’s grey bilges Whitey took off his mask and flushed water inside it. He put it on, firmly, testing the straps. It felt all right—now. Then he keeled over on one shoulder and drove straight down under the ship.

  He readied the asdic dome and leaned his shoulder against it. Above him the hull of the destroyer spread outwards, a vast steel roof. Whitey hung there, motionless, breathing quickly, then slowly, twisting his head from side to side. The mask seemed perfectly efficient. He had his hands against the streamlined asdic dome, ready to push himself off, when he froze.

  It is possible that none of the other frogmen would have heard it. But this one had spent almost all his life in the water and under it; water was his natural element, his eyes and ears were attuned to its properties. He hung there, perfectly still, his head turned towards the stern, towards the propellers and rudder. The noise came again—a soft, rasping sound—a pause—it came again, transmitted efficiently by this watery medium.

 

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