The Passion and the Glory Page 2

  ‘So do I, sir,’ Walt said. ‘So do I.’

  *

  Singapore, Clive McGann reflected, had rightfully been called the Pearl of the Orient by a fanciful visitor. He had seldom been in a more attractive spot. Arriving in a sunlit, unrationed, enormous and totally safe naval harbour after the fast dash from England, had been like getting out of bed after recovering from a bout of influenza; everything suddenly seemed much brighter than before.

  At least part of the pleasure had of course been the welcome extended to the British squadron. Throughout the year the Japanese had been rattling their sabres more and more loudly, as their German friends had romped roughshod across Europe and North Africa, and even Russia. The military situation, indeed, with Moscow apparently about to fall, could not have looked more grim. Only the Royal Navy was meeting the Germans on better than even terms, and even they were having a life and death struggle with the U-boat menace.

  But at least the surface war was under control. There had been shocks. Clive could remember with vivid horror his feelings last May, when from the decks of this same battleship he had watched Britain’s greatest and most famous warship, HMS Hood, explode and disappear after receiving a salvo from Bismarck. He had only joined Prince of Wales the previous

  week, for the battleship, Britain’s newest, was still fitting out. The crisis of the Bismarck’s sortie had caused her to be ordered to sea, still with dockyard workers aboard. Everyone had been jubilant. Surely Hood and Prince of Wales could deal with Bismarck and her heavy cruiser consort, Prinz Eugen. But Hood had been sent to the bottom, and Prince of Wales seriously damaged. Yet, they had been told afterwards, it had been their guns, by striking home on Bismarck’s fuel supply, which had caused the damage that eventually brought the giant German battleship to bay. Prince of Wales had played no part in that. But the Royal Navy, battleships, cruisers, aircraft carriers, destroyers and planes, had all concerted to destroy Bismarck and restore British supremacy at sea.

  If that had been a tremendous experience, after a beginning of the war spent in destroyers racing about in futile attempts to protect convoys, an even more permanent memory was of only a couple of months ago, when the great ship had carried the Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, across the Atlantic for a secret meeting with President Roosevelt. The Prime Minister had made a point of speaking with every officer on board, and when they had lain at anchor off Newfoundland, Clive had been introduced to the President.

  ‘McGann?’ Mr Roosevelt had said. ‘I know that name. Do you have a relative in the United States Navy?’

  Mr Roosevelt had of course once been Secretary of the Navy.

  ‘My father, sir,’ Clive had replied.

  ‘Your father? You mean you’re one of the McGanns? But you’re wearing the wrong uniform.’

  Clive had decided against trying to explain the family history. ‘I wanted to see action, sir.’

  ‘Well done, Mr McGann,’ the President said. ‘Well done. But don’t forget, we may need you over here at some time.’ He had glanced at Churchill, a twinkle in his eye. ‘Some time soon, perhaps.’

  Maybe sooner than anyone had expected, Clive thought, although clearly no one in Singapore doubted that a powerful British squadron, so battle tried, would make the Japanese think again about indulging in any adventures in South East Asia, even if the aircraft carrier, Indomitable, which had accompanied them from England, had developed engine trouble and been forced to remain in Colombo for repairs. Obviously Captain Leach, commodore of the squadron pending the arrival of Admiral Phillips, would have preferred to wait for her, rather than proceed without air cover, but the situation had been adjudged too critical, and the orders had been to continue on their course.

  So here they were, with their escort of four destroyers, anchored in the middle of the huge harbour, surrounded, even at dawn on this Monday morning by a host of small craft, filled with spectators eagerly staring at the naval monsters. They had arrived the previous Tuesday, but the interest had not yet subsided, and had been re-aroused by the appearance of Admiral Phillips the previous afternoon; he had flown out from England, but had gone first to Manila where he had been conferring with the American commanders about possible strategy should war break out.

  And certainly the spectators had a lot to gawk at, even if they knew little about the true strength of the ships. Repulse was a veteran of the First World War, launched in 1916. Originally called Resistance, she had served with the Grand Fleet until 1919. She too had fought in the North Sea during the beginning of the present war, with her sister Renown, after a thorough modernisation programme in the mid-thirties. Now displacing nearly thirty-eight thousand tons, and some seven hundred feet long, she was armed with six fifteen-inch guns as well as smaller weapons and had a complement of twelve hundred men. But she could hardly be compared with Prince of Wales.

  The battleship, the second of the new King George V class, designed when Great Britain had at last determined to rid herself of the restrictions of the various naval treaties which had humbugged her between the wars, had a deep load displacement of forty-two thousand tons, contained within her seven hundred and forty-five feet of overall length. Her belt armour was fifteen inches thick, and she was armed with ten fourteen-inch guns, and powered by four-shaft Parsons geared turbines which could develop one hundred and ten thousand shaft horsepower, and drive her at twenty-eight knots. She also carried two aircraft and had a complement of fourteen hundred men. Although there were design faults which Clive, as gunnery lieutenant for the secondary armament, knew only too well — the five-point-two-five guns, of which she had sixteen,

  were too slow to be ideal anti-aircraft weapons — she was a dream ship to serve on. Clive, who was twenty-four years old and had been with the Navy since leaving Dartmouth in 1935, and could remember life on a destroyer only too well, knew he would probably have to return to one of those bone-shakers when he approached command rank; for the time being he was determined to enjoy life on board this huge, comfortable ship.

  His immediate superior, Gunnery Lieutenant Commander Bryson, stood beside him. ‘How many Japanese spies are in that lot, do you suppose?’ he asked.

  ‘Do them good to see what we can throw at them,’ Clive suggested. ‘What’s the word from on high?’

  ‘Pretty interesting. In the event of trouble, we’re to cross the Pacific and link up with the US Pacific Fleet in Pearl Harbour.’ He studied his friend as he spoke.

  ‘Oh, boy, that’d be just great,’ Clive said. ‘My father’s in Pearl. He’s captain of Oregon.’

  ‘So he’d be tickled pink to see you steaming into his harbour on board Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Any chance we might show the flag in Hong Kong on the way?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve a relative there, too?’

  ‘My sister. She’s married to John Grimmett.’

  ‘Good Lord. I was at Dartmouth with Johnnie. I remember something about his marrying an American … ‘ he frowned. ‘I don’t quite understand the ins and outs of your family,’ he said. ‘Your father is an American, and so is your sister, but you are English.’

  ‘Well,’ Clive said, ‘I was born in England, you see. And then Dad and Mother fell out for a while, so I was brought up there as well. It seemed natural to become a British citizen.’

  ‘And then your mother … ‘ Bryson hesitated.

  ‘She was murdered in Tokyo. My father was naval attache there.’

  ‘Rum do, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ Clive agreed. ‘Not even I know the truth of it. I suppose Dad will get around to telling me, one day.’

  ‘But it was a Japanese killed her.’

  ‘Yes.’ Clive stared out across the harbour. ‘The official word was that he was her lover.’ He glanced at Bryson. ‘She … wasn’t the perfect wife, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that,’ Bryson suggested.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe I don’t want to believe it. The fact is that Dad w
as naval attache, which means he was really a glorified spy at the time. I think he was engaged in getting information about the new Japanese battleships, those big ones we keep hearing about … ‘

  ‘Seventy thousand tons, eighteen-inch guns,’ Bryson muttered.

  ‘Rather make us look like a rowing boat, wouldn’t they,’ Clive agreed.

  ‘And you think your mother became involved? And was killed for it? In which case she could be a heroine, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clive said. ‘Warts and all. I like to think that.’

  ‘So you’d rather like to have a crack at the Japs, I should imagine.’

  Clive looked at him. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I most certainly would. I wonder … ‘ the two officers continued to gaze at each other as the siren went. ‘By all that’s holy … ‘ Bryson said. ‘It could be happening.’

  *

  Admiral Phillips faced his officers in the wardroom; those from Repulse had hastily been assembled. ‘I have to tell you, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘that at dawn this morning, the Japanese navy, without a declaration of war, launched a treacherous attack upon the United States naval base of Pearl Harbour. I’m afraid it was a total success, as the Americans were taken entirely by surprise. All the details have not yet come to hand, but it seems evident that for the time being the United States Pacific Fleet no longer exists: several battleships were sunk.’

  Clive swallowed in consternation. But if he had personal reasons for feeling horrified by the news, the other officers were no less disturbed.

  ‘It goes without saying that Great Britain is now at war with Japan,’ Admiral Phillips continued. ‘In fact, Japanese troops are apparently already attacking Hong Kong, and there are reports of landings in northern Malaya. Our plan to link up with the American fleet in Pearl Harbour has therefore been abandoned. Our business, in the first instance, will be to secure Malaya and the East Indies by destroying any Japanese ships that may approach these waters. I am now awaiting information as to the position of the Japanese fleet, but we must be prepared to sail at a moment’s notice. As of now, all leave is cancelled, and every ship is to be placed in readiness for immediate combat. Thank you, gentlemen.’ He looked over their faces. ‘I know you have long awaited such a moment as this, and that you will give a good account of yourselves.’

  Clive stood at the bridge rail, looking down on the guns beneath him.

  ‘We’ll get full reports soon enough,’ Bryson said. ‘There’s no point in worrying until then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Clive said. Bryson was thinking of Dad, and so was he. But he was also thinking of Joan. Supposing Hong Kong fell? ‘The bastards. How I hope we blow the whole God damned lot out of the water.’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for,’ Bryson agreed. ‘If we can’t do it, nobody can.’

  *

  The morning hummed with activity, as shore parties were recalled and the gun hoists went into action, bringing the huge fourteen-inch shells up from the bowels of the ship. Lunch was a chatter of conversation in the wardroom, and the meal was hardly over before the orders came to go to sea. ‘It is our intention,’ Admiral Phillips said over the tannoy, ‘to intercept and destroy the Japanese invasion force making for Malaya. This invasion force has now been ascertained to be in the vicinity of Kota Bharu on the north eastern side of the peninsular. I am sorry to say that there do not appear to be any major surface units accompanying it, but we have been informed that there is considerable air activity in the north, and therefore we must anticipate some aerial attacks. As we have no air support of our own, I have requested cover from the mainland, and this will be provided. We must also anticipate the presence of enemy submarines in the area. Good fortune and good hunting to you all.’

  They sailed at half past five, into decidedly bad weather. A mass of low cloud obscured the sky, and there were frequent rain squalls, which together brought dusk forward by about an hour. ‘So much for the Jap planes,’ Bryson commented. ‘They’ll never find us in this.’

  Hardly anyone slept that night, and next morning they continued to steam north at full speed through heavy weather. The four destroyers — Electra, Express, Vampire and Tenedos — were bucking and plunging in the short, steep seas, and taking it green over the bow, but even on the capital ships there were occasional rattles of spray against the bridge screens, alternating with the patter of the rain.

  ‘They may not be able to find us, but I’m damned if we’re going to be able to find them,’ Clive grumbled.

  ‘Well, we’re on our own,’ Bryson told him. He had just returned from a hasty conference on the bridge. ‘There’s to be no air support.’

  Clive frowned at him. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Simply that the airfields in the north have either been overrun or put out of action.’

  ‘Oh, hell,’ Clive said.

  ‘Yes. It could be sticky,’ Bryson agreed. And grinned. ‘Your chaps are going to have to work hard.’

  Prince of Wales was the lead ship, and Clive could look back at the huge bulk of Repulse, bow rising and falling in the swell, occasional gusts of green water blowing across her foredeck, beyond which were her guns, massive and threatening. It was impossible to imagine a ship that huge and powerful being threatened by aircraft … and yet, his shoulders felt cold — he could remember too clearly from his destroyer days off Norway the helpless feeling of being under air attack with no adequate response available.

  And colder, when he looked up at the sky, and saw a patch of blue. The clouds were clearing.

  *

  Darkness fell, and the skies cleared still further. Although no lights were shown, the squadron would obviously be visible to any shadowing aircraft because of its wake, and Admiral Phillips reluctantly decided that, lacking air cover, he would have to withdraw, or risk suffering damage incommensurable with any he might be able to inflict on the enemy. The ships were therefore turned south again, intending to regain the air cover which could be provided from Singapore itself.

  Everyone naturally felt dashed by the decision, and there was

  considerable grumbling. ‘Typical of the way we’re fighting this war,’ muttered Petty Officer Gray. ‘This and then that. Never sticking to a plan.’

  Clive made no comment. He felt more disappointed than anyone. He stood on the quarterdeck, still wearing only tropical kit of short sleeved shirt and shorts, despite the darkness and the wind which whistled by him — the wind was as warm as anything he had ever known. He had so wanted to hit back, for Dad. And Joan. But at least, going back to Singapore he might be able to get some news of them.

  He turned in and had a couple of hours sleep, to be awakened just after midnight; the ship was again a buzz of excitement. News had been received that the Japanese were landing at Kuantan, a good hundred and thirty miles south of Kota Bharu, which had been their original destination. ‘Even if we were spotted yesterday,’ the admiral said, ‘we’ll have thrown them off the scent by our abrupt change of course. Let’s see what we can do about these Kuantan fellows.’

  He certainly wanted to accomplish something on his sortie, whatever the risks involved, and his men were of a mind with him. Once again the gun crews stood to their weapons, and anticipation ran high. The destroyer Electra was sent on ahead to ascertain the whereabouts of the Japanese, while the big ships ploughed on behind her. Several men reported hearing aircraft engines, even above the noise being made by the ships, which suggested that there were a lot of the enemy around somewhere, but nothing happened and the noise faded. ‘Missed us,’ Bryson said.

  They breakfasted at dawn on cold meat and marmalade, with coffee, and then resumed their stations. It was the most perfect day, the sky a brilliant blue, the water a steadily lightening green, for now they could see the low, tree clad shoreline of Malaya in the distance.

  Electra returned to say there was no sign of the enemy at Kuantan; the report of a landing there had been false.

  ‘For Jesus sake,’ remarked Petty Officer Gra
y. ‘Like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack.’

  It was, for the admiral was reluctant to give up again, and for the next couple of hours the squadron cast about, before orders

  came once again to turn for the south and home.

  ‘Singapore for dinner, at this rate,’ Bryson said. ‘I wonder if any of us will get ashore.’

  ‘Enemy aircraft bearing one six five,’ said the tannoy.

  Binoculars were brought up, studying the lone speck in the sky. ‘Mitsubishi Nine Six,’ Bryson said. ‘Reconnaissance.’ He lowered the glasses, looked at Clive. ‘A lot may depend on where his friends are.’

  The plane disappeared, and the skies remained empty, for another quarter of an hour.

  Then Clive pointed. ‘They weren’t so far off.’

  There were nine enemy aircraft, coming up from the south, flying in line ahead as they approached.

  ‘By God,’ Bryson said. ‘If those were the chaps looking for us, they must have missed us last night.’

  ‘Well, they’ve found us now,’ Clive said, racing for the gun control room as the alarm went.

  Every anti-aircraft gun on board opened up as the planes came in. In his station beneath the bridge Clive found it difficult to know what was going on, apart from listening to the reports from above him. He heard the sound of explosions, but none on board Prince of Wales.

  ‘Repulse has taken one,’ came a voice from above. ‘Doesn’t look too serious. Some fire.’

  ‘They’ve gone,’ said another voice.

  ‘Here comes the next wave.’

  ‘Torpedo bombers.’

  Clive watched them on his radar screen, and sent salvo after salvo of shot at them as the blips dipped lower and lower. Then control became difficult as the ship started to turn, to avoid the torpedoes. She turned one way and then the other, and the blips disappeared — Clive couldn’t be sure whether or not his gunners had actually brought any down. Then the entire ship shuddered, and again, almost instantaneously. My God, he thought, we’ve been hit. Yet nothing had changed in the control room, save for the anxious glances being exchanged by the yeomen. He made himself concentrate on the radar, to fight off the next wave of attackers; damage was not part of his business as long as the ship stayed afloat, and she was certainly doing that.