“All right, sir. Wireless room’s a bit of a shambles, I’m afraid.” Walters looked pale and sick, but purposeful as ever.
“Doesn’t matter now.” Nicolson was grateful for Walters’s presence, his solidity and competence. “Get these people up to the boat-deck — in the passage, better still in your office or cabin. Don’t let ’em out on deck. If there’s anything they want to get from their cabins, give ’em a couple of minutes.” Walters smiled wryly. “We’re taking a little trip, sir?” “Very shortly. Just to be on the safe side.” It would hardly benefit the morale of the passengers, Nicolson reflected, by adding what Walters himself must have been aware of — that the only alternatives were cremation or disintegration when the ship went up. He went out the door quickly, then staggered and almost fell as a tremendous detonation, right aft, seemed to lift the stern of the Viroma out of the water and sent a shuddering, convulsive shock through her every plate and rivet. Instinctively Nicolson reached out and caught the lintel of the door, caught and held Miss Drachmann and Peter as the nurse fell against him, steadied her and turned quickly to Walters.
“Belay that last order. No one to go to their cabins. Just get ’em up there and see that they stay there.” In four strides he was at the after screen door, opening it cautiously. Seconds later he was outside on deck, standing at the top of the iron ladder that led down to the main deck, and staring aft.
The heat struck at him almost with the physical impact of a blow and brought tears of pain to his eyes. No complaints that he couldn’t see this fire, he thought grimly. Billowing, convoluted clouds of oily black smoke stretched up hundreds of feet into the sky, reaching higher and higher with the passing of every second, not tailing off to a peak but spreading out at the top in a great, black anvil-head, spreading over the ship like, a pall: at the base, however, just at deck level, there was hardly any smoke at all, only a solid wall of name perhaps sixty feet in diameter, a wall that rose forty feet, then broke into a dozen separate pillars of fire; fiery, twisting tongues of flame that reached hungrily upwards, their flickering points swallowed up in the rolling darkness of the smoke. In spite of the intense heat, Nicolson’s first reaction was to cover not his face but his ears: even at a hundred and fifty feet the roaring of the flames was all but intolerable.
Another miscalculation on the part of the Japs, he thought grimly. A bomb meant for the engine-room had exploded in the diesel oil bunkers, blowing aft through the engine-room bulkhead and for’ard clear through both walls of the cofferdam into number one cargo tank. And it was almost certainly number one tank that was on fire, its quarter of a million gallons of fuel oil ignited and fanned by the fierce down-draught of air through the wrecked cofferdam. Even if they had had firefighting apparatus left, and the men to man the apparatus, tackling that inferno, an inferno that would have engulfed and destroyed any man before he could have come within fifty feet of it, would only have been the suicidal gesture of an imbecile. And then, above the deep, steady roar of the flames, Nicolson heard another, more deadly sound, the high-pitched, snarling howl of an aero engine under maximum boost, caught a momentary glimpse of a Zero arrowing in off the starboard beam, at mast-top height, flung himself convulsively backward through the open door behind him as cannon-shells struck and exploded where he had been only two seconds before.
Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, Nicolson pushed himself to his feet, clipped the door shut and looked around him. Already both pantry and passage were quite empty — Walters was not a man to waste time. Quickly Nicolson made his way along the passage, through the dining-saloon to the foot of the companionway leading up to the boat deck. Farn holme was there, struggling to carry the young soldier up the stairs. Nicolson helped him in silence, and at the top Walters met him and relieved him of his share of the burden. Nicolson glanced along the passage towards the wireless office. “All safely corralled, Sparks?”
“Yes, sir. The Arab Johnny’s just coming to and Miss Plenderleith’s packing her bag as if she were off to Bournemouth for a fortnight.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed. The worrying kind.” Nicolson looked along to the for’ard end of the passage. Siran and his men were huddled round the ladder that led up to the chartroom, fearful and unhappy. All, that is, except Siran himself. Despite its cuts and bruises, the brown face still held its expressionless calm. Nicolson looked sharply at Walters. “Where’s Van Effen?”
“No idea, sir. Haven’t seen him.” Nicolson walked to face Siran. “Where’s Van Effen?” Siran shrugged his shoulders, twisted his lips into a smile and said nothing. Nicolson jammed a pistol into Siran’s solar plexus, and the smile faded from the brown face. “I’d just as soon you died,” Nicolson said pleasantly.
“He went above.” Siran nodded at the ladder. “A minute ago.”
Nicolson swung round. “Got a gun, Sparks?”
“In the office, sir.”
“Get it. Van Effen had no right to leave this lot.” He waited till Walters returned. “No reasons required for shooting this bunch. Any flimsy excuse will do.”
He went up the stairs three at a time, passed through the chartroom and into the wheelhouse. Vannier was conscious now, still shaking his head to free it from muzziness, but recovered enough to help Evans bind his arm. McKinnon and the captain were still together.
“Seen Van Effen, Bo’sun?”
“Here a minute ago, sir. He’s gone up top.”
“Up top? What in heaven’s name—–” Nicolson checked
himself. Time was too short as it was. “How do you feel, Evans?”
“Bloody well mad, sir,” Evans said, and looked it. “If I could get my hands on those murderin’——”
“All right, all right.” Nicolson smiled briefly. “I can see you’ll live. Stay here with the captain. How are you, Fourth?”
“O.K. now, sir.” Vannier was very pale. “Just a crack on the head.”
“Good. Take the bo’sun with you and check the boats. Just numbers one and two — three and four are finished.” He broke off and looked at the captain. “You said something, sir?”
“Yes.” Findhorn’s voice was still weak, but clearer than it had been. “Three and four gone?”
“Bombed to bits and then burnt to a cinder,” Nicolson said without bitterness. “A very thorough job. Number one tank’s on fire, sir.”
Findhorn shook his head. “What hope, boy?”
“None, just none at all.” Nicolson turned back to Vannier. “If they’re both serviceable we’ll take them both.” He glanced at Findhorn, raised eyebrows seeking confirmation. “We don’t want Siran and his cut-throat pals in the same open boat as us when night falls.”
Findhorn nodded silently, and Nicolson went on: “As many spare blankets, food, water, arms and ammunition as you can find. And first-aid .kits. All these in the better boat — ours. That clear, Fourth?” “All clear, sir.”
“One other thing. When you’re finished, a strap stretcher for the captain. Don’t get yourselves shot full of cannon holes — they nearly got me a couple of minutes ago. And for God’s sake hurry! Five minutes for the lot.”
Nicolson moved just outside the wheelhouse starboard door and stood there for two or three seconds, taking stock. The blast of fiery heat struck at him, fore and aft, like the scorching incalescence of an opened furnace door, but he ignored it. The heat wouldn’t kill him, not yet, but the Zeros would if they were given any chance at all: but the Zeros were half a mile away, line ahead and port wings dipped as they circled the Virotna, watching and waiting.
Five steps, running, took him to the foot of the wheel-house top ladder. He took the first three steps in a stride, then checked so abruptly that only a swiftly bent arm cushioned the shock as he fell forward against the rungs. Van Effen, face and shirt streaked with blood, was just beginning to descend, half supporting, half carrying Corporal Fraser. The soldier was in a very bad way, a man obviously willing himself to hang on to the last shreds of consciousness. Beneath the dark tan the pain-twisted face was drained of blood, and with his right arm he supported what was left of his left forearm, torn and shredded and horribly maimed — only an exploding cannon shell could have worked that savage injury. He seemed to be losing only a little blood: Van Effen had knotted a tourniquet just above the elbow.
Nicolson met them half-way up the ladder, caught the soldier and took some of the almost dead weight off Van Effen. And then, before he realised what was happening, he had all the weight and Van Effen was on his way back up to the wheelhouse top.