He sat down and filled his pipe. Trying not to think about his parents. Knowing that if he survived this convoy he would have to go to the house.
Bill sat beside him. ‘I know how you feel. I’m not fancying this flight much, but I’d rather be doing something.’
Rowan looked at him. ‘It’ll be all right, I expect. Tea and buns all round. It’ll be a home from home.’
The tannoy crackled again. ‘Range Red Flight at after end of flight deck immediately.’
Rowan tried not to think about it. At least he had Jonah again. That was something. Better to be with friends.
He nodded to Cameron and Creswell. ‘Let’s get ready. Our turn soon. I’ll check the recognition signals. I’d hate to be shot down by our own blokes!’
They nodded, hiding their true feelings, as he was from them. He turned as a rating wrote their names on the board with the blue top.
Rowan, Ellis, Cameron and Creswell. They could be sponged off in seconds.
The whistling snarl of Seafire engines told him that Kitto and his bunch were already taking off. For once he did not want to watch. He would shake hands when he reached Hustler. Or not, as the case might be.
He thought of Buchan on his chair; solid reliable. Villiers on his flying bridge, haunted and tortured by whatever had changed him to half the man he had once been. James with his charts and purring plot tables. Was he worrying about his German wife at home? How she felt in a food queue, after an air raid, when her fellow countrymen had killed some of her neighbours?
He thought of the man he had shot down over the Lofoten Islands. Was it really just a few days and hours ago? A telegram would have reached his home, too. Killed in action. His parents would be wondering about who had done it, just as Andy Miller pondered over the watch a German pilot had given him.
The hands of the bulkhead clock must have jumped forward. Rowan stood up and felt his pockets. His razor and toothbrush. Tobacco pouch and spare pipe. He touched the folded letter inside his inner pocket. It was the last he had had from home. His mother had written. Don’t worry about us, dear. Just take care of yourself.
You were not supposed to carry personal letters. But what the hell. He snatched his helmet from the chair and held the goggles up to the deckhead light. It was all he had left.
A bell jangled, and he felt the urgent tremble of the nearest hangar lift.
Time to go. Just take care of yourself.
He looked at his companions and felt strangely moved.
‘Let’s get the show on the road.’
The tannoy pursued them. ‘Stand by to fly-off aircraft.’
Bill did his usual act. A little mincing step and one large hand in the air. ‘I’ll do no such thing, you brute.’
It was always funny.
Cameron said, ‘I knew you were bent, Bill.’
Outside the air was keen, the sky bare but for a few arrows of cloud. The sea beyond the carrier’s side was furrowed with dark shadows, regular and even, the long lines of troughs rolling towards the five ships, lifting them with indifference before undulating towards the opposite horizon.
Three Swordfish were circling overhead. The returning patrol. The others were off somewhere searching for signs of a U-boat. On this harsh sea, standing as she did like a block of flats, Growler presented a perfect target.
Petty Officer Thorpe touched his arm, his grimy face worried. ‘A mate of mine is in Hustler, sir. Petty Officer Denny. He’ll look after you. Just mention me.’
Rowan smiled. It made him realise that he was leaving more than just the ship.
‘I will.’
They stood in the keen air looking at the Seafire as it was manhandled into position, its nose towards the sky. Jonah.
Bats hurried past, dragging on his helmet. He grinned. ‘Mount up!’
Three hundred empty miles. Tea and buns at the end of it.
He sighed and pulled himself into the cockpit.
‘This is Blue Leader. Ready for take-off.’
‘Stand by.’
The Affirmative broke from Growler’s yard and the nearest sloop moved even closer. Just in case someone ditched.
The engine roared and shook into life. Check every damn thing.
There was the light.
Here we go.
Rowan wriggled his toes inside his fleece-lined boots and peered carefully from side to side. The four Seafires were flying in loose formation at eighteen thousand feet. It was not the most economical height, but under the circumstances vision and the ability to spot the convoy’s screen and the carrier might prove more important. If things went badly, it could be vital.
They had been airborne for twenty minutes, and it was still a surprise to Rowan that the sea and sky could change so quickly and so much in this unfriendly place. The sky was duller now, and towards the horizon it was like bronze.
He bit his lip. The sea’s edge was blurred. He removed his goggles and examined them. Then he checked his course and speed and replaced them. The horizon was still misty.
He stared across his quarter towards Bill. He could see him quite clearly, his mouth opening and closing as if he were champing gum. In fact he was singing, his oxygen mask jerking up and down like a goatee beard.
Whenever he stopped thinking about his instruments and the other aircraft his mind kept returning to his parents. Things he had taken for granted. Their attitudes, which he had so often regarded as routine, became clearer, like a gun-sight.
His mother would ask her husband, ‘Had a good day, dear?’
His father would reply without hesitation, ‘Much as usual, my love.’
Perhaps that had been their strength. Routine. So that even their affection for each other had become unshakeable, untouched by things out of the ordinary.
And now they were dead.
He blinked as his cockpit was suddenly enveloped in tattered cloud.
‘Hello, Blue Leader.’ It was Bill. ‘I can see a ship.’ He chuckled. ‘Fine time to take a cruise!’
Rowan lifted one hand, and then craned over to look for the ship. He saw her, just below the horizon, white and buff, with tiny glittering lights along her hull, despite the brightness of day. A poor, bloody neutral, he thought. Swedish, most likely. There were precious few neutrals left, and it was harder for them to stay out of the line of fire.
Better take a look, he thought. It would give them a fright if nothing else.
Even the ship was wrong. Blurred and indistinct. He pushed Syms’ globe-head from his thoughts, his uncertain gloom about fog.
He said, ‘Line astern.’ He saw Creswell in his mirror, waggling his wings. ‘We’ll keep together.’
He heard Bill croon, ‘Take me to your arms again!’
More patches of cloud now, all bunched up and lumpy, much lower. He checked his altimeter. Probably no more than ten thousand feet.
He held his breath, not daring to blink. A harder shadow had shown itself for mere seconds amongst the clouds. A few more minutes, less even, and they might have missed it. It was a big aircraft, and he had no doubt it was steering directly for the lonely merchantman. Interest, boredom, it did not matter now.
He snapped, ‘Condor! Going down!’
Then he put the Seafire into a steep dive, knowing the rest were following close astern.
The cloud became more congested until he was flying right through it, his jaw aching as he strained every muscle to keep his fullest concentration. The clouds shivered and parted like ripped curtains as he held the fighter in a power dive. Down, down, it would be any second.
He gripped the stick harder and switched the gun button to ‘Fire’. He’d not get caught out a second time.
With the plane swaying violently he swept out into the bronze light, barely able to accept that the other aircraft was really there. Just as he had pictured it. The perfect position. He was still well above the big Focke-Wulf’s port quarter, and every small detail stood out like items in a recognition manual.
Three hundr
ed yards. He held the German in his sights, hardly able to breathe. A split second and he pressed the button, raking the other plane with a long burst along the port wing, over the top and on towards the stem. The Focke-Wulf’s upper rear gunner was swinging towards him, metal and perspex flying in bright fragments as the deadly hail of bullets and cannon shells turned his little pod into horror.
The bomber tilted steeply, falling away like a huge, gaunt crucifix.
Rowan pulled out of his dive, seeing a pale splash of colour far below, knowing it was the neutral ship. The spectator.
He saw Bill’s Seafire diving steeply across the Condor’s full span, hammering a four-second burst into the body and perhaps the cockpit as well.
He was yelling, ‘Got him! Got the bugger!’
Smoke belched slowly and then more thickly from the Condor’s tail, and it started to go into a shallow dive. The pilot would try to ditch near to the ship. He had a good chance, and therefore a last-minute opportunity to get his signal off to base. Fighters meant a carrier. The rest would be easy.
Rowan levelled off and brought Jonah round in a tight turn, the Merlin labouring as he lifted the nose to gain more height.
He heard Creswell cry, ‘Tallyho!’
Rowan fumbled with his switch and shouted, ‘Break off, Frank!’ He saw the Seafire dropping out of the sky like a dart, guns blazing, as Creswell fanned towards the bomber’s shattered gun mounting and then swept down and beneath its oil-streaked belly.
‘Oh, Jesus!’ Rowan pressed his button, pouring a long burst into the Condor’s full length from stern to stem.
He heard the loud clatter of the German’s heavy machine guns. In his eager excitement Creswell must have forgotten about the gunner in the Condor’s belly. He must have seen it like a whaler of old sighting the huge and helpless catch, only to be destroyed himself by the giant tail.
The Seafire reeled away, rolling almost on to its back as the German staggered and then began a violent plunge towards the sea.
Rowan levelled off behind Creswell. ‘This is Blue Leader. Do you read me?’ He hesitated, his heart heavy, as the other fighter reeled to one side and then straightened up again. ‘This is Jonah.’ He kept his voice unhurried, even gentle. ‘Do you read me, Frank?’
He saw the others taking station on him, and some parachutes floating towards the sea like tiny pieces of fluff. He noticed too that the ship was end-on. Hurrying away or towards the crashing Condor, he did not know.
Then he heard Creswell’s voice. ‘Hello, Jonah, I read you.’
Rowan wiped his face. Small and jerky, the pain as near as if Creswell was right here in the cockpit.
Creswell added, ‘I made a cock of that. Sorry. Never thought –’ He coughed.
Rowan glanced abeam and saw the Condor hit the sea and explode, but it no longer mattered.
He concentrated on the solitary Seafire ahead of him.
‘What about your instruments, Frank?’
‘All right, Jonah. I – I think.’ In a sharper tone, which revealed the true loneliness of terror, he said, ‘I’m bleeding! All over the place! Oh, dear God!’
Rowan said, ‘You lead, Bill. Algy, you take tail-end Charlie.’
He took the Seafire slowly and carefully until he was flying abeam and level with Creswell’s. He was close enough to see the big holes, the shining wetness which was most likely a fuel leak. He also saw Creswell, his head lolling forward and trying to turn towards him.
Rowan said carefully, ‘Continue as before, Frank. Don’t bother about instruments. Just watch old Bill and follow him.’ He raised his voice. ‘Frank!’ He had seen the nose drop, had known Creswell had all but blacked out.
‘Keep talking. Watch Bill’s plane, and talk. Anything.’ He found he was pleading.
Creswell answered brokenly, ‘Never saw that bloody gunner. But I remember an instructor who said once –’
Rowan called sharply, ‘Said what, Frank?’ He tried again. ‘What did he say?’
Creswell replied, ‘My girl’s gone and married a pongo. A bloody soldier, can you imagine?’
‘My father was a soldier.’
Rowan blinked and darted a glance at his instruments. They were at thirteen thousand feet. Please God, they should sight something soon. Or would they all fly to the north, making conversation, and falling one by one like slaughtered birds as their fuel gave out?
Saving Creswell’s life was suddenly the most important thing in the world. He hardly knew anything about him. He was young, fresh-faced, and should have had no worries. And now he was trying to obey orders. He was probably dying, flying into oblivion, and all he could think of was that his girl had married a soldier.
When he looked again he saw dark haze on the horizon, slightly to port.
Bill called hoarsely, ‘Bear Island, if I’m any judge.’
Creswell said vaguely, ‘Fuel’s low. Must have winged me badly.’ He groaned. ‘Oh, Christ, it hurts like hell.’
Rowan said, ‘Hold on, Frank. We mustn’t break up the gang now.’ It sounded stupid, but it was all he had to offer. ‘Think of the next leave. Bill will find you a girl.’
‘Hello, Jonah.’ Bill cut in. ‘Ships dead ahead.’ Then in a voice which almost broke, ‘And two Swordfish, at three o’clock low. Oh, you dear old Stringbags! I love you!’
Rowan snapped down his catch. ‘Hello, Lapwing, this is Blue Leader.’ His mind was spinning, and yet he had still remembered Hustler’s call sign. ‘Request permission to land-on immediately.’ He pounded the throttle with his fist. ‘Answer, damn you! For Christ’s sake, answer!’
The voice when it came was very faint and dry. ‘Hello, Blue Leader. Affirmative.’
Rowan tilted slightly and sought out the escorts carrier’s blunt outline, beyond which was a great spread of shipping. She was levelling up on her new course, ready to receive them. Kitto must have arrived shortly before and got everyone on top line. He felt his eyes stinging. Bless ’em all.
‘Can’t hold her!’ It was Creswell. ‘I’ll not make it!’
Rowan saw the prop of Creswell’s plane become blurred and uneven, and then stop completely.
He said urgently, ‘I’ll follow you down.’ He changed his switch again. ‘I’ve got a pilot ditching.’ He tried to sound calm, knowing that one break in his voice would finish Creswell, like slamming a door.
‘Message understood.’
Rowan fixed his attention on the punctured Seafire as it went into a steep dive.
‘Get ready, Frank!’
For a moment longer he thought he was too late. Then he saw a slight movement in the cockpit, the yellow scarf which Creswell always wore waving into the air like a flag. Except that it was more red than yellow now.
Then he was plucked from the cockpit as the parachute tore him from the Seafire like a cork from a bottle.
Rowan dived steeply, circling and watching. Creswell tried to wave and then hung limp in the harness, drifting rapidly downwind.
‘This is Lapwing. Land-on immediately.’
Rowan watched the parachute, seeing one of the escorting sloops tearing to meet it, a bow wave rising on either side if any evidence was needed of their efforts to reach Creswell.
He said. ‘This is Jonah. Lead the way, Bill.’
Bill too sounded preoccupied. ‘Going down.’ He was able to ignore the usual qualms of landing, the fact they had found the carrier. The parachute was all that counted.
Rowan flew around the ships, seeing the two patrolling Swordfish, a boat shoving off from the sloop’s side and pulling towards the parachute as Creswell hit the water.
It was like watching himself, Rowan thought.
He sighed. He could do nothing more. He straightened up and watched the Hustler taking on personality as she grew larger through his prop. An exact twin of Growler to the last rivet. And yet completely different. Only a sailor would understand that, he thought.
He held his breath, watching the turn-down, the apparent roll of the carrier’s
deck in a cross-swell, before making his decision. Strangely enough, it was the best landing he could remember.
Kitto was waiting for him.
‘Well done, Tim. The sloop’s just signalled that Creswell is alive. They’ll ferry him across at once so that the surgeon can have a look at him. The captain is fuming mad at you for taking so long to land-on. But I think he’s glad to see us all the same.’ He studied Rowan’s tired face. ‘You met a Focke-Wulf then?’
Funny. He had not even mentioned it. ‘Shot it down.’ Just like that.
Kitto touched his arm and turned as Ellis and Cameron hurried to the island. ‘Commander (Flying) will want to meet you right away, as will the Old Man.’ He smiled gravely as the three pilots shook hands.
Bill said, ‘Poor Frank.’
Lord Algy looked at the sloop as it edged nearer to the carrier. ‘Those bloody Jerries will all be safe and snug aboard that ship by now. Swedish stewardesses and lashings of booze.’
Bill grinned, but his eyes remained sad. ‘Yeh, shame, isn’t it.’
Two hours and ten minutes after landing aboard H.M.S. Hustler a fog closed in around the convoy, completely hiding every ship from her consort.
Rowan lay in a borrowed bunk, his fingers interlaced behind his head, listening to the rattle of pipes and machinery, the inexplicable noises above and around him.
It had been a very close thing.
7
Gesture
THE FOG WHICH closed over the convoy and its support group only lasted one day, but in that time several important things happened. Not least was the fact that the merchantmen had become scattered, and their hard-worked escorts had risked collision and worse to try and hold them in a manageable formation.
Aboard Hustler the sweat and effort amongst the convoy were vague and distant. Occasionally, when Rowan took a turn around the flight deck, or paced the walkways, he heard the muffled bleat of a ship’s siren, the immediate whooping retort from a searching destroyer. Both of the support group’s remaining sloops were always in sight, if only blurred outlines, like ghost ships. Their watchkeeping officers must have had the worst job of all. Fearing to get too close to Hustler’s towering bulk, and equally so of losing her in a thicker patch of fog.
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