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  Petty Officer Clive Gellatly was a former boxer who had been in the Navy for about ten years. But he was champing at the bit for more athletic duty. So when a request came through to join a suicide squad of frogmen, he was quick to sign up. He was taken to a remote oceanside base where he trained with another four men for several months …and along the way the five of them coalesced into a strong, capable fighting unit.

  Then came their first big mission—to destroy a powerful radar station smack in the middle of a Japanese-held island!

  J E MACDONNELL 11: FROGMAN!

  By J E Macdonnell

  First published by Horwitz Publications in 1958

  ©1958, 2022 by J E Macdonnell

  First Electronic Edition: June 2023

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate

  Series Editor: Janet Whitehead

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  PETTY-OFFICER CLIVE Gellatly straightened up from his inspection of the pom-pom and automatically his keen eye traversed the scene.

  The sun was striking sparks from the blue water of the Celebes Sea, the British cruiser fleet steamed on calmly with its destroyer screen flung about it, and it was impossible to believe that the familiar clear horizon traced the limit of one great circular ambush.

  Impossible to believe, until you remembered the destroyer which yesterday had died in ambush. The Halmaheras were on their port hand, and from the island blur on the horizon had come aircraft. Not a large, determined attack—just a few planes to show that this British mass could not steam unchallenged.

  The magazines of the unfortunate destroyer had been packed with cordite. A single bomb fell, tumbling at first, then righting itself and plunging in a streak too fast to follow with the eye. Through the boat’s quarter-deck. It penetrated to the after magazine before its fuse exploded.

  The solid charges of cordite changed themselves into vast masses of heated gases, under a pressure a thousand times as great as the heaviest pressure in any ship’s boiler. The destroyer’s skin was so thin it would barely stop a machine-gun bullet, fired at close range. She had disintegrated from within, and in the barest fraction of a flash of time the enormous heat generated by the explosions had fired her other magazines. She had changed literally from a two thousand ton ship of steel into a pall of reeking, black smoke.

  The memory of catastrophe was sour in Gellatly’s mind when he looked over the port quarter toward Mortie Island. He had had no chance himself to open at that horribly successful vulture; but there was every chance that other aircraft might be tempted to repeat yesterday’s blow. The thought turned his attention back to his gun. He looked at it—squat, heavy, the thick breeches sinister and the four long barrels deadly.

  “We’ll check the ammunition,” he said suddenly to the gun-sweeper, normally the loading number.

  “I did that this morning, chief,” the seaman answered him, an oily rag in his hand.

  “We’ll do it again,” Gellatly decided, and his voice was curt.

  Gellatly was in charge of the gunner’s party aboard H.M.A. destroyer Wind Rode. This meant that, with his team of half a dozen able seamen, he was responsible to Mr. Lasenby, the gunner for the safe stowage of all magazines

  It will be seen then that Gellatly’s province was a wide one. On this clear morning he could, with justification, have been in any one of six magazines, or in the gunner’s store, or around the rifle racks, or even—being a petty officer—in his mess. But Gellatly was where any messenger looking for him would first have searched—on the pom-pom.

  For laying and firing and generally controlling the several tons of this complex machinery was Petty-Officer Gellatly’s action station. By all the rules of seniority and rank his job should have been given to a leading-seaman. Lieutenant-Commander Bentley, the captain, and Lieutenant Bob Randall, the first lieutenant and gunnery officer, knew this—but Wind Rode had been combed without success to find another pom-pom layer a fraction as good as Gellatly.

  There were several jobs in the destroyer more important than controlling the pom-pom, all of which Gellatly was qualified to take. Laying the gunnery control director above the bridge, for instance, or taking charge of one of Wind Rode’s three big twin 4.7-inch mountings. But when torpedo-bombers or strafing fighters had broken through the long-range controlled firing, and were snarling in at the ship at upwards of 400 knots, there were left only the Oerlikons and Bofors and pom-poms to stop them.

  And more often than not it was the pom-pom, for Gellatly seemed specially endowed by nature to be the heavy mounting’s layer. Not only did he have to lead the flying target by as much as fifty yards, but he had to know the precise moment when to fire, so that the shells streaming from his four coughing barrels would rendezvous at the point of intersection. Even with a mounting which fired one hundred and twenty shells a minute from each barrel, and hosed them out in a tracer stream, it was a difficult task. The layer had to be a born shot, as well as alert enough of mind to counteract the resistance imposed on his wishes by the laying mechanism, with an instant cooperation of mind and eye—with the simple quality of plain guts to enable him to withstand the savage and intimate attack of the suicide bombers.

  It may have been that Gellatly was above the intelligence of his mess mates—he was recommended for his commission—and that might account for the elasticity and quickness of mind he showed in his job. And perhaps the instant coordination of hand and eye with his brain stemmed from his success as a boxer. Whatever it was, Gellatly would not be replaced as controller of the pom-pom.

  They worked swiftly, checking the ammunition, pulling the long articulated belts of shells from the loading trays, inspecting each shell, making sure the belts moved freely. And always they left three of the four barrels ready to fire—and there was hardly half a minute passed but one of them would lift his head and scan the empty sky to port. Radar was fine, radar was efficient, it could also be negatived by temperature inversion, or a blown tube, or an operator’s carelessness.

  But Wind Rode’s radar was efficient enough that morning. Especially so, considering that in all the vast bowl of sky there was only one aircraft coming in.

  They decided later that it was a lone torpedo-bomber returning from a strike against American shipping somewhere in the vicinity—around here there were targets enough! Apparently this solitary bird had been chased, probably by carrier-borne aircraft, well to the northward of his homing course. He still had his cargo, and he decided that a protected cruiser would be too hard a nut to split, but that the destroyer at the right-hand rear leg of the screen, unprotected by other ships off her stern, might repay his attentions.

  It was also decided later that he was a wily bird. He came in on Wind Rode’s starb’d quarter, almost dead astern, so that she had only the single twin mounting aft which would bear on him. And the pom-pom.

  Gellatly did not waste time in fruitless search. As soon as he heard the first peal of the alarm bells he stared up at the air-search radar aerial above the director. Then he swung his head to follow its pointing parabola—and, squinting against the shining sea, soon picked out a low-winged shape with twin engines coming in fast at them a few feet above the water. By the time he was in his seat and had shouted to the loading-number to train the gun and had the torpedo bomber in his sights, he could see plainly the shadow of the aircraft racing across the surface of the sea beneath its belly.

  He heard all about him the clatter of running feet and the urging shouts of gun-captains. He heard the mounting which was always closed-up when cruising open fire, and he saw the salvo burst above and behind the oncoming bomber. But all these sounds and sights were registered by his subconscious—they had no real meaning for him. All he knew about gunnery, every nervous faculty was concentrated in taut vigilance on the relation between his webbed sight and the enemy plane.

  He heard a voice say, “Right, Jack!” He felt the mounting shake a little, he saw his sight moved to the left a little, and without taking his eye or his attention from his own sight he knew that now he had his regular trainer on the big wheel on the opposite side of the gun.

  The coiling feeling in his guts urged him to squeeze his trigger. But he could ignore that false advice easily—he had suffered it many times before, and he knew that he would again. His training and his uncanny eye told him that the bomber was still out of effective hitting range, and that if he fired now he would succeed only in emptying his barrels—which was precisely what the Jap wanted him t o do.

  Oblivious of the panting movement around him as the rest of the pom-pom’s crew closed up, Gellatly stared through his sight, his face pressed into the rubber eye-socket. But not too closely in—that could cause sweating, which would run into his eyes and blur his vision. Only his right eye was against the sight, but his left eye was open as well, which is the correct procedure for looking through a telescope or a gunsight. Accurate judgment is badly affected if one eye only is used.

  He heard a louder bellow, and a few seconds later he saw six spouts of white erupt from the sea a little before the bomber’s nose. The captain had swung his ship a little to bring all his big guns to bear. But the Jap flew unscathed through the splashes, and now he had almost the whole length of his target opened before him. He swerved slightly to confuse the gunners and then straightened for the final run in. Gellatly saw the torpedo drop from the aircraft’s belly at the exact instant when his brain passed the message through and his hand squeezed the trigger.

  The four barrels recoiled and spat their shells at unimaginable velocity, recoiled and spat again, so fast that the movement could not be traced, but simply imparted a shuddering to the whole mounting.

  Gellatly had aimed a fraction below the aircraft’s nose, his intention being to blow up a blinding wall of water before the pilot’s eyes, to confuse him in his aim. He had not expected the torpedo to be released so soon—perhaps that last salvo from the four-point-sevens had jolted the Jap into premature action.

  It was spoken about later as a shot in a million. It wasn’t really. The pom-pom was pouring out something like five hundred shells a minute: they had been aimed initially below the aircraft’s nose; and it would have been strange if some of them had not hit the actual torpedo while it was in the air on its shallow slant towards the water.

  Many of those shells did strike the torpedo—the brief flashes of fire could be seen plainly along its shining length. But they did little damage to its tough steel body. But three shells, one after the other, struck against the firing pistol in the torpedo’s nose. That pistol was not armed yet—nor would it be until the torpedo had run a certain distance through the water and the blades of the pistol had been forced to turn, thus screwing a detonator down hard against a primer, which in turn fitted into the main body of explosive. But three shells striking with a velocity of thousands of feet per second had the same effect on that pistol as a mighty blow with a sledge-hammer. The detonator exploded, the primer burned, and before the torpedo had hit the water it expanded its energy in a premature blast that forced down, and then heaved up a great surge of white water.

  The blast travelled upwards as well as down, but the aircraft had swerved to the left to pass under the destroyer’s stern as soon as it had loosed its load. It was rocked by the abrupt displacement of air, but it was unharmed. It flew like a grey streak across the stern.

  This was the most difficult shot of all, a target flying almost at right angles to your line of fire. But the success was still mainly Gellatly’s, for he had himself assiduously drilled his trainer. The pom-pom swung well ahead of the aircraft, and Gellatly pressed his trigger again. It was beautiful to watch. The trainer kept his gun there, and the bomber flew straight into the bright needles of tracer. His whole body was raked by the cone of fire, and in the second it took him to cross it the fuselage had received close on twenty high-explosive shells. A petrol tank in the base of one wing went up in a flux of red flame, but that damaging effect was not needed. The torpedo-bomber had never been more than a hundred feet above the water, and the pilot was dead before the plane reached it.

  The cease-fire bells shrilled, and Gellatly eased himself backwards out of his cramped seat. His voice cut incisively across the jubilation of the gun crew.

  “All right, we haven’t knocked the whole bloody Jap air force. Top up ammunition!”

  Lieutenant-Commander Peter Bentley had finished his lunch in his sea-cabin directly below the bridge. Even though the sea and sky about the Fleet were, apparently, guiltless, both instinct and training urged him to get back up on to the bridge. But the sheer necessity of dealing with the pile of paperwork on his desk took him from the bolted-down table across to the desk. He sat down with an exhalation that sounded like a sigh, lit a cigarette, and pulled the pile of papers and official brown envelopes towards him.

  Most of his mail was departmental stuff which would be passed on to the various heads of departments by his secretary. There was one short letter, from Navy Office, which held his attention a little longer than the others. Though couched in officialese, which was more than sufficient to kill any inherent drama in the worth, the letter still held implications of danger and excitement. His straight lips twisted a little at one corner, perhaps with a secret regret that this sort of thing was no longer for a man with a ship to command, and he read the letter again. It was addressed to all Australian ships in the Pacific and home bases, and after the usual formal introduction, said:

  A training section for Clearance Divers (Frogmen) has been established at Rushcutters Bay. Volunteers are required to undergo the first training course, commencing on February 4. Candidates must be under 25 years of age on that date, not more than 6 ft. tall, and will be required to undergo an exacting medical examination. They should also be strong swimmers. Names of recommended volunteers for clearance diver should be forwarded, on Form S. 13C3 b. to the Captain Superintendent of Training, H.M.A.S. Cerberus, who will forward them to the commanding officer of H.M.A.S. Rushcutter. Only seaman ratings are eligible.

  Suicide squad, Bentley muttered to himself. He doubled if there would be any volunteers from Wind Rode—they had more than their measure of danger and excitement up here. However ...

  He pressed a buzzer, and when his messenger came in he said:

  “Give this to the coxswain. Tell him to have copies made and placed on all seamen’s noticeboards.”

  The messenger said, “Aye, aye, sir,” in a dispassionate voice and withdrew.

  Petty Officer Give Gellatly had no occasion to go through any of the seamen’s mess-decks that afternoon before the Navy day ended, at four o’clock. He had his tea in the petty-officers’ mess, which was immediately under the B-gun on the fo’c’sle deck, and then he sat back against the ship’s side, conscious of a feeling of restlessness and faint irritation. He knew what it was well enough—lack of exercise.

  Gellatly was a boxer, good enough to have sparred four rounds with Bentley himself, the Fleet heavyweight champion, and to still be on his feet at the end of it. Like most other devotees of that hard sport, he was proficient in other athletic activities, one of which was surfing. He had been sweep-oar of the Freshwater Surf Life Saving Club’s boat, and he had been one of the club’s strongest swimmers. Now he was in a destroyer, a narrow-gutted craft where, if a man took any sort of an athletic jump in training, he was like as not to leap clean over the side. The decks were steel, studded thickly with rivets and ring-bolts, and obstructed by guns, stanchions, torpedo tubes, boats and wire-reels. Naval designers have little, if any, thought for the sluggish livers of boxers when they sit down to pack as much offensive equipment into a long slender hull as they can.

  Gellatly got up from his seat in the hot mess and wandered outside on to the fo’c’sle deck. He eyed the deck moodily. From where he stood near the mess door, one and a half paces would bring him to the guard-rail on the ship’s side. A fine open prairie to run around in.

  “What’s up with the punchin’ bag these days, Clive?” a cheerful voice spoke above him. Gellatly looked up. Cocky Crewe, coxswain of the motor boat normally, now in charge of the cruising watch closed-up at B-gun, grinned down on him from an alert, pixie face that indicated his nickname. Gellatly smiled back. He didn’t mind his first name being used by this leading-seaman—he had not been long promoted to petty officer, and Cocky was a staid enough hand to know when to be intimate and when to pull the discipline.

  “Yeah,” Gellatly growled, and there was in the tone of his voice everything he thought about a destroyer’s provision for working off a liver.

 

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