Torpedo Attack

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  A further pause occurred. Then she said, 'I'd love to see you, Derek. But I'm afraid I can't manage a forty­eight. I've just been on one... last week. I… I stayed with Roy's people, actually. He was there too, of course.'

  'Of course.' Irony and asperity charged Alden's tone. 'That sounds very sinister, Elizabeth.'

  'I don't know why it should be sinister, Derek. It seems perfectly natural to me. Roy wanted me to meet his parents.'

  'That was what I meant by sinister.'

  She giggled, an unbecoming note at that juncture, he felt crossly. 'He wrote to me afterwards and asked me to marry him.'

  'Oh? Thought he'd compromised you by spending the night under the same roof? Making an honest woman of you now?'

  'How dare you!' No giggling now; only outrage. He expected to hear her replace the receiver. Instead, after a lull, she gave him the coup de grace; tartly: 'It wasn't the first time... under a shared roof.' And then the telephone did go down.

  What the devil was she implying? That they'd been on a sticky forty-eight together already? In some London hotel? How often? He couldn't believe it of her. Yet he could very readily believe it of the handsome squadron leader with his fair curls, D.F.C. and Bentley.

  He rejoined the party to hurl himself into the hurly­ burly of cockfighting. Lalabalava, on whose shoulders he was borne, was amazed by his quietly behaved captain's sudden wild ferocity as he ripped into a sturdy member of their sister squadron, who was carried on the back of its beefiest pilot.

  Waking to the realisation that he no longer captained a complete crew brought Alden a resentment that he at once acknowledged was unreasonable. There was nothing to resent. But frustration was a legitimate reaction. He had marked time long enough, waiting for the squadron to be deemed fully operational on Beauforts and equipped with torpedoes. The first part of the requirement had been met; but there was still a dearth of torpedoes and not enough to supply all the Beaufort squadrons: so, as yet, none had them. But the squadron was operational and he had devoted months of patient effort to bringing his crew to the required standard. And now he had lost its most long-standing member.

  The introduction of a strange wireless operator was bound to impair the crew's efficiency. Pause for thought. Was it? Why? Before the war, few crews flew regularly together. Each squadron had a pool of pilots, second pilots, observers - the few there were - wireless operator/air gunners and plain air gunners. He could not truthfully say that the pre-war squadrons had been inefficient. But wartime put a different emphasis on crew composition. The fact that a small group of men would be facing enemy fire together and having to defend itself, and attack the enemy, made it important to develop a spirit of mutual confidence.

  He would not feel fully confident with a strange jeep at the wireless set.

  His name was not on the Battle Order that morning. Squadron Leader Hanbury, who was still in possession of his married quarter, picked him up with Courtney and all their second pilots, in his Hillman pickup van.

  'You'll have to pick yourself a replacement for Fussell, Derek,' Hanbury said.

  'I'd like him back eventually, sir.'

  'We'll have to wait and see.'

  Wait and see whether I'm still alive when he's fit again, among other things, was Alden's thought.

  'While he's off flying, I'd rather have a regular stand­ in than an assortment of casuals.'

  'Naturally. There are four unattached wireless ops at the moment.'

  'I'd like one of the old Regulars, if possible.' Spoken like a typical Regular himself! A few years enforced absence from the Active List had not changed his Cranwell engrained conviction that one Regular was worth ten wartime volunteers in training and efficiency and general dedication. It was a fair enough prejudice in favour of one's own kind.

  'None of these four is a Regular. We've all got to get used to the idea of expansion, Derek.'

  Sure... as long as I can have a Regular jeep. Alden held his peace.

  A Beaufort was taking off on an air test as the three senior B Flight pilots and their second pilots arrived at the crew room. Air tests were done by the second pilot as often as possible, to give him a chance to exercise his primary function, which came too seldom when he was acting as observer. This time, it was the captain of a crew who was air testing his aircraft, while his second pilot squirmed in the station dentist's chair.

  They paused, automatically, to watch how its pilot handled the Beaufort.

  It was beyond the point at which it could abort, and thundering towards the boundary hedge, when the starboard engine died abruptly.

  The aircraft swung to starboard and careered into a sandbagged emplacement where four ground gunners manned two Lewis guns, for airfield defence. Ground gunners were not in a skilled trade. They received three shillings a day, if they were A/C2s: hardly a rate which compensated a man for the probability of being shot at by any ground-strafing enemy aircraft.

  Or for being killed on duty by any other means.

  The Beaufort, the sandbags, the mangled Lewis guns and mutilated aircraftmen's bodies were instantly embroiled in an inextricable mess. The Beaufort burst into flames. Smoke engulfed the whole hideous scene of carnage.

  'You've got your Regular jeep, Derek,' Hanbury said. 'There will be three types looking for a new captain. You might as well grab the wireless op: he's pretty good.'

  Alden stared at him in revulsion, too astonished to speak. Gallows humour, macabre jokes, an exterior indifference to death were the convention. Direct callousness, overt lack of feeling, carried the accepted attitude too far and into bad taste.

  Courtney noticed the angry look on Alden's face. He said quietly, 'The wop's name is Noyes.'

  Alden searched his memory. Noyes… the chap the other non-commissioned aircrew called Knocker... Cockney... perky sort of chap... short and rather thin… scar tissue under the eyebrows and a broken nose... he remembered now... Knocker Noyes boxed featherweight for the Service... had done, until the war occupied too much of his time for training.

  The boxer,' he said.

  'That's right,' said Courtney. 'He's a damn good shot and an ex-apprentice, so you don't have to worry about his ability on the key.'

  Lalabalava said. 'He's got a lot to live up to.'

  Alden thought of Fussell, who had nearly died in their defence. Fussell's quiet, stolid countryman's good humour and reliability suited his own unexcitable character; and Lalabalava's, as it had turned out. Well, perhaps a lively Londoner wouldn't be a bad replacement. He must have guts, if he boxed.

  It was unwontedly quiet in the crew room. Hangovers and a late night partly accounted for it. The fatal crash had cast an immediate gloom to which even the traditional studied disregard for tragedy was not impervious. It would soon pass. The N.A.A.F.I. van would arrive presently. Coffee, tea, rock cakes and jam tarts would give them something to complain about that was an acceptable topic of conversation.

  Alden kept an eye on the dead pilot's observer and wop/A.G., who were talking quietly, shutting themselves off from the rest. Noyes looked pale and upset. Alden waited until the mobile canteen had arrived, then went over to him with his cup of coffee.

  'Sergeant Noyes.'

  Noyes looked up. 'Sir?' He rose to his feet.

  'You know my wireless op's in hospital?'

  'Fussell? Yes, sir.'

  'He's going to be off ops for quite a while.'

  'Yes, sir.' Noyes's tone and expression gave nothing away about his feelings or his assumptions about being approached.

  'I'd like you to take his place.'

  'Very good, sir. Thank you.' There was still no expression in face or voice.

  'I'll tell Squadron Leader Hanbury, then.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Well, at least he didn't show any reluctance, Alden thought. I'd have seen it in his eyes. He must think I'm a reasonably safe pilot. The conclusion pleased him. He noticed that Dymond-Forbes was watching him and presently went to speak to Noyes. I hope they get along, he t
hought: Noyes will probably try to take the mickey out of him at first. I'm sure he's used to it by now and I don't doubt he can take care of himself. Noyes would probably look on the air gunner as 'toffee-nosed', the repellent adjective applied to anyone with a cultured accent. If he did, he would quickly find out that the accent did not imply any softness, physical or moral. The association could do them both good.

  He went out with Lalabalava to look at the aircraft they had flown the previous day. It had been in the hangar since he landed it. Maintenance staff had worked on it day and night. It was still in the hangar. They took two of the squadron's bicycles and rode there. They walked around the aircraft, talking to the men who were working in it. It was not their own individual aircraft. Although Alden was senior enough in time with the squadron to have their own, unserviceability and losses made it necessary to share for the time being.

  'I hope we aren't on the Battle Order before she's serviceable,' Alden said. 'She handles well.'

  'I wouldn't know.' Lalabalava gave his pilot a wry grin.

  'Come on, it's not as bad as that. If you ask around you'll find you get more pilot time in than most - if not all - of the other pilot-observers.'

  'I already have.' Lalabalava's grin widened. 'And you're right. But it's still not enough. Dammit, I didn't go to Cranwell to learn to be a navigator or bomb-aimer. I want to get back in the driving seat.'

  'Consider yourself lucky. I wish I'd had the chance to put in all the navigation hours you're getting.'

  'Why?'

  'Because there'll soon be enough specialist observers to go around, and I think a captain ought to be able to do both jobs equally well.'

  'You've only to say the word and I'll swap with you on the next trip... and the one after…' Lalabalava was laughing.

  'That might not be appreciated by the rest of the crew!' Alden spoke as lightly as his second pilot.

  'Thanks for the compliment.'

  'No offence meant... none taken, I hope.'

  'I bows accordin'.'

  Unaccountably, Alden felt his early glum spirits rise. But was it unaccountable? he asked himself. Quite logically accountable, really. Seeing that prang immediately after breakfast had been sickening: but more for the loss of a life than for the display of yet another instance of engine failure. The latter was a hazard which had become so familiar that most pilots had relegated it to the back of their minds. Since then, he had acquired a replacement for Fussell who promised to be every bit his equal, and Lalabalava had made his jocular comment about having to play observer to imply that he had put the fatal crash out of his mind. Lala was a good type and subtly demonstrating to him that there was no place for sentiment during working hours. He was grateful, and pleased that he had such a man to support him.

  On the way back to the crew room he stopped at the flight commander's office. Hanbury leaned back in his chair and waved him to a seat, obviously glad of any interruption in the chore of dealing with his 'in' tray. He listened, then looked pleased. 'Good show, Derek. You'd better get airborne and let your new man shake down. Why not a cross-country?'

  A notion came swiftly to Alden's mind. 'How about a cross-country to Thorney Island?'

  Hanbury laughed. 'Oh, that's still going strong, is it? What are you planning: lunch there?'

  'Nothing's going strong, sir; but I thought…'

  'Thought you'd drop in unexpectedly and make sure the competition isn't too strong. She's a very pleasant girl.'

  This was one of those innuendoes that it was best not to answer directly. 'We'll take off as soon as we can, then.'

  The only aircraft on which Alden could lay his hands was B for Beer (the old phonetic code was in use until late 1942, when the R .A .F. adopted the U .S.A.F.'s phonetic alphabet) known on the squadron as B for Bitch. This crossgrained specimen of the aircraft constructors' craft had emerged from the factory with an inherent reluctance to maintain height hands-off, however trimmed. To this idiosyncrasy had been added others, acquired through battle damage, two forced landings and one crash. Nobody had actually been killed in it, or even badly injured, but that seemed to be merely a matter of luck or a sudden access of inspired flying by whomever was at the controls on each unhappy occasion.

  It was with a rueful resignation that Alden strapped himself into his seat and tested the intercom with each of the crew. He went with special care through his cockpit drill. Carburettor at cold… engine gills fully open and airscrew pitch fully fine… controls all moving freely… He paused there and checked them again. Fuel tanks full and set to inner tanks, to start. He shouted from the port window 'Prepare to start.'

  When the ground crew had primed the induction system, he turned the propellers twice on the electric starter. After the ground crew had switched the starting magnetoes on, and were clear of the airscrews, he called out, 'Contact.' He started the engines, checked the gauges, checked the hydraulics by lowering and raising the flaps, and the propeller governors to make sure they were acting correctly from coarse to fine. He held the aircraft on its brakes while he ran the engines to 2900 r.p.m. at four and a half pounds' boost. He checked the magnetoes and brake air pressure.

  When he signalled with his arms, the chocks were pulled from the wheels. B had been vibrating and her engines had been roaring, as though in protest. Now he began to taxi and she swayed like an old beldame shaking her hips at the indignity of being hurried. One more engine run-up at the down-wind end of the field. Then he made sure that the hydraulic selector was fully out, the elevator trimming tab was set a little nose down, the mixture control was at normal, pitch was still fully fine. He closed the gills and lowered the flaps thirty degrees.

  A green Aldis lamp flashed from the Control Tower and he released the brakes as he revved up. At an indicated seventy knots, and just over three furlongs down the runway, B for Bitch took to the air with all the grace of a ruptured buzzard. Alden raised the undercarriage. He crossed the fence and stayed low until the airspeed indicator showed 130 knots, then began a sober climb.

  The Bitch had surprised him by her docility as she accelerated across the grass: not a swerve, not a sulky flounce. Last time he had had to fly her, many weeks ago, she had swerved from right to left like a nappy horse. Perhaps she had mended her ways. Perhaps she was an airborne tart-with-a-heart-of-gold and was behaving decorously just for him. He still wouldn't want to take her on an op, though.

  Why the devil had he had that sudden wish to see Elizabeth? Which was why, of course, he had opted for a landing at Thorney. After their telephone conversation... and the fact that she had cut it off... why eat humble pie now? Because, dammit, he liked the wench... admired her. What did he admire about her? Well… her intelligence and her tastes… but that's because they're the same as mine... which is pretty conceited of me. I admire her because she doesn't run after men. She lets them chase her and handles them very well. She's got self-respect... she's not one of those easy popsies who'll go in for heavy petting with anyone after a couple of gins. To be honest, it's all the more remarkable that she doesn't make the running, because she's no beauty and it's not every chap who'd look at her twice.

  He had asked the Watch Office, when they notified Thorney that he would land there, to add a message for A.S.O. Waring, giving her his E.T.A. That would shake her… and warn her to expect him in the mess.

  Forget it. Time to concentrate on what my new wop is doing. Let's see how quickly he can get bearings from three direction-finding stations: which entailed re-tuning to different wavelengths twice after the first one.

  He trimmed the aircraft to fly hands-off. She ambled along disarmingly for a while. With a wriggle and a skittish little dipping of a wing, she suddenly made a bee-line for a cloud. 'No you don't, you bitch.' He yanked her out of her curving dive and settled her back on an even keel. She took it calmly. Until she decided to start crabbing as though she had spotted something nasty ahead into which she didn't want to set her foot. 'Damn you, you old cow.' He heard his crew chuckle quietly each
time he muttered to himself.

  He was relieved when he arrived in the Thorney circuit and The Bitch had pulled no disastrous tricks.

  Did she have an engine failure up her sleeve, to produce when he was on finals and too low to avert a fatal accident?

  But no: she trembled, and fought against the pressures of his hands and feet on the controls, she creaked and groaned, she twitched her tail and yawed, and she tried to drop a wing when she was just about to touch down; but she kept up a healthy grumble from both engines.

  A 15 cwt lorry picked them up, took him to Flying Control, then dropped the officers and sergeants at their respective messes.

  'Pick you up at two,' Alden said to his N.C.O.s.

  At the mess he found Elizabeth smiling at him in the hall. He introduced Lalabalava, who tactfully said he'd join him after lunch.

  'Well,' said Elizabeth, over an orange squash in the ante-room, 'if you'd been diverted here by weather or by something going U/S, I'd have understood it. But am I to understand you came specially to see me?'

  'Why is that so strange?'

  'I didn't think our talk last evening was exactly encouraging, Derek.'

  'I'm sorry for being… tactless, I suppose, is the word.'

  'No, it isn't: quite inadequate. You were downright pugnacious... and rude... and impudent, actually.' She gave a small giggle. 'How dare you.'

  'I apologise.'

  'M'm... you implied something very naughty.'

  He smiled. 'And I've apologised.'

  'All right. Forgiven.' She gave him a slanted look and there was a meaning in it that he could not quite interpret. The interpretation he did put on it worried him.

  He said, 'From what you said, there's nothing… nothing definite.' He looked questioningly at her. She blushed lightly. 'Is there?'

  She shook her head. Then she stood abruptly, holding her glass. 'Let's go into the billiards room: there's never anyone there at this time: the keen snooker players gobble their lunch first.'