J. E. MacDonnell - 012 Page 3

  "Normally, yes," Bentley replied, knowing quite well that Randall didn't believe his business concerned the ship. "But there's a lass I've got to look up ashore."

  "You've got a girl in Brisbane?" Randall was incredulous. "That's news to me, brother."

  "It shouldn't be," Bentley grinned. "You met her. Anne Peters. Remember? She's a reporter on the Courier-Mail."

  Randall plucked at the loose skin of his throat.

  "Yeah, yeah," he said, "I remember her." He remembered her clearly now-he had met her when he had hauled Bentley out of a picture theatre, that sweetly remembered night when he and Hooky Walker, the chief bosun's mate, had landed in Brisbane to join Bentley's first command, the old Wind Rode. And it had been Sainsbury who had sent the two of them up to join him, sensing his need of them in the slackly run old ship. Yes, he remembered her- nice girl, brown curls, boyish-looking, smart chick, on the ball.

  "But that was a hell of a long time ago," he expostulated, "she could have three or four kids by now. Unless you've been writing to her," he ended, suspiciously.

  Bentley laughed. "No, no correspondence."

  "Then how the hell do you know she'll want to see you?"

  "She will."

  "You're taking a risk, chum," Randall said brutally. "Brisbane's a big place, and it's full of Yanks. And you've been gone a long time, brother-a long time." He leaned forward, his burned face confidential. "Listen. Forget about her. She's had a shoal of blokes since you. Remember? The old feller sent me and Hooky up here to join you. What better place to take him ashore in and whip a few into him. He might even laugh! Now that'd be something to see! How about it, eh?"

  "You tempt me," Bentley grinned. "I'm pretty sure he'd be in it, too."

  "Well, then... ?"

  Bentley shook his head. "Anne would never forgive me if I didn't see her the first night in port."

  "Hell!" Randal! groaned.

  "I can see her now," the captain said fondly, and his eyes were dreamy as he fixed them on the clouds of smog which was Brisbane over the bay ahead. "Being on a newspaper she'll have news of our arrival as soon as we're sighted. I wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't come down to the pier."

  "---!" Randall exploded with unofficer like emphasis. He stared out to sea, his big face disgusted. If Bentley loved the girl, he could understand his passing up a chance of a run ashore, even though it would be their last in civilised country. But he knew Bentley's objective well enough, and to his mind it fell a hell of a long way short of the bliss to be attained by stepping ashore with him and Sainsbury. You could get the other thing anywhere...

  "Look," he said, and swung round to face his friend. "Say she's out when you get to the flat. Say she's on duty and can't get off. Say she's out on a job somewhere up near Cloncurry. Yeah," he added hopefully. "Then what? You'll be stuck. I'll wait for you in the pub."

  "Thanks for the thought, Bob, but she'll be home. Even if she's on duty she'll manage a relief somehow. You don't know Anne."

  Randall just looked at him. Then he released his breath in an explosion of disgust.

  "I'll see to the berthing wires," he growled. And, as he made to step on to the ladder leading to the fo'c'sle, "If your heart-throb does happen to be in Cloncurry, I'll be in Lennons."

  "I wouldn't rely on it, Bob," Bentley called, his face wreathed in a superior smile that sent his first-lieutenant rattling down the ladder.

  Bentley went ashore before Randall. There was little to be done to the ship-a few stores topped-up, her oil-tanks filled-and the first-lieutenant would see to those before he stepped off. Bentley walked quickly along the dockyards towards the tree-lined road outside, where he could see the red gleam of a public phone-box. Wind Rode was berthed under the shadow of the Story Bridge, and only that she was on the opposite side of the river he could have

  walked with ease to Anne's flat in New Farm.

  He eased his bulk into the box and called the newspaper office.

  "I'm sorry, sir," the girl on the switch put him right, "she doesn't work here any more. What's that? Yes, I believe she's still in the same place. In New Farm, I think."

  "I have the address, thank you. Goodbye." Bentley stepped out into the hot sunshine of Brisbane's afternoon and looked for a taxi. An oncoming driver mistook him for a Yank, and he got in. It took only a few minutes across the bridge, then they turned right down the one-way street at its city end and shortly pulled up outside the tree-shaded block of flats in Merthyr Road.

  He got out and paid the driver, and as the gears whined in descending cadence down the road he stood looking at the flats, remembering that it was inside the living-room in that downstairs flat he had confessed to Anne his doubts and fears of his new, and first, command. To get him out of his despondent mood she had suggested the pictures-and it was in that theatre that he had been sent for by Randall and Hooky Walker; and had his fears evaporate as soon as he knew that they would be with him.

  Much had happened since that night, in the Mediterranean and the Pacific. But he could still remember Anne's frankness, her warmth and her virginal love-making: remembered it with a familiar tightening in his stomach and an excited urge to see her. Confidently, he swung open the little gate and strode up the path.

  He should have known when the man opened the door to his knock, fumbling with the baby in his arm as his other hand drew the door open. He should have been absolutely convinced when the man said, grinning:

  "Sorry I took so long to get here, Mac, but this dodblasted little guy here gets lumpier every damn day. Mighty little guy, ain't he?"

  "Yes, he certainly is," Bentley stammered, and he looked down and saw that the man was dressed in trousers and shirt, and that the trousers were unmistakably an issue of the United States Army.

  "What can I do for you, Mac?" the man said, eyeing his visitor curiously. "You just in from a Navy ship?"

  "Yes," Bentley said uncomfortably. He had to go on with it now.

  "I was looking for a girl, actually. Her name is Anne Peters. I suppose she must have moved from here."

  "Only down to the delicatessen," the man grinned. "You're at the right place. Only her name now is Mrs. Robert G. Koeckler. You're- er-welcome to wait."

  "Hell, no!" Bentley ejaculated. Then he recovered his composure, if not his complexion. "I just came ashore for an hour or so. You see Anne-Mrs. Koeckler-well, a long time ago we went to the pictures one night. You know, the movies? But that was a long time back. I thought I'd just pop in and see..."

  "Sure, Mac, sure," Mr. Koeckler grinned. "I know how it is. This happens every week."

  "Does it?" Bentley gulped.

  "Yeah, sure. I'm thinking of getting a sign put up. `Miss Peters discharged from service.' She sure is some gal, eh?"

  "She sure is," Bentley agreed. And added hurriedly:

  "Of course, I don't remember her very well. It was a long time ago."

  "Yeah, sure, like you said. Well, if you don't want to wait..."

  Bentley was at the foot of the steps. "No, thanks, I'll get back. Nice to have met you."

  Mr. Koeckler nodded, his look shrewd, but still pleasant.

  "Better luck next time, Mac. Here-you want an address or two?"

  "No, thanks," Bentley smiled forcedly from the gate. "Well, cheers."

  "Cheers," grinned Mr. Koeckler, and closed the door.

  Bentley cast about him, but the taxi had disappeared. He walked quickly down the tree-shaded road towards the tramline. What was that pub Randall mentioned? Lennons. He would have to put up with the big fellow's jeers. But he needed that drink!

  Bentley was already on the fringe of the city on his way to the hotel when Randall walked into its dim coolness from the violence of sunshine outside. He was feeling morose. Sainsbury had declined his invitation, pleading his age and inability to keep up with a healthy young fellow ten years his junior. Randall had not been sorry-it might have been heavy-going with the old boy, without Bentley, his pride and joy, along to help out. Thinking of Bentl
ey made Randall realise just how much he missed his company on what could have been a humdinger run ashore. Now he could look forward to a few lonely drinks in this jam-packed joint, his aloneness emphasised by the hard-drinking, feverishly gay crowd of girls and Servicemen.

  It was not a happy lieutenant who pushed his way to the bar and ordered a beer. Nor was his mood made joyous by the obvious lack of interest the barman showed in his locally-made uniform.

  "All right, bud," Randall snarled, "just imagine I hail from Oklahoma, eh? Then let's have a beer."

  The barman-big enough himself-had a retort ready on his ready tongue. He looked again at the size and mood of what confronted him, and contented himself with a scowl. He pulled the beer.

  Randall flung down the correct change, took up the glass and turned his back to the bar. He stood there with his legs braced, not worried that he would be pushed to right or left. He was staring morosely at the happy throng in front of him, packing the tables, so that he saw the red-haired girl's escort excuse himself with a knowing leer and head for the men's room. Neither the colour of her hair nor the fact that her escort probably did hail from Oklahoma increased Randall's minor interest in the girl-but he was interested enough in the man who at that moment came into the room from the foyer outside.

  He was big, as big as Randall, and he was dressed- inconspicuously in this starred-and-striped company-in American Army uniform. He also looked slightly drunk. That in itself would not have attracted Randall's attention: what did, was the way in which the big man shouldered his way through the room, heading obviously for the table of the red-haired girl. She had just finished laying another carmine overlay on the red wound of her mouth-an operation rendered a little difficult by the rhythmic mastication of her gum-filled jaws-when the big man reached her.

  Randall drained his glass and laid it on the bar behind him without taking his eyes from the big man. The glowering look on his face promised an interesting divertissement. The promise was fulfilled. He said, without preliminary, and from an obvious prior acquaintance with the redhead:

  "So I caught up with ya at last, baby! Ya don't two time me, babe! Come on, we're leavin'!"

  The redhead looked up at him in alarm, and then quickly at the closed door of the men's room. She was spirited.

  "Take your big paw offa me, you slob! I don't belong to no man. You or nobody else. Now beat it outta here!"

  The Woolloomooloo slang mixed picturesquely with the acquired Bronx. The big man was not in the mood to appreciate picturesque speech. The red in his bloodshot eyes darkened.

  "I said ya comin' with me!"

  He let go of the table on which he was leaning, reached for the redhead's wrist, and yanked her to her feet.

  It was his bad luck that he had tangled with a girl from Woolloomooloo. Bronx maidens are kittens in comparison.

  She let the big man have the heel of her disengaged hand in a jolting uppercut that snapped his head back and would have upset him right off balance but for the press of tables behind him.

  The big man's face flushed with fury. He waved his arms in the struggle to regain his balance, and when he did so he came at the girl like a bull.

  He stood in front of her and grabbed her arm in the punishing grip of his huge hand.

  Then he shoved it behind her and up her back so that she whimpered with pain.

  The sound was plainly audible even in that talk-filled room, people swung in their chairs to see what was happening, and one or two men rose from their chairs with the hesitancy of strangers who felt they should interfere but were held back by the thought of making a spectacle of themselves in something that might not concern them.

  The redhead was left on her own.

  The savage grip knocked most of the fight out of the girl. The big man still held her with one hand as her knees weakened under the shock and she began to sag.

  A woman at the next table glared with contempt at the shocked faces of the men with her and got up. She forced her way towards the couple, her intentions obscure but courageous. She never had to interfere.

  It was the big man's bad luck that Randall had his back to the bar, and so had seen what had happened.

  Randall's path by the shortest route from where he stood left a broad wake of disturbed drinkers and displaced tables, but it got him there quickly-so quickly that the big man knew about it only when Randall nearly broke the arm that gripped the redhead as he spun the big man round.

  The butchering wasn't pretty to see.

  Randall had not been trained to the niceties of judgment and timing that Bentley had learned in his semi-professional training as a ring-fighter; he had learned to fight in the Queensland outback, from which he had joined the Navy. His further life in most of the ports of the world had not left him rusty.

  He wanted to cut the big man up as much as possible, partly because he had been angered to the core by the brutal treatment of the girl, and partly because he felt like a fight anyway.

  He brushed the big man's hands aside and he hit at his face with both balled fists as fast as he could move his arms, hooking from the sides so that his knuckles would do the maximum damage without laying his victim out too quickly. Even then, four or five cutting blows were all that the big man took before he sagged back against the table.

  Randall set him up again with a left hook and dropped him to the floor with a tremendous smash on the mouth. The whole thing took only ten seconds. The big man would never look the same.

  Randall rubbed his knuckles, and the red-haired girl looked at him with dawning interest. A tense voice behind him said:

  "What the hell's going on here? Come on-out!"

  Randall grinned at the girl, his moroseness vanished under the heat of the fight and the recognition of that voice. He picked up his cap from the floor, and dusted it against his leg as he followed Bentley out into the street.

  "Well, now," he grinned, when they were clear of the buzzing they left behind them, "this is a pleasant surprise."

  "I'm not surprised," Bentley growled. "You're worse than an ordinary-seaman. I can't leave you alone for five minutes."

  "Not guilty, sir," the big lieutenant grinned back at him. "A woman's honour was at stake."

  "Her what?" Bentley grunted.

  "Well... her hide, then. She really took a lacing."

  "You mean that oaf hit her?"

  "That oaf hit her. I hit the oaf. That's about it."

  Bentley looked sideways at him. "I see," he said slowly.

  "You thought I was trying to pinch his girl?"

  "That's right-knowing you."

  "Shame on you."

  "It would've been shame on the girl."

  "You flatter me. What happened to your girl?"

  "Nothing. Except she's married."

  "What?"

  "What am I? A blasted parrot?"

  "You could have fooled me."

  "I'm laughing to death! Come on-this one'll do. I need a drink."

  "I won't knock one back."

  Agreement was reached.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE DAY AFTER THE Western world's Christmas Day, Captain Yamato lifted his bulk from the bolted down chair in his cabin and reached for his cap. That cap was the same as worn by his British counterpart, except that it lacked the gold embroidery of a Royal Navy captain's; and the band, instead of gold oakleaves, bore a small anchor surrounded by cherry leaves and blossom. On the sleeves of his dark-blue uniform he wore four gold stripes, the top one curled, identical with the British insignia.

  As he stepped from his huge cabin in the Satsuma's stern, he carried a thick, vellum-bound volume in his hand. These were the plans of his new command, and he had been studying them assiduously. He had commanded battleships before, but never one like this. It would take him a month of almost continuous inspection to become familiar with her vast innards-learning by actual sighting what he had absorbed mentally from the plans. Now he was on his way to the dockside, to orientate himself from the outside w
ith the position of guns and compartments.

  He returned the salute of the rigid sentry, and stood on the dock near her stern. Ahead of him the length of the great vessel reached in a long steely curve to meet the sharp bow-a solid wall of enormous strength and weight. He knew from the constructor's plans that the Satsuma was provided with an improved distribution of deck and side armour, a more elaborate subdivision of watertight compartments than earlier battleships, and an improved system of underwater protection.

  The weight of her armour-plate was a little over twenty thousand tons, and in parts-around her magazines and on the waterline-it was almost two feet thick. He could look down and see it, where the bulge of the specially-hardened armour-plate tapered in and merged with her wall-like side above the greasy water.