West from Singapore

A crisp voice at Ponga Jim’s elbow said: “Captain Mayo?” Ponga Jim turned. His white-topped cap with its captain’s insignia was pushed back on his dark, curly hair, and his broad, powerful shoulders stretched the faded khaki coat.

Colonel Roland Warren could see the bulge of the .45 automatic in its shoulder holster, and there was disapproval in his eyes. Front the woven leather sandals to the carelessly worn cap, Ponga Jim Mayo was anything but what he believed a ship’s captain should be.

“I’m Mayo,” Jim held out his hand, “and you’ll be Colonel Warren? Nice to have you aboard.”

Warren nodded. “My men will be along directly. May I see their quarters now? Will their cabins be amidships?”

“Sorry, Colonel, but they’ll have to bunk in the ’tween decks. We don’t carry passengers as a rule and only have three cabins available. Two of them are occupied. I’d planned to put you and Captain Aldridge in the other.”

“The ’tween decks?” Warren was incredulous. “My men are officers, I’ll have you know, and—”

“Sorry,” Jim repeated. “Officers, men, or gods, they ride the ’tween decks or swim.”

“Very well,” Warren’s blue eyes were frosty. “However, you had no business taking passengers aboard for such a trip. The Admiralty won’t approve. I suppose you know that?”

“Colonel Warren,” Jim said quietly, “for all I care the Admiralty can go to blazes. My first duty is to these passengers.”

The flyers were coming aboard, a pink-checked, healthy lot, all except two in their late teens or early twenties. These two turned toward the bridge. Ponga Jim’s eyes sharpened.

The men were both as tall as Ponga Jim himself and one of them was as heavy. He was a powerfully built man with rusty-red hair, freckles, and a scar along his jawbone. His nose was broken and slightly askew. His manner was cocky, aggressive.

He stepped up to Mayo with his hand out. “Hi, Jim!” he said, grinning. “Long time no see.”

Mayo’s eyes brightened.

“Ring Wallace! I haven’t seen you since China!”

The second man watched them with interest. He was wiry, handsome in a dark, saturnine way, and there was something crisp and efficient in his manner.

“Captain Henry Aldridge,” Warren said, “my second in command.”

Aldridge bowed from the hips, smiling.

“How are you, Captain? I’ve been hearing some interesting things about you. That Qasavara affair, for instance.”

“I hope,” Warren said drily, “that you won’t find it necessary to indulge in any of your freebooting expeditions on this trip. I can’t say that we Britishers approve of pirates!”

“No?” Jim said quizzically. “Ever hear of Sir Francis Drake?”

Warren started as if struck, and his eyes blazed. Then his face flushed, and he spun on his heel and went below. Ring Wallace grinned and winked at Jim.

“He’s all right. Just needs a little seasoning. He’s a good man, Jim.”

Aldridge studied them both carefully. “Colonel Warren is a good man. But I think we Englishmen and Australians have little to say about freebooting, eh, Mayo?”

Jim looked at him curiously. “Which are you? You don’t have the lingo, somehow.”

“Australian,” Aldridge said. “From back in the bush, but educated on the Continent.”

Slug Brophy and Gunner Millan came up to the deck. Jim turned to them.

“All set, Skipper. Number five battened down, all standing by fore and aft,” reported Slug.

“Then send Selim up to the wheel and let’s get out of here.”

He watched his mates go, one forward, one aft. Selim, his dark, pockmarked, knife-scarred face cool and expressionless, came to the wheel.

“You’ve an odd crew,” Aldridge said. “Quite a mixture.”

Jim nodded. “Selim and Sakim are brothers. A strange contradiction themselves. Afridis from the Afghan hills who went to sea. Used to be smugglers on the Red Sea and down the coast of Africa. Big London is from the Congo. Lyssy is a Toradjas from the Celebes. Tupa and Longboy are Bugis. Boma is a Dyak. They are a mixture. And all fighting men.

“The Gunner there,” he nodded aft, “did ten years in His Majesty’s Navy. Brophy was in the American Marines, went to sea, and then was with me in the Chaco and in China.”

“What about your passengers, Captain?” Aldridge asked politely. “I haven’t seen them around.”

“You won’t,” Ponga Jim replied shortly. He stood by with a megaphone, directing the movements of the ship. When the tug was cast off, he took her out himself, watching the endless panorama of Singapore harbor, the hundreds of ships of all sizes and kinds, the white houses, red islands, and dark green foliage.

Sakim came up the ladder with a yellow envelope. “A message, Nakhoda,” he said, bowing.

Jim ripped it open. It was terse, to the point.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION. BELIEVE RAIDER INFORMED OF EVERY ACTION. ARMED MERCHANTMAN OF TEN THOUSAND TONS OPERATING IN INDIAN OCEAN. YOU MAY HAVE ENEMY AGENT ABOARD. ORDERS HAVE GONE OUT YOU ARE NOT TO REACH THE RED SEA. LUCK.

ARNOLD.

Jim passed the message to Brophy and Millan. “William’s on the job,” he said. “Looks like our work’s cut out for us.”

Millan looked aft thoughtfully. “I don’t like that Warren,” he said. “Could it be him?”

“Might be anybody,” Jim replied. “Not necessarily a German. A lot of people who don’t see beyond the surface think dictatorships are best. They forget their supposed efficiency is because they censor news of mistakes, or shoot them. Warren is British, but he might be that kind of person. On the other hand, there’s Wallace.”

“You and him have always been on opposite sides,” Slug suggested, “maybe—”

“We’ve got to keep a weather eye on them all,” Jim said. “But the main job will be getting to the Red Sea. At least one raider has us marked for sinking, and we’ve got thirty planes aboard and twenty-three flyers, to say nothing of two passengers and some munitions.”

         

Day in and day out the Semiramis steamed south by east, through Banko Strait, around Sumatra, and through the Straits of Sunda and into the wide waters of the Indian Ocean. On deck and on the bridge there was an endless watch.

On the after deck, the two 5.9s painted to resemble booms and further disguised with blocks hooked to their muzzles, were never without a crew. The gun crews slept on deck in the shadow of their guns, ready and waiting.

Still the Semiramis headed south and a little west. The shipping lanes for India and the Red Sea fell behind. The lanes for the Cape were further south. When they reached the tenth parallel, Ponga Jim changed the course to due west.

Twice, Ring Wallace came to the bridge. His face was grave and his eyes hard. He said nothing. Each time he looked pointedly at the sun, indicating to Mayo that he knew they were off the course for Aden, but Jim ignored him.

The tension mounted daily. Everyone watched the horizon now, when they weren’t watching the blank, unspeaking doors of the two cabins. But the passengers remained unseen. The steward went to them with one guard, and neither man would talk.

Ring Wallace, pointedly wearing a gun, had taken to idling about the deck amidships. The R.A.F. men were uneasy. Only the crew of the Semiramis seemed undisturbed.

One night Ponga Jim got up, slipped on his coat, and casually checked the load in his automatic. It was habitual action, born of struggle and the need for a gun that was ready. Then he picked up his cap and stepped toward the door.

“Hold it.”

Mayo froze. That would be Wallace. He turned slowly to face him. Ring was just inside the opposite door, his face grim. The gun in his hand was steady.

“Why the artillery?” Jim asked mildly.

“Mayo,” Ring said slowly, “I’ve known you for about ten years. We ain’t seen things eye to eye, but a good part of the time you have been nearer right than me. This time, I ain’t so sure.”

“You asking for a showdown, Ring?”

“Sure, I want to know what we’re doing hundreds of miles off our course. I want to know who your passengers are. I want to know what your intentions are.

“For the first time in my life I’m doing something without thinking of money. I decided to go to the Near East to fight because I don’t like dictatorships and I’d really like to make sure I arrive in one piece.”

Wallace broke off to give Mayo a hard, direct glance and then plunged on in a flat-toned voice.

“I know a lot of this stuff is the old blarney. It’s propaganda. England’s leadership has been coming apart at the seams for years. Her people are all right, but at the top they’re a lot of wealthy and titled highbinders. It’s the same way in the States. When you look for pro-Nazis look in the higher brackets of income, not the lower. Well, I’ve fought for money, and I’ve fought for the heck of it. This time it’s for an idea.

“So maybe I ain’t so smart. But this cargo gets through or you go over the side—feet first. I’m not kidding, either.”

“Put up the heater, Ring. This time it looks like we’re pitching for the same club. Look!” He took him to the chart. “Somewhere in this ocean we’re scheduled to be sunk. There’s the route for low-powered steamers. Here’s the route we could have taken. It’s dollars to guilders both routes are covered. So what do I do? I stop the radio and then drop out of sight. To all intents and purposes we’re lost!

“Look here,” Jim handed a message to Wallace. “Sparks picked this up last night.”

S.S. RHYOLITE SUNK WITH ALL HANDS TWO DAYS OUT OF SINGAPORE.

S.S. SEMIRAMIS REPORTED MISSING. NO WORD SINCE LEAVING SUNDA.

“See? The Admiralty’s worried. Intelligence is worried. But we’re safe, and a third of the distance gone. Tonight, however, we change course. After that, anything can happen.”

“So I’m a sucker,” Ring said, grinning. “Be seeing you.”

         

Hours passed slowly on the bridge. The night was dark and still. The air was heavy with heat. Along the horizon a bank of black clouds was building up, shot through from time to time with lightning. The barometer was falling, and Ponga Jim mopped his brow.

A sudden flash of lightning lit up a cloud like an incandescent globe. Mayo dropped his hands to the railing and stared.

By the brief glimpse he had seen something else. There, not even a mile away was the black outline of a ship! Instantly, Jim stepped into the wheelhouse.

“Put her over easy,” he said quietly. “Put her over three points and then hold it.”

Instinctively, he knew the long, black ship was the raider. But with any luck he was going to slip away. Obviously, the raider’s lookout hadn’t seen him.

The Semiramis swung until her stern was almost toward the raider. Ponga Jim glanced aft as they started to pull away. Then almost before his eyes, and on his main deck, a light flashed. From over the way came the jangle of a bell.

Swiftly, he stepped to the speaking tube. “Red,” he snapped. “This is it. Give her all you’ve got.”

He sounded the signal for battle stations, and still in complete darkness, felt his ship coming to life. Millan emerged from his cabin and dashed aft. Other men appeared from out of nowhere.

Catching a gleam from aft, Jim knew the two 5.9s were swinging to cover the raider.

A gun from the German belched fire. The shell hit the sea off to port. Then a huge searchlight flashed on, and they were caught and pinned to the spot of light.

A signal flashed from the raider, and Sparks yelled, “He says stop or he’ll sink us!”

“Let ’em have it!” Jim roared. Grabbing the megaphone, he stepped into the wing of the bridge. “Gunner! Knock that light out of there!”

He took a quick glance around to locate the cloud. It was nearer now, a great, rolling, ominous mass shot through with vivid streaks. A shell crashed off to starboard, and then the 5.9s boomed, one-two.

A geyser of water leaped fifty feet to port of the advancing ship, and then the second shell exploded close off the starboard quarter.

“That rocked her!” Jim yelled. “Keep her weaving,” he told the quartermaster.

“Taiyib,” Sakim said quietly.

Despite the fact that the freighter was giving all she had, the raider was coming up fast. The guns were crashing steadily, but so far neither had scored a hit.

The black cloud was nearer now. Jim wheeled to the door of the pilothouse when there was a terrible concussion and he was knocked sprawling into the bulkhead.

Almost at once, he was on his feet, staggering, with blood running into his eyes from where his head had smashed into the doorjamb. The port wing of the bridge had been shot away.

Millan’s guns crashed suddenly, shaking the deck, and both shots hit the raider.

The first pierced the bow just abaft the hawsepipe and exploded in the forepeak. The second smashed the gun on the foredeck into a heap of twisted metal.

“Hard aport!” Jim yelled. “Swing her!”

Then the storm burst around them with a roar, a sudden black squall that sent a blinding dash of rain over the ship.

A sea struck them and cascaded down over the deck, but the Semiramis straightened. Behind them a gun boomed. But struggling with a howling squall they had left all visibility behind them.

Slug Brophy came up the ladder. He was sweating and streaming with rain at the same time.

“Take her over,” Jim directed briefly. “And drive her. Stay with this squall if you can.”

Lyssy appeared on the deck below, his powerful brown body streaming with water.

“Go below and tell Colonel Warren I want all his men in the saloon—now!” Jim bawled.

For a few minutes he stayed on the bridge, watching the storm. Then he went down to the saloon. The flyers, their faces heavy with sleep, were gathered around the table. Only Warren and Aldridge appeared wide-awake. Aldridge was running a deck of cards through his long fingers, his dark, curious eyes on Mayo.

“What does this mean?” Warren asked. “Isn’t it bad enough with a raider and a storm without getting us all up here?”

Ponga Jim ignored him. He looked around the table, his eyes glancing from one to the other.

“Before we left Sunda Strait,” he began suddenly, “I had word there was an enemy agent aboard.”

Warren stiffened. His eyes narrowed. Wallace let the legs of his chair down hard and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Aldridge held the cards in his left hand and flicked the ash from his cigarette. His eyes shifted just a little, toward Wallace.

“Tonight,” Jim went on, “I had concrete proof. We were slipping away in the darkness, unnoticed, when someone on the main deck flashed a light!”

“What?” Warren sat up straighter. “You’ve captured him?”

“No,” Jim said. “I don’t know for sure who he is. But he’s in this room!”

Warren was on his feet, his face suffused with anger.

“I resent that!” he said sharply. “What about your own crew? These men are all mine. Why must one of them be the traitor? That’s impudence! It’s unfair!”

“It sounds like it,” Mayo agreed, “but my crew have been with me a long time. Each of them has been in battle against Nazis. They have no love for them.”

“Natives and renegades!” Warren protested angrily.

“But good men,” Ponga Jim said quietly, his eyes dark and brilliant. “I’ve fought beside them. They aren’t interested in ideologies. The traitor is.”

He hesitated, looking around. “I wanted to warn you. One of you undoubtedly knows who the guilty man is. Just think. When you decide, no matter who it is, come to me.

“There are, as you know, raiders in this ocean looking for us. Our chances of reaching Aden without encountering one of them are small. Every hour that spy is aboard makes our risk greater. But whatever he does, he will have to be alone to do it. So stay together. And under no circumstances must any man be found on deck alone!”

“And the passengers?” Aldridge asked softly. “What of them? Those very mysterious passengers who never appear on deck. Mightn’t one of them be the spy?”

“No,” Jim said quietly. “There is no possibility of that.”

He turned and left the saloon, hurrying down the passage toward the two mysterious cabins. He tapped lightly on the door. There was a murmured word, and the door opened. Jim stepped inside, closing the cabin door softly.

Two people faced him, a man of perhaps fifty and a girl of twenty-five. The man was tall and finely built, with a dark, interested face and a military bearing. He got quickly to his feet, even as Jim’s eyes met the girl’s. General André Caillaux and his niece had been famous in the Paris that preceded the Nazi attack.

And for years in North Africa, General Caillaux had been one of the most loved and feared officers in the French army.

Known for daring and fair dealing as well, he had great influence among the men. So enormous was this influence that the wavering Pétain government sent him to a position in New Caledonia. Now, hoping that his prestige might swing the Foreign Legion and other powerful detachments to their side, the British were returning him to North Africa.

“How is it?” Caillaux asked quickly. “Is there trouble?”

“A brush with a raider.” Jim’s feet braced against the roll of the deck, and his knees bent slightly when it tipped. “We got away in a squall. Hit once, but no serious damage. We holed his bow enough to make trouble in this blow, and wrecked one of his guns.”

“The Nazi agent?” Caillaux’s voice was anxious.

Jim shrugged. “You got me. Wallace has always been the sort to do anything for money. But this time I doubt it.”

“Warren?”

“I don’t know. He may be just officious, overly conscious of his new rank. And it might be a clever disguise.”

“Who else could it be?” Jeanne asked. Her voice was husky.

“It might be anyone of the twenty-three. It might be Aldridge. He’s a deep one. Never says much. But don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

He stepped out into the dark passageway and started to pull the door shut. He saw the flicker of the shadows a second too late, and then something smashed him alongside the head. He felt himself falling. But with a mighty effort, struggling against a black wave of unconsciousness, he held himself erect and swung blindly with his free hand. He missed. Something struck him again. But his hand clung to the door, and now he fell forward, pulling it shut.

As the lock clicked there was a snarl of impotent fury from his attacker. The man leaped at him, striking viciously at his head and face with a heavy blackjack. The attack was entirely soundless, for neither man had made a noise aside from that brief but angry snarl. Ponga Jim, groggy from the first blow, never had a chance. The pounding continued. He struggled to throw off the blows, to protect himself, but was unable to get his hands up.

The passage was lost in abysmal darkness. Only half conscious of what he was doing, Jim tried to retreat. But his enemy pursued him, hitting him with jarring blows that left him numb and unfeeling. Finally, he slipped to the deck, even his great strength unable to endure more battering.

         

A long time later, he fought his way back to consciousness. He was sprawled on the cold steel of the deck, some distance from where he had fallen.

He caught a steampipe housing and pulled himself to a sitting position. His head throbbed with great waves of agony. When he moved, white-hot streaks of pain shot through his brain and something hammered against his skull with great force. He tried to turn his head, and his brain seemed to move like heavy paint in a bucket. A dim light was growing in the east. On the deck he could see the dark smear of his blood where he had been dragged. His attacker had planned to drop him overboard, but had been frightened away, evidently.

Ponga Jim staggered to his feet and reeled against the bulkhead, clutching his throbbing head with both hands. It was caked with blood. Stumbling, he reached the ladder and climbed slowly to the lower bridge. Somehow he got the door open and lunged into his cabin, the roll of the ship sending him sprawling to his knees.

He was still there when the door opened and Brophy came in.

“Skipper, what’s happened?” His wide, flat face was incredulous.

“I’ll get him now,” Jim muttered, hardly aware of the other man. “I know how to find him.”

For three days Jim stayed in his bunk except when on watch. His face was swollen, and there were cuts and abrasions on the sides of his head. He was remembering that. He had not been struck over the head. All the blows had struck up. The attacker had struck with peculiar, sidearm blows. It was unusual, and for the average man, unnatural.

His jaw ached, and the back of his head was bruised. However, when he came to the bridge on the fourth day, he was just in time to see the raft.

It was a point on the starboard bow, a crude raft with a man clinging to it. Even as they saw it, the man stirred, trying to rise.

“Pick him up,” Jim said, and staggered into the wheelhouse to sit down.

He still sat there when the man was brought to him. Warren and some of the others crowded inside. The man’s skull stood out, the skin like thin yellow paper drawn over it. His eyes were blazing pools of fever.

“Ile du Coin,” he whispered hoarsely. “Hurry.”

“What?” Jim asked. “What’s on the Ile du Coin?”

“Sixty men, tortured, starving, dying. Prisoners from a raider. I escaped. They shot, hit me. Hit me.” His fingers touched the scalp wound. “Ile du Coin,” he muttered again, his wits straying.

“How many Nazis?” Jim asked, watching the man narrowly.

He looked up, blinking. “Fifty. A raider sunk, saved the crew. Other ship is due back.” He stared at Jim. “They die there, horribly. Please hurry!”

         

Warren hesitated, looking from the man to Ponga Jim, for once uncertain.

“Might be a trap,” he said, hesitantly.

“Yes,” Jim said. “But no man looks that bad for a trap.”

Aldridge gazed at the man. “We’d better go,” he said. “We can get away before the other raider returns.” He looked at Ponga Jim. “You know the island?”

“Of course,” Jim assured him. “It’s one of the Chagos group, not far off our course. We’ll go.”

The rescued man, his name was Lauren, described the island. Ponga Jim listened and then shook his head.

“A small, rocky island with some scrub and coconut palms? Uninhabited? That’s not Ile du Coin. That’s Nelson Island. It’s in the same group.”

Lauren nodded. “The prisoners are in a barbwire stockade beyond a big cluster of palms and well out of sight. The Nazis have a fortified position behind some low dunes and scrubs. You can’t see it until you’re close by. The cove is too shallow for a ship.”

Mayo turned and went below. There was a word or two at Caillaux’s cabin, and the door opened.

The general looked at his bandaged head, and Jeanne’s eyes widened. “What happened?” she asked.

“Someone tried to get me before I could close the door when I was here last. I got the door shut, and then he tried to kill me.”

Briefly, Jim explained. “You see how it is, General. You are my mission. I have no right to risk you or Mademoiselle, yet these men will die if they are not saved.”

Caillaux studied Ponga Jim, pulling at his earlobe. Jeanne stepped over to her uncle and took his arm. The general smiled and said, “My niece and I feel the same. You believe you can do this?”

“I do.”

“Then the best of luck. We want you to try.”

         

A short time later Ponga Jim studied the island through the glass.

“Half ahead,” he said.

Brophy put the engine-room telegraph over and then back to half speed, watching the island.

“We’ll drop the hook off the northeastern point,” Jim murmured. “The bay has a sandy beach where you can effect a landing. I’ll take you and a landing party of Lyssy, Big London, Tupa, Boma, Longboy, and Selim and Sakim.

“The Gunner will have to keep a very sharp lookout for subs and also for the raider.”

Warren had come up to the bridge. Wallace and Aldridge were behind him.

“We insist on going,” Warren said firmly. “I don’t approve of this, but if there are some of our men ashore, we want to help.”

“Suit yourself,” Jim agreed. “But not all of you. You three can come, and bring five more. Too many men will be worse than none. I want a small party that will maneuver easily. And my men know this sort of fighting.”

It wasn’t until the prow of the lifeboat grated on the sand that there was any sign of life. Then it was the flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel.

“Down!” Jim snapped, and threw himself to the sand. The others flattened instantly, just in time to miss a raking volley.

Instantly, Ponga Jim was on his feet. He made a dozen steps with bullets kicking sand around him and then flattened behind a low hummock and hammered out three quick shots at the spot where he’d seen the rifle. There was a gasping cry and then silence.

No orders were necessary. The flyers hesitated and then took their cue from Lyssy and the crew of the Semiramis. They worked their way forward, keeping to shallow places and losing their bodies in the sand.

Jim touched Lyssy. “They are bunched right ahead of us. Slip over to the left and flank them. London, you take the right. Take no chances, and keep your fire down. I want them out of that position.”

The two men disappeared, and Mayo looked at Warren. “This is war, friend,” he said grimly.

         

The Nazis opened a hot fire that swept the dunes, a searching volley that covered the ground thoroughly.

Only the hollows saved the landing party.

Mayo scooped sand away and worked his body forward. A shot kicked sand into his face. He worked in behind a low bush and lifted his head slowly beside it.

He had been right. The low dunes behind which the Nazis were concealed ran across the island diagonally, but both flanks were exposed. He snapped a quick shot into the space ahead and then slid back in time to miss the answering volley.

The Nazis were shooting steadily, hammering each available screen with steady fire. But suddenly a rifle cracked off to the left, and there was a scream of pain. The rifle spoke again, and there was an answering volley. Another shot came from the right, and Jim yelled.

In a scattered line his men rushed forward firing from all positions. The Germans, although in superior numbers, retreated hastily. Ponga Jim stopped, braced himself, and fired. A Nazi stumbled and fell headlong. Two more were down in the hollow where they had taken shelter. Now another stumbled and collapsed as a bullet ripped into his body.

Jenkins, a flyer from Kalgoorlie, rushed up beside Jim, stopped suddenly, and dropped to his face in the sand.

Jim fired. The Nazi let his rifle slip from his hands, bowed his head and took two steps, and then toppled.

Mayo crawled behind a five-foot bank of sand and looked around. All of Warren’s pomposity was gone. Under fire, the man had changed. Whatever else he was, he came of fighting stock.

Ring Wallace, an old hand at this game, was grinning. “Nice work, pal. Now what?”

“We’re stuck,” Jim said. “They’ve got a fortified position up there, and it will be tough to get them out of it. Listen to those machine guns. Those boys know their stuff, too.”

Brophy had been grazed by a bullet, and Tupa had a flesh wound. Aside from the first flyer, there were no serious injuries.

Wallace nodded to Jim’s comment. “Yeah, I could see the edge of a concrete abutment. It’s in crescent form and backed by the cove.”

“Let’s rush them,” Warren said. “Otherwise it’s a stalemate until that raider gets back.”

Ponga Jim shook his head. “We’d lose men in a rush. Wars aren’t won with dead soldiers. There’s always a way to take a position without losing many men, if you look for it.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Slug, do you recall what the chart said about the water in that cove?”

Brophy nodded. “There’s a coral ledge topped with sand with about a fathom of water over it. Outside of that it slopes off gradually until at a hundred yards it’s about three fathoms. Why?”

“You’ll be in command here. I’ll take Selim, Longboy, and Sakim with me. We’ll bring the wounded aboard. Now scatter out and don’t move either forward or back, get me?”

“What are you going to do?” Warren protested.

“Wait and see,” Jim said. “If this works I’m one up on the Nazis for trying new angles. We’re going to take that position in less than thirty minutes! Now listen. Keep up an intermittent fire. Pretty soon Millan will lay five shells in that fort, get me? Then you’ll hear shooting over there. And when you hear shooting beyond the wall, come running. I’ll need help.”

Millan met them at the ladder. “What’s up?” he demanded.

Jim indicated the cove.

“As the fort lays, the situation is impregnable from the island with our weapons. I want you to lay five shells behind that abutment. And they’ve got to be right on the spot. If you overshoot, you’ll kill the prisoners. If you undershoot, you’ll get our boys for sure.”

         

The Gunner studied the situation. Then he rolled his chewing in his jaw and spat.

“Yeah,” he said, “I’ll lay ’em right in their laps.”

“Well, whatever you do,” Ponga Jim added, “don’t drop any shells in the cove, because if you do they’ll be in my lap!”

“The cove?” Millan was incredulous. “You couldn’t get in there with a boat! They’d riddle you!”

Ponga Jim grinned. “Break out those Momsen lungs, will you? I’ll show those Jerries some tricks!”

An hour dragged by. The warm afternoon sun baked down on the little island. Ring Wallace took a swallow from his canteen and swore. Warren wiped the sweat from his face and kept his hands away from the hot rifle barrel. “I wonder what became of Mayo?” he asked.

“Darned if I know,” Ring said. “But he’s got something up his sleeve. Whatever it is, it better be good. That raider has me worried.”

A gun crashed from the Semiramis, and a shell screeched overhead, bursting beyond the abutment with a terrific concussion. A fountain of sand lifted into the air. Another shell screeched, and there was another explosion.

“That Millan!” Brophy said admiringly. “That guy can put a shell in your pocket. Just name the pocket!”

Two more shells dropped beyond the abutment, then a fifth.

The water of the cove stirred and rippled. Up from the pondlike surface five weird heads appeared, five faces masked in Momsen lungs. Lowering themselves into the water beyond the point, they had walked around in ten feet of water. Now they stripped the waterproof jackets from their guns and walked on. They were within a hundred feet of the shore, in just four feet of water, before they were seen.

One machine-gun emplacement had been smashed to bits with the first shell. Two others had exploded on the abutment itself, and a third had landed in a gasoline supply that was burning furiously. The final shell had been shrapnel, and the devastation had been terrific. Seven men had fallen from that one shell alone.

Crawling from behind a pile of boxes, one of the defenders glanced at the cove. His jaw dropped. For a fatal second he stared, uncomprehending; then he jerked up his rifle. Too late. Ponga Jim shot him in the stomach. As the startled defenders turned, Jim ran up the last few feet, and his automatic opened with a roar like a machine gun.

In a scattered line the other men rushed up the beach. The Germans, caught off balance, were rattled. They fell back. And in that instant the frontal attack broke over them. Brophy, Wallace, Warren, and the others cleared the barrier. The two sides met in a deadly rush.

A German dove at Jim. He spun out of the way, clouting the man over the head with the barrel of his gun. Then he snapped a quick shot at a man leveling a rifle at Wallace and fired a burst into a group trying to swing the machine gun on the prisoners.

A terrific blow struck him over the ear, and he went down, grabbing at the man’s legs. He upset his assailant and scrambled astride, swinging both hands for the fellow’s jaw. Then he was on his feet again and grabbing up a rifle. He jerked the barrel up into a charging German’s stomach and pulled the trigger. The man’s mouth fell open, and with his back half blown away, he sagged limply to the ground.

         

As suddenly as it had started, it was over. Brophy released the prisoners, and Wallace herded the half-dozen Nazis still alive into a corner of the fort where Lyssy and Big London took them over.

Aldridge came up on the run.

“Nice going!” he said, clapping Mayo on the shoulder. “That attack from underwater completely demoralized them.”

“Yeah,” Wallace agreed. “Now if we only had the spy—”

“We have,” Ponga Jim said shortly.

A silence fell over the crowd. Brophy’s gun slipped into his hand, and he backed off a little, covering the group. Colonel Warren looked from one to the other, puzzled.

“What’s the matter with your shoulder, Aldridge?” Jim said, unexpectedly. “Hurt it?”

“Oh, that?” Aldridge shrugged. “Years ago. Can’t lift my arm overhead. But what about this spy?”

“So when you hit a man,” Mayo continued, “you couldn’t hit him over the head? It would have to be a swinging, sidearm motion? Then you were the guy who jumped me in the passage.”

Aldridge smiled, but his eyes were cold, wary.

“Nonsense! You think I’m a spy? Me? I went to school with Warren, there, and—”

“Remember the first day I saw you?” Mayo said. “You mentioned the Qasavara affair. That business is lost in the files of the British Intelligence service. My own connection with it is known to only two Englishmen—Colonel Sutherland and Major Arnold, who were with me. If you knew of it, you had to learn from a Nazi source.”

Mayo smiled. “I was suspicious of you for knowing that. Later, I checked on the location of the flyers during my attack. You could have been in your hammock. On the other hand, you could have slipped out. From the locations, no one else could have.

“So today I had you followed by Fly Johnny, one of my crew. In fact, for the past week he has never been more than a few feet from you.

“Today, when we first came ashore, Millan went through your quarters. He found the package of flashlight powder you used in making signals. He also found other evidence, so I think the case is clear.”

Aldridge nodded, his face hard.

“Sounds conclusive,” he agreed, “so I guess—”

He wheeled like a cat and jerked Warren’s gun from his hand. Eyes blazing with hatred, the gun swept up. But he was too slow. Ponga Jim stepped forward in one quick stride, half turning on the ball of his foot. His right fist smashed upward in an uppercut that slammed Aldridge into the sand, the gun flying from his fingers.

Ponga Jim looked at him once. “Bring him along,” he said, “we’ll be going now.”

“You know,” Warren said seriously, “the more I think about it the more I believe Drake had something!”

Ponga Jim grinned. “Yeah, and he would have liked you!”

In the radio shack, Ponga Jim Mayo picked up the stub of a pencil, grinned, and scratched out a message.

MAJOR WILLIAM ARNOLD

RAFFLES HOTEL

SINGAPORE, S. I.

PROCEEDED WITH CAUTION AND A LOT OF GOOD IT DID. ARMED MERCHANTMAN OF TEN THOUSAND TONS NOW HAS HOLE IN HIS BOW AND DISABLED GUN. WE HAVE ENEMY AGENT ABOARD—IN IRONS. WE HAVE MET THE ENEMY AND YOU CAN HAVE THEM. WILL BE IN RED SEA FRIDAY. NUTS TO YOU.

MAYO.