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    The Blind Eye (A World War 2 Naval Adventure)
    The Blind Eye (A World War 2 Naval Adventure)
    The Blind Eye (A World War 2 Naval Adventure)
    Ebook179 pages2 hours

    The Blind Eye (A World War 2 Naval Adventure)

    By J.E. Macdonnell

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    “Your ship is to carry out the trial of a new secret weapon, Bentley ... the success of which makes future submarine kills certain. Your own speed is of the essence ... less than thirty knots and the Wind Rode could be destroyed.”
    “Trouble is,” Bentley said, “a merchantman’s been torpedoed with the victorious Jap submarine perhaps lurking to complete the kill.”
    Randall was puzzled. “Submarines haven’t been sighted so far west before, and then there’s the large formation of enemy aircraft spotted dead ahead... how could the Japs travel so far without refuelling?”
    Bentley dismissed immediately his own suggestion that they were shore based. “Obviously, there must be carrier out there ... it’s too far from the Nicobars or Sabang.”
    Irrespective of where it was, Bentley knew he had to destroy that refuelling point, do it completely, and with all the speed Wind Rode could muster to avoid destroying itself in the process...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPiccadilly
    Release dateOct 1, 2024
    ISBN9798224921843
    The Blind Eye (A World War 2 Naval Adventure)
    Author

    J.E. Macdonnell

    JAMES EDMOND MACDONNELL was born in 1917 in Mackay, Queensland and became one of Australia’s most prolific writers. As a boy, he became determined to go to sea and read every seafaring book he could find. At age 13, while his family was still asleep, he took his brother’s bike and rode eighty miles from his home town to Brisbane in an attempt to see ships and the sea. Fortunately, he was found and returned to his family. He attended the Toowoomba Grammar School from 1931 to 1932. He served in the Royal Australian Navy for fourteen years, joining at age 17, advancing through all lower deck ranks and reaching the rank of commissioned gunnery officer. He began writing books while still in active service.Macdonnell wrote stories for The Bulletin under the pseudonym “Macnell” and from 1948 to 1956 he was a member of The Bulletin staff. His first book, Fleet Destroyer – a collection of stories about life on the small ships – was published by The Book Depot, Melbourne, in 1945. Macdonnell began writing full-time for Horwitz in 1956, writing an average of a dozen books a year.After leaving the navy, Macdonnell lived in St. Ives, Sydney and pursued his writing career. In 1988, he retired to Buderim on the Sunshine Coast in Queensland. He died peacefully in his sleep at a Buderim hospital in 2002. He is survived by his children Beth, Jane and Peter.Macdonnell’s naval stories feature several recurring characters – Captain “Dutchy” Holland, D.S.O., Captain Peter Bentley, V.C., Captain Bruce Sainsbury, V.C., Jim Brady, and Lieutenant Commander Robert Randall.

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      Book preview

      The Blind Eye (A World War 2 Naval Adventure) - J.E. Macdonnell

      Contents

      The Series

      About the Author

      Disclaimer

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      Copyright

      Also by J E Macdonnell

      Stand By to Ram

      Target Unidentified

      Battle Ensign

      Enemy in Sight

      Command

      Alarm—E-Boats!

      The Weak Link

      Presumed Sunk

      Mutiny!

      Coffin Island

      Frogman

      Killer Ship

      Night Encounter

      The Secret Weapon

      Target Battleship

      Dive! Dive! Dive!

      The Surgeon

      The Gunner

      The Captain

      The Brood of the Eagle

      The Recommend

      The Coxswain

      The Challenge

      Convoy

      Find and Destroy

      The Blind Eye

      … and more to come!

      All characters and incidents in this story are imaginary

      and if any name used is that of a living person,

      such use is due to inadvertence and is not

      intended to refer to such a person.

      CHAPTER ONE

      MANY THINGS ABOUT a battleship’s quarterdeck might be expected to strike a destroyer captain as interesting—even extraordinary—so that it was not surprising when Commander Peter Bentley stepped from the gangway platform on to the deck of the flagship in Trincomalee his eyes were attracted directly to the four gun barrels of the after turrets.

      And not simply because he was a gunnery-officer. It was the massiveness of the barrels which drew his attention. They reached from the armoured gun-houses in rigid and steely menace, thicker than his waist, slaty-grey monsters whose rifled mouths could vomit man-high shells weighing close on a ton.

      The six-feet thick breeches of those guns were rooted in gun-houses greater in area than his own destroyer’s bridge, and protected from alien entry by an overlay of armoured steel eleven inches thick.

      The respectful pipes of the quarterdeck staff twittered to silence. Bentley was a destroyer captain, but if he had been commanding-officer of the small harbour-defence launch patrolling across the boom entrance, and had come aboard the admiral’s ship, he would still have been received with a pipe. A general or an air-marshal would have been met with mere bugles ...

      Good morning, sir, a crisp, pleasant voice greeted, would you follow me, please?

      He returned the officer of the day’s salute and trailed him to the large hatch leading down under the quarterdeck. The lieutenant was Randall’s counterpart, in rank, but where Wind Rode’s first-lieutenant had been last seen by his captain in the wardroom in faded khaki shorts and shirt and sandals, this flagship specimen was complete with starch, creases, long stockings, shoes, polished sword belt and telescope.

      They thumped expertly down the almost vertical ladder and Bentley found himself in a huge compartment with white-painted walls and bulkheads and polished corticene floor which might have been the envy of the most fastidious housewife.

      Less than twenty four hours before the Fleet, 300 miles east of its base, had been subjected to a heavy and savage air attack. This compartment would have been cluttered with fire-hoses and sand buckets and men in fearnought suits. Now, Bentley reflected with an inward grin, it looked as though the ship had been anchored in Portsmouth for the past twelve months.

      The Royal Navy may not have founded the Society for Spit and Polish, but it certainly had been an interested spectator at the ceremony.

      Here we are, sir, the lieutenant said, and halted before a bulkhead door in the after end of the compartment. He inclined his head a little on one side and from the other side of the closed door came a muted murmur of voices. The lieutenant glanced at Bentley.

      Rear-Admiral Jerrold’s still in there.

      Bentley nodded. Jerrold was the flag-officer commanding the cruiser squadron. The thought slipped into his mind that perhaps his own summons to the flagship might be connected with Jerrold’s presence; it was quite possible that Wind Rode could be detailed to escort a cruiser on a high-speed mission somewhere.

      He stood there, thinking, his forefinger rubbing across his chin, wondering if he should insist on the lieutenant knocking. The admiral was noted for punctuality; Bentley’s summons had read nine o’clock, and it was now almost two minutes past that hour.

      The lieutenant in turn had no qualms about not knocking—not with two flag-officers in conference on the other side of that shut door. His eyes were covertly studying the tall, hard officer in front of him, a man not much older than himself and yet already lord of his own command, a modern Fleet destroyer.

      Bentley had decided, and was forming in his mind the words which would convince the battleship’s officer that the destroyerman’s presence was connected with the rear-admiral’s, when he was saved the trouble.

      The voices came suddenly closer, and the door opened.

      All right then, Jerrold, came a brisk voice, we’ll leave it at that. Box-barrage at six thousand feet. It might hold ‘em off.

      Bentley stood at attention, staring straight ahead, not wishing to give the impression that he was listening to this high-level gunnery decision. But he could not help flicking a glance at the officer who sailed under his command a score of fighting ships, including three battleships and upwards of twelve thousand men.

      So that he saw the almost imperceptible and permissive nod the admiral gave to the lieutenant. The junior officer hurried off. Bentley knew why, at the same time as he appreciated the thoughtfulness of the admiral—a flag-officer would shortly be leaving the ship, and the officer of the day, the man responsible for his proper piping and departure, was well down below decks.

      And you, I presume, are Commander Bentley?

      Yes, sir.

      Bentley could look directly into the admiral’s face now. He had met Sir Sidney Granville twice before, and once again he was affected by the contrast and wind-reddened, almost cherubic face, now smiling, and the alert intensity of the admiral’s eyes. The key to the man’s whole success and fighting vigour was in those eyes.

      One of our bright young destroyer boys, Granville smiled at Jerrold, and an Australian.

      Jerrold nodded, and Bentley said formally:

      Good morning, sir.

      There was no doubt about Jerrold. He had his cap on, and the tight-skinned face under it was curt and authoritative. The admiral might have been—except for his eyes—a genial type of London office-manager: Jerrold could have been mistaken for nothing but a hard-bitten fighting seaman.

      Yet he was two wide ranks away from Granville, and immeasurably distant in power and responsibility.

      There’s nothing else, sir? Jerrold said.

      That’s all. Do you mind ...? nodding at Bentley.

      Of course not, sir. I know my way. Goodbye, sir. Bentley.

      You do not salute below decks in a British warship, nor can you salute with your cap off. Bentley was already at attention. He answered:

      Goodbye, sir, and Granville stepped back into his cabin.

      Come on in, Bentley.

      Bentley stepped in over the coaming and at the admiral’s gesture he shut the door. There was another man in the huge cabin, he saw, a petty-officer steward, hastily emptying two ashtrays.

      Obviously the steward had been present at the earlier discussion, but now the admiral said: That will do, Jackson. Until further orders I do not want to be disturbed.

      Aye, aye, sir, the steward answered, and left the cabin at once.

      Sit down, Bentley. Cigarette?

      Bentley took one from the wooden box, murmuring his thanks, wondering why this interview was to be so obviously confidential. He was not in the least alarmed that it might be unpleasant—an admiral of a Fleet was not in the least averse to delivering his rockets publicly, by signal, and for him to send for a junior officer to censure him the offence would need to be grave indeed.

      Commander Bentley was no nominee for sainthood, but neither had he blotted his copybook enough to warrant that sort of interview.

      I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about?

      The face looking back at him was quizzical, completely pleasant, the blue eyes magnetised to his with an intensity that Bentley felt was wholly natural, and permanent.

      I have given it some thought, sir.

      And what have you come up with?

      Nothing, I’m afraid, sir. Unless it might be some—well, secret sort of mission for a destroyer.

      Near-miss, Bentley. The damn thing’s secret enough, believe me! But nothing in the nature of a mission. Does that disappoint you?

      That was all, just those four words. Yet Bentley, competent captain and normal human being, knew with absolute certainty that the words were intended to convey that the admiral was acquainted with his earlier lone-handed missions in Wind Rode.

      He knew also, with the same definiteness, that that would be the only praise he and his ship would receive from this responsible officer.

      I suppose it does a little, sir. Being a destroyerman yourself, you will appreciate the—ah—comforts of detached duty.

      The admiral, twenty ships and 12,000 men regardless, was also human. You knew I had a destroyer?

      "Yes, sir. Dover Patrol in the first war, Dogger Bank ..."

      I see. Well, now ... The voice changed, relegating confidences to their rightful limbo. Bentley leaned forward a little.

      I want your ship to carry out the trial of a new and highly secret weapon, Bentley. The back-room fellows of the Underwater Weapons Research Section at the Admiralty have developed the thing, and they’ve sent it out to me for testing.

      Granville saw the questions forming in his listener’s face and he answered one of them.

      Why out here? I don’t know. Unless the weapon’s so important that it has to be tested in a comparatively remote area. He leaned back in his chair and fumbled in his pocket, drawing forth a key on a chain. As a destroyerman, you will appreciate its importance.

      While Bentley waited, silent, the admiral unlocked the long drawer running under the top edge of his desk and drew out a photograph. Even before he was shown what the photograph portrayed, Bentley guessed that an enemy power would give a king’s ransom for a look at it, yet it was kept locked in a desk drawer. But that desk was in an admiral’s cabin in a British battleship. There could hardly be a safer place ...

      Granville tossed the large square of celluloid on the desk.

      There you are, he said.

      Bentley took it up. His first reaction was disappointment. His imagination had been stirred by the admiral’s words, and by his novel position alone with him in his guarded cabin. And for what? Something that looked like an enormous, fat shell, but not pointed like a projectile, bearing instead a softly rounded nose.

      Well? said the admiral.

      I’ve never seen it before, sir, Bentley admitted. But it looks to me something like an outsize torpedo warhead. Still staring at the photograph, he shook his head. I can’t imagine the size of a torpedo needed to carry a thing like that. Every tube in the destroyer flotillas would have to be redesigned. He smiled, apologetically. I’m sorry, sir, but it seems to me our torpedo warheads are sufficiently powerful as they are.

      Strange, said the admiral, that our thoughts should run along the same lines. At first, that is. A destroyerman’s mentality, I suppose. No, Bentley, that is not a torpedo warhead. Yet it is designed to be fired from a torpedo tube.

      Bentley looked at the admiral, back again at the photograph. Then he said:

      Yes, sir.

      Neither I nor the scientists are half-witted, Bentley, the admiral answered the two resigned words, his mouth twitching. This beast here, a forefinger tapping the photograph, is an anti-submarine weapon.

      Bentley’s eyes flicked up to his face.

      A depth-charge?

      Precisely. It holds more than a ton of a new explosive, Torpex.

      My God, Bentley said softly.

      Precisely, the admiral said again. If it works, the radius of a destroyer’s lethal attacking area is vastly increased. I have the calculations here somewhere, but without bothering about them I can tell you this—if this thing explodes anywhere in the vicinity of a submarine, just one of them, mind you, the strongest U-boat will be crushed flat both by the explosive blast and the transmitted pressure of the surrounding water. You understand?

      Bentley understood perfectly. Wind Rode’s depth charges weighed 300 pounds, and they held what was then regarded as a highly efficient explosive, amatol. This new weapon held more than two thousand pounds of an even more powerful disruptive.

      His trained thoughts ran on and the admiral answered them.

      There are two complications, he said quietly. First, the charge is so large and heavy that existing depth-charge throwing equipment cannot handle it. Hence the tube firing. And if it works as expected, one tube-loading will suffice for one submarine. The second complication is more serious.

      He glanced up at Bentley and the destroyer captain answered the look:

      Speed?

      "Exactly. And that is the main

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