by Ted Bell
Surely, they weren’t saluting him?
Taking no chances, Nick raised his own right hand in salute as he passed his two new friends, and saw the officers all fall in behind them as the group made its way through the sea of sailors to the starboard rail. He heard hearty murmurs of congratulations as the crews parted to let them through, and saw broad smiles on every face. There, hung between two davits, was the captain’s beautiful little gig, and they’d dressed her proper, too, with a big Union Jack hung aft, and colored signal flags up her forestay to the masthead and then down to the stern, fluttering gaily in the stiff southerly breeze.
At the rail, Hawke’s gallant little squad did an about-face and they turned to view the Marines formed up mid-deck, muskets at the ready. Lord Hawke lifted the two children up into the small sailboat, into the hands of a waiting crewman who’d help them lower and get under way. Jip leapt up into the boat to be with his new friends, little Alexander and Annabel. Then the three travelers stood ramrod straight at the rail as the captain and his first officer approached them. Nick saw that the captain was carrying something, a small triangular cloth package with a thick vellum envelope lying on top.
With a whispered thank-you, Captain McIver gave the envelope to Lord Hawke and then, looking straight at Nick, with a crinkly smile playing about the corners of his merry blue eyes, bent forward and placed the little cloth bundle into Nick’s hands. He whispered something then, just loud enough for Nick’s ears only.
“Magnificently done, Mr. McIver!” said the captain, and, turning to the Captain of Marines, gave the order to fire.
At the sound of the first gun’s powerful explosion, a huge roarwent up from the assembled crew, an enormous, swelling cheer that rose up to fill the air, a rising cheer that was soon joined by hundreds of sailors’ hats and caps flung high up into the rigging, only to float and fall and be flung up again and again as the drums rolled and the big guns fired one after another until all twenty-one had fired. The flag-bedecked little skiff with its passengers was lowered away and was soon some half mile away on the rolling blue sea, hull down and hard-bound for the southern coast of Greybeard Island.
Only then did Nick look down at the small, folded bundle that lay in his lap. It was a torn and shredded old gift he’d got, much blackened with gunpowder. A thoroughly ragged old thing, he noticed unfolding it, a gift that had seen far, far better days. But, he knew at that moment, it was the thing he’d forever cherish above all else in his possession.
The battle-torn flag of France, so recently hauled down in surrender, and now a thing of tattered glory.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Landing at Hawke Field
· 8 June 1939 ·
AT HAWKE CASTLE
It was cold, windy, and rainy up on the tiny runway. An unseasonable chill tore at the thin summer clothing of the small gathering waiting there for an aeroplane to descend out of the fog and clouds in that waning hour of sunlight before darkness fell.
Lord Hawke’s runway, nothing more than a thin ribbon of grass far above the lagoon, stretched out along a high, rocky point adjacent to the castle itself. Hawke Field, as Hobbes jokingly referred to it, was unlighted and unsuitable for night landings, so Hobbes had placed four powerful searchlights at either end of the grass runway. A low, rolling fog had flooded in off the Channel. The searchlights, aimed straight up, formed great columns of light in the foggy evening sky.
Landing at Hawke Field, as Hobbes never tired of telling his flying Navy friends, was just like landing on an aircraft carrier, only half as long and twice as narrow. And now, with the fog, and a sticky crosswind whipping across the field, Hobbes saw it would be even more difficult than usual. He didn’t envy the Royal Air Force pilot who’d probably be flying the group from War Command over from the mainland.
Hobbes and Katie were there waiting, of course, feeling the bite of the wind’s chill, but much restored by an afternoon in front of the blazing fire, sipping Hobbes’s lemony mandarin tea and eating scores of homemade crumpets with raspberry jam. Hobbes had first placed a call to Kate’s mother to say all was well and ask her to join them for dinner at Hawke Castle.
Hobbes had then rung the naval attaché in London. The excitement crackling over the wire from the Whitehall war offices about the captured U-boat was near delirious, and the attaché had promised to dispatch an inspection team immediately to Greybeard Island. Since Hobbes knew that “immediately” by sea meant twelve hours minimum, he reminded the attaché that Hawke Castle possessed the only private runway among the islands, albeit a grass one, little more than a skinny cow pasture, but adequate enough for light military aircraft.
And that to arrive sooner, rather than later, Hobbes had added, was probably a good idea when you had a fully armed Nazi U-boat penned up in your goldfish pond. And an enraged German captain who by now must surely be going quite mad, that is, if he hadn’t been quite bonkers already!
It had been a quiet afternoon, sitting cozily by the fire as the rain whipped round the castle, and Hobbes and Kate had chatted happily, discussing their submarine adventure in minute detail. Laughing aloud, they imagined the look on Wolfie’s face when the nose of his mighty submarine bumped up against the massive steel curtain of the underwater Seagate. And then realizing that he couldn’t even blast his way out, that his deadly torpedoes were useless in such a small, confined body of water! It wouldn’t take long for the captain to conclude that the torpedo’s concussion alone would kill everyone aboard the sub.
“A pig in a pokey?” Kate asked, stoking Horatio’s silky fur.
“Something like that, my dear, a poke, I believe is the term.”
“Will Nicky ever come back, Hobbes? Do you think his adventure was as grand as ours? What do you think he’s doing right now?” Kate said, her mouth forming a perfect little “o” as she yawned and slowly fell over on the massive settee, her red curls spilling onto the yellow silk cushion of the spacious sofa. Her eyelids fluttered and closed, and she mumbled sleepily.
“Sailing?” she said with a yawn. “He’s always sailing or, or—” The child was fast asleep. Hobbes, deeply relieved at the outcome of his gamble, and in a state of numbing exhaustion himself, hardly noticed he’d lost his audience.
“Well, my dear, I’m sure he’s—that is to say, I’m quite sure that he is perfectly all right, but I must say—” And then Hobbes too yawned sleepily and gradually slipped off, his head falling back against the worn needlepoint cushion of his chair, admiring the lovely play of the firelight licking into the shadows of the ancient room. It was lovely to be home, he thought, so very lovely to be home.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and a distant voice gently repeating his name. It was a familiar voice and he tried to place it.
“I say, Hobbes old thing, are you quite all right?”
“What?” Hobbes said, realizing that he must have tottered off to dreamland himself. He cracked one eye and saw the child still on the sofa. “What’s that? Ah, yes, my dear, now, where were we? Your dear brother, was it? Hmm, yes, well, he’s probably right now engaged in a bit of fancy swordplay with some nasty Frenchman or other and—” The room felt awfully warm, he thought, and he really ought to get up and open a window but he was so frightfully sleepy, having lain awake all night on the tiny submarine cot and—
“Hobbes! I say, Hobbes!” Hawke whispered, squeezing Hobbes’s shoulder. “We’re right here, old man, wake up! We’ve returned!”
“What?” said Hobbes. “Who’s there?”
Hobbes opened his sleepy eyes just enough to see them. He saw a few dim figures in the light of the flickering fire and that of the golden stream of late afternoon sun, slanting through the gathering storm clouds and pouring down from the windows high in the castle wall. Lord Hawke, it looked like, but was it? Could it really be?
“Returned, have you?” Hobbes asked sleepily, trying mightily to surface. He saw little Kate, still fast asleep on the settee opposite, and remembered the cozy conversation and the startlin
g fact that he had an angry German U-boat captain penned up in his lagoon.
“Returned, Hobbes!” Lord Hawke said. “All of us!”
“We did it, Hobbes!” Nick said, patting the drowsy man on the shoulder with far too much enthusiasm. “We helped Captain McIver escape from Billy! He’s on his way now to warn Lord Nelson about the bloody Spaniards!” He laughed and then Hobbes, aghast, felt a wet tongue licking his hand and looked down to see a large black dog at Nick’s side. “We got Jipper back, too, Hobbes? Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Quite, quite,” Hobbes said, pulling his hand away from the overly affectionate canine. “Dogs? Spaniards? I say!” said Hobbes, completely befuddled. “Is that you, too, Gunner, lurking there in the shadows?”
Gunner stepped into the light, his twinkling blue eyes sparking behind the little gold spectacles. Nick didn’t believe he’d ever seen his old friend so happy.
“Aye, Hobbes, and glad I am to be here! We gave it to ’em, though, sir! Dressed the barky up like a pretty Spanish señorita and lured old Bill in for as lovely a ripplin’ broadside as ever you could hope for!” Gunner said, and he too patted Hobbes affectionately on the shoulder. “It was textbook gunnery, sir, hundred-year-old textbook with a touch of the twentieth century thrown in for good measure, but pure textbook it was!”
“My word! And you, your lordship, are you quite all right?” Hobbes asked, squinting up at Hawke in the dim fire-light.
“Quite all right, old chap,” Hawke said, lighting a brand-new cigar and puffing away with enormous good cheer. “Nick here got a bit of a tap on the head and some devil nicked me on the cheek, but I’ve done worse shaving myself! Gunner here got off without a scratch, although I can’t say the same for the French chaps on the other end of his blazing broadsides, ha-ha! Capital show, really, Hobbes. I’ll fill you in completely this evening. I’ve invited Nick and Gunner to join us for a jolly victory dinner tonight. Oh, and there’ll be two extra settings for dinner as well! Roast joint of lamb, perhaps, with mint sauce! Our best china and silver, I should imagine, old boy, and ice cream, too, lots of ice cream!”
“Two more, sir? Ice cream! But who—”
“Terribly sorry, old man, perhaps they should introduce themselves!” Hawke laughed, his eyes sparkling with joy at the surprise he was springing on Hobbes. A small figure stepped forward out of the shadows.
“Hullo, Hobbes,” the little boy said, and stuck out his small hand. “Do you still remember me? I’m Alex.”
Hobbes blinked back the tears rapidly filling his eyes as he leaned forward to peer closely at the small figure standing before him. It appeared to be, for all love, Master Alexander, looking precisely as he had the night Hobbes had last seen him five years earlier, out on the terrace, waiting for the electrical storm. It wasn’t possible, but it was the very boy standing there! Alexander Hawke!
“I missed you, Hobby,” the boy said softly.
“Oh, I missed you too, Hobby!” Annabel said, leaping right up into his lap. “I missed you so very, very much!” Alexander then jumped up on Hobbes’s knee and now two children were excitedly hugging Hobbes around the neck, kissing him and giggling and squealing with delight.
“Oh. Oh, my!” Hobbes said, sputtering and looking completely astounded. “Annabel! Alexander! I say, I mean, really!” He looked up at Lord Hawke and Nick saw that Hobbes’s eyes were glistening in the firelight. The man put his arms around both children and squeezed them to his breast, trying to convince himself that he was not still sleeping and that this wasn’t all some perfect dream of life as he had always dearly wished it to be.
“The children are home, Hobbes!” Hawke cried. “Don’t you see? The children are home at last!”
“Two extra at table tonight, your lordship,” Hobbes said, laughing. “And every night after that until they tire of my cooking, I expect!”
“Oh, Hobby, don’t worry about that,” Annabel said. “We’re used to eating gruel every day!”
“Then you shall find Hobbes’s cooking suits you exactly, my darling daughter!” Hawke exclaimed, picking her up and throwing her into the air.
And, for the first time in many long years, swelling peals of children’s laughter rang out through the long silent halls of Hawke Castle.
Now, on the windswept runway, Hobbes tried to wrap Kate and the two children inside his flapping mackintosh as they all stood waiting by the hissing searchlights. Nick and Gunner were kneeling in the tall, wet grass, trying to get one light relit, and joking happily about the plight of the Nazi U-boat captain, sitting below in the lagoon. The aeroplane was already a good half hour overdue, and Hobbes was beginning to feel a bit nervous.
“Don’t worry, Hobbes, they’ll be along shortly, I expect,” Lord Hawke said, himself looking nervously at the sky. “Who precisely did you say was coming over?”
“The naval attaché, certainly, sir,” Hobbes said, “and the usual assortment of submarine technicians and engineers, I imagine. And he mentioned the possibility of an admiralty bigwig or two. Certainly no one as high up as the First Sea Lord, I don’t expect, but perhaps an admiral or two. They are frightfully excited about the whole thing in London, as I explained to you, sir.”
“As well they should be, Hobbes!” Lord Hawke exclaimed. “It’s only the most remarkable sea catch of the century, old boy. Don’t be so modest! Not the First Sea Lord, eh? I must say it would be jolly to see dear Freddy.”
They heard the aircraft before they could see it. A droning hum growing louder in the cloud bank to the northwest.
“I expect that’s them now, sir,” Hobbes said.
“Quite sure, old chap? Not Lucky Lindbergh in his Spirit of St. Louis, you don’t suppose?” Hawke said, chuckling.
Hobbes usually ignored Hawke’s feeble attempts at humor, but given his friend’s joyful mood since the return of his children, he replied, “Perhaps, your lordship, or possibly the Red Baron in his Fokker triplane!”
The silver aeroplane descended out of the clouds on its final approach to the airstrip, its nose and wingtip landing lights creating three downward white shafts in the fog. Hobbes was surprised to see that it was a De Havilland twin-engine light bomber, a larger plane than he would have thought necessary for the small inspection party, and a lot of aeroplane for the short, narrow runway. At any rate, a bit dicey for any pilot in these conditions.
“Flash that lantern three times, please, Nick,” Hobbes ordered, and Nick did as instructed with the lantern Hobbes had given him. It was the code Hobbes had settled upon earlier with the naval attaché and meant that the situation with the captive Germans was unchanged and it was safe to land.
They watched in silence as the small Royal Air Force bomber, despite being buffeted by the strong crosswinds, came in low over the sea, lowered its landing gear on final approach, and floated over the rocky promontory at the far end of the strip. The pilot deftly cut his power and managed a perfect three-point landing at the seaward end, bouncing once or twice on the rocky surface. Its landing lights still on, the bomber taxied up loudly toward where the reception committee waited. Through the small window of the cockpit, Nick saw the pilot waving to them in the glow of his instruments.
The last rays of dying sunlight stabbed through the shifting rain clouds and scudding fog as the silvery plane, lights winking on its wingtips, rolled to a complete stop a hundred yards or so from where Nick was standing. The pilot shut down the roaring engines one at a time and they sputtered and coughed and died.
Once again, the only noise was the whistling wind and the sea crashing on the rocks far below. The fog was thickening now, despite the wind, and darkness was fast approaching as Nick saw a door open in the fuselage just behind the wing. A naval officer jumped to the ground and then reached inside for a set of stairs which he positioned under the doorway. He then stepped back and stood at attention at the foot of the stairs.
Almost immediately, four men—and Nick couldn’t tell if they were soldiers or sailors at this distance—emerged f
rom the doorway and formed up on either side of the steps. They all seemed to be armed, carrying what looked to Nick like tommy guns. These were the men, Nick assumed correctly, who would soon escort the naval inspection team aboard the captive German submarine.
Next came a tall man in uniform who had to crouch to get through the small door in the fuselage. The men already on the ground saluted and Nick guessed he was the naval attaché. Finally, two more men, one in uniform and finally a shorter, rounder one in a dark overcoat and bowler emerged. They left one officer guarding the aeroplane and started in the direction of the little welcoming party huddled against the cold wind. The short round man in the bowler, puffing an enormous cigar, quickly outpaced the others and came striding forward, waving hello to Hobbes and Lord Hawke. Nick thought the man looked familiar, but it was difficult to see in the thick ground fog that swirled around the bomber.
“I must say I can’t believe the old boy himself made the trip!” Nick heard Hobbes exclaim.
“Nor can I, but it’s rather splendid of him, isn’t it?” Hawke replied. “He certainly looks marvelously fit and spoiling for a fight, doesn’t he? Hullo, Uncle! What a surprise!” The man stepped forward into the misty pool of light provided by the searchlight, extending his hand to Lord Hawke.
“Brilliant landing considering that crosswind, wouldn’t you say!” the stout pink-cheeked man in the bowler said as he approached, removing the fat cigar that the cold wet wind had extinguished. “Absolutely marvelous, these young RAF boys, but I doubt they could have managed it better!”