Pride and the Anguish by Douglas Reeman Page A

“Signal the group to close up the formation in fifteen minutes.” He sharpened his voice. “At sunset we will go to action stations.”
    As Trewin walked to the rear of the bridge he added quietly, “We must hit back! There’s been enough wasting time already!”
    Trewin looked over the screen and along the sun-drenched battery deck. Against the blue water the
Porcupine
suddenly seemed very small and vulnerable.

4 | No Use Being Bitter
    M ALLORY’S PARALLEL RULERS squeaked loudly as he pushed them across the chart. “New course is three two zero.” From beneath the oilskin hood which covered the table his voice sounded muffled.
    Trewin nodded and leaned slightly above the voice-pipe. “Port ten!” The luminous dial of the compass repeater ticked slowly across the line. “Steady! Steer three two zero!” He heard the coxswain’s mumbled acknowledgement from the shuttered wheelhouse, but dismissed him from his thoughts as another great wedge of dark headland crept out towards the slow-moving bows. The ship’s crawl up the coast was nerve-racking enough, but to be so close inshore with the dark hills and occasional strips of beach reaching almost to the ship’s side dragged at his concentration like a constant threat.
    It had been going on for hours. At sunset the little group had been divided into two halves, and while Corbett led the
Prawn
and
Squalus
up the edge of the coast the other three gunboats were now wallowing a further five miles out to sea. So far they had sighted nothing, but from far inland their progress had been accompanied by a constant and distorted rumble of gunfire, like thunder, and every so often the jagged wall of jungle and low hills had been outlined with dull orange and red flashes, grim reminders of the war they had come to find.
    Everybody aboard seemed to be holding his breath. Even the engines, throttled down to minimum speed, were lost in the steady swish of water against the hull, the creak of steel and wood as the ship rocked gently in the offshore current.
    The heavy rain which had started just after sunset had stopped with alarming suddenness, and after the steady drumming of the downpour against the decks and the bodies of the men at their stations the silence was all the more apparent anddisturbing.
    There was still plenty of low cloud, but every so often the moon managed to push through to throw strange patches of silver on the flat water or across the statue-like figures grouped around the
Porcupine
’s bridge. Apart from the howitzer, all the guns were manned and ready, and from either wing of the bridge came the quiet chink of ammunition belts as the two heavy machine-guns turned restlessly like black fingers against the dull and threatening sky.
    Corbett snapped, “Check the depth!”
    A messenger by the voice-pipes said quickly, “Six fathoms, sir!”
    Corbett’s pale shape shifted in his chair, apparently satisfied. Trewin had to admit that Corbett’s knowledge of the coast was quite uncanny. To him the occasional soundings meant just as much as if they had been photographs. The weeks and months of pounding up and down this very coast had not, it seemed, been wasted.
    On the starboard side of the bridge the admiral lifted his glasses and trained them towards the invisible horizon. He was still wearing a heavy oilskin, and against the pale steel he looked like some large piece of crude sculpture. He said harshly, “Nothing! Not a bloody thing!”
    Corbett remarked calmly, “We’re well past Terengganu now, sir. It’ll be soon or never.”
    Trewin wiped his face with his forearm. He knew it was no longer rain on his face and neck. Like the rest of his body, they were running with sweat. He blinked his eyes rapidly to clear them and looked around at the others. They were just shapes. What were they thinking? How would they behave if the shooting began?
    Deep inside he knew he