South By Java Head by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online

night."

"Good night, Lieutenant." Farnholme remained leaning over the taffrail for a few more minutes, listening to the asthmatic clanking of the Kerry Dancer's superannuated engine as she throbbed her way steadily east-south-east through the calm and oily sea. By and by he straightened up with a sigh, turned and went below. The whisky bottles were in one of his bags in the aftercastle and he had his reputation to sustain.

Most men would have objected strongly to being waked at half-past three in the morning and asked a purely technical question about their work, but not Willie Loon. He merely sat up in his bunk, smiled at Lieutenant Parker, told him that the effective range of his transmitter was barely five hundred miles and smiled again. The smile on his round pleasant face was the essence of good will and cheerfulness, and Parker had no doubt but that Farnholme had been a hundred per cent correct in his assessment of Willie Loon's character. He didn't belong here.

Parker thanked him, and turned to go. On his way out he noticed on the transmitting table something he had never expected to see on a ship such as the Kerry Dancer -- a round, iced cake, not too expertly made, it's top liberally beskewered with tiny candles. Parker blinked, then looked at Willie Loon.

"What on earth is this for?"

"A birthday cake." Willie Loon beamed proudly at him. "My wife -- that's her picture there -- made it. Two months ago, now, to be sure I would have it. It is very pretty, is it not?"

"It's beautiful," Lieutenant Parker said carefully. He looked at the picture again. "Beautiful as the girl who made it. You must be a very lucky man."

"I am." Again he smiled, blissfully. "I am very lucky indeed, sir."

"And when's the birthday?"

"To-day. That is why the cake is out. I am twenty-four years old today."

"today!" Parker shook his head. "You've certainly picked a wonderful day to have a birthday on, by all the signs. But it's got to be some time, I suppose. Good luck, and many happy returns of the day."

He turned, stepped over the storm combing, and closed the door softly behind him.

CHAPTER THREE

WILLIE LOON died when he was twenty-four years of age. He died on his twenty-fourth birthday, at the high noon of day, with the harsh glare of the equatorial sunlight striking savagely through the barred skylight above his head. A white light, a bright merciless light that mocked the smoking flame from the solitary candle still burning on the birthday cake, a yellow flame that bloomed and faded, bloomed and faded, regularly, monotonously, as the ship rolled and the black bar of shadow from the skylight passed and repassed across it -- across the candle, across the cake and across the picture of Anna May, the shy-smiling Batavian girl who had baked it.

But Willie Loon could not see the candle or the cake or the picture of his young wife, for he was blind. He could not understand why this should be so, for the last of these hammer-blows of just ten seconds ago had struck the back of his head, not the front. He could not even see his radio transmitting key, but that did not matter, for Mr. Johnson of the Marconi school had always insisted that no one could be a real Marconi man until he was as good in pitch darkness as he was in the light of day. And Mr. Johnson had also said that the Marconi man should be the last to leave his post, that he should leave the ship together with his captain. And so Willie Loon's hand moved up and down, up and down, in the staccato, off-beat rhythm of the trained operator, triggering off the key, sending the same call over and over again: S.O.S., enemy air attack, 0.45 N, 104.24 E, on fire: S.O.S., enemy air

attack, 0.45 N, 104.24 E, on fire: S.O.S...

His back hurt, hurt abominably. Machine-gun bullets, he did not know how many, but they hurt, badly. But better that, he thought tiredly, than the transmitter. If his back hadn't been there the transmitter would have been smashed, there would have been no