As a sub-lieutenant in an escort destroyer, Rowan had known it at close hand. Dense, unmoving fog in the North Sea, with a convoy scattered and invisible all around him. Then above the starboard guardrail, high up, like two great eyes, he had seen the twin anchors of a troopship. But for the captain’s nerve, and an immediate response from the engineroom, the ex-liner would have cut the elderly destroyer in half, with the ease of a hot knife through butter.
There was nothing much to do but wait for the fog to lift. The air crews lounged around, talking and reading old magazines. The ship’s company went about their affairs, content to leave the worry to the bridge and the lookouts.
The other unsettling thing was the complete absence of news about the large German warships. They had not returned to their Norwegian bases, so they had to be somewhere. Hustler’s met. officer was certain there was no fog along the Norwegian coastline, so the Germans were probably staying at sea from choice, the convoy still high on their list of objectives.
When the fog glided slowly away from the scattered ships Rowan noticed that the sea’s motion immediately began to get worse, the troughs closer together, their steep sides crumbling occasionally into crests.
The carrier responded badly, swaying and dipping as she kept station on her two sloops, her flight deck sometimes dropping as much as thirty feet, with spray pattering across the gun sponsons like tropical rain.
Nobody had been allowed to visit Creswell in the sickbay. Hustler’s P.M.O. had said briefly that he had removed some steel splinters from his side and thigh. It was ‘early days’. Doctors always said things like that. But Creswell had been lucky in one respect. Had the sloop which rescued him taken longer to ferry him over to the carrier, the fog would have prevented the transfer altogether. The sloop in question, the little Brambling which had first tasted salt water before anyone had ever heard of Adolf Hitler, carried no doctor. Creswell would almost certainly have died there and then.
Kitto had remarked bitterly, ‘The young idiot. He was probably brooding about his friend Derek Cotter. When you begin to think like that in the middle of a fight you’re halfway to disaster. You win with skill, not revenge.’
Rowan was re-reading his mother’s letter when a message came for him to report to the bridge.
Hustler’s commanding officer was waiting for him with his Commander (Flying) and two Swordfish pilots.
Rowan did not know Captain Arthur Turpin very well, but what he did know, he disliked. He was a haughty-faced man, with a great beak of a nose which completely dominated his features.
Like Buchan, he had spent some years outside the Navy, but there was no other similarity. Where Buchan presented an impression of stolid dependability, Turpin gave off an air of permanent irritation and ill humour.
He turned to Rowan and snapped, ‘It’s taken you long enough!’
Rowan replied, ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Turpin seemed disappointed, as if he had been expecting an argument. He had a reputation for goading temporary officers, damned amateurs, as he called them.
‘Well.’ Turpin tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, his thumbs poking forward like horns. ‘It’s all going as I expected.’
Rowan waited, seeing a warning on the face of the Commander (Flying).
‘We’ve just had a signal from Admiralty. A German battle cruiser, probably Scharnhorst, is to the north-east of us. She slipped out of her fjord to do gunnery exercises, or so everybody thought. Our agents, or whatever they call themselves, were so damn sure that it had nothing to do with the big movement of cruisers towards North Cape that they failed to report it in time.’
Commander (Flying) said, ‘In all fairness, sir –’
‘I am speaking.’ Turpin turned his back to him. ‘The Home Fleet shadowing force is going to search for the battle-cruiser, while we will have to try and hold the convoy together until,’ he eyed Rowan coldly, ‘our admiral arrives with Growler. There is going to be merry hell to pay over this. One escort carrier, mine, to do the whole damn job. The convoy commodore will be unable and unwilling to spare any of his escorts for us. So here we are, two sloops and a bloody tug, and we’re expected to protect all of them from U-boat attack.’
Hustler’s commander cleared his throat cautiously. ‘What about the German cruisers, sir?’
Turpin glared at him, ‘A trick. If they existed, they are probably on their way back to Norway by now.’
There was a stiff silence until Rowan asked, ‘Is the weather forecast any help, sir?’
But Turpin walked to a clear-view screen, merely saying over his shoulder, ‘Tell him.’
The Commander (Flying) said evenly, ‘It’s bad for us, but not bad enough to hinder submarine attack.’ There was an apology in his eyes. ‘We will fly-off two patrols of Seafires, ahead and to the south-east of the convoy.’ He dropped his voice. ‘When the U-boats move in closer we’ll need all our Swordfish boys for depth-charging, so you see –’
Turpin said flatly, ‘Let’s get started.’ He was standing with his feet wide apart, determined not to hold on as the ship tilted heavily to one side.
The commander added, ‘We will fly-off two Swordfish for our local patrol. That should do it.’
A handset buzzed in its case, like a trapped bee.
A lieutenant turned to the captain. ‘From W/T, sir. Seven U-boats believed to be in our vicinity.’
Turpin grunted. ‘That all? They must be slipping.’
Rowan followed the others down to the Operations Room, his mind empty. It was impossible to know what was happening. There seemed to be too many people making decisions on the sparse facts which the Admiralty and Intelligence services managed to sift from their various sources. So perhaps Turpin was right about the differing sighting reports. It was not unknown for independent groups to send in signals about the same ship or group of vessels, so that it eventually seemed as if a whole fleet was at sea. But he could not bring himself to accept Turpin’s angry dismissal. It was obvious he was furious with Chadwick for leaving him without full support, yet at the same time could be pleased to be in a position of unexpected power.
He heard the usual clatter of lifts and equipment as the aircraft were taken to the flight deck, the orderly bustle of preparations.
The Operations Officer gave him and the other pilots their instructions. Rowan would take the south-easterly sector, a second Seafire would overlap in twenty minutes time.
Rowan said, ‘I expect Growler will be joining us before dark, sir.’
The other man shrugged, his eyes on his chart. ‘She’s late. I shall fly-off another fighter soon to look for her. She’s either had a breakdown or been delayed.’
The Met. Officer said, ‘Or sunk.’
‘We’d have heard by now.’ The Operations Officer sounded tired. ‘It would be just like Rear Admiral Chadwick to go off on some little scheme all of his own.’
Rowan thought of the depleted force of aircraft still aboard Growler and of Chadwick’s outward indifference to his own superiors. If Turpin was right, he could be in for a sharp fall. Even with the sanction of a senior officer, if Chadwick’s attack on the oil tanker was holding him back when his ship was most needed, his head would be on the block. As the Admiralty always said in such cases. Use your discretion. Which meant that the man on the spot carried the can when things went wrong.
He steadied himself against a bulkhead as he adjusted his jacket and boots and pulled on his flying helmet. The deck was lurching badly, and he had to hold a rail to keep his balance as he made his way to the flight deck.
It was colder, and the sea had broken into a turmoil of torn whitecaps and deep, angry-looking troughs. The carrier was already steaming into the wind, her attendant sloops on either bow, the fat tug Cornelian following astern, giving off far too much greasy smoke. As usual.
The petty officer recommended by Thorpe shouted above the roar of engines, ‘She’s all ready for you, sir! Sweet as a nut!’
A tannoy speaker barked,
‘Get a move on down there! I’ve not got all day!’
The petty officer winked. ‘The Old Man’s a bit humpty, sir.’
Rowan nodded and waved to Bill Ellis who was standing on a walkway, his fair hair whipping in the wind.
‘He’s not the only one.’
The take-off was a bad one, and in the final split-second, as Hustler’s bows plunged heavily into a yawning trough. Rowan thought it was the last he would make. The engine coughed and whined, the cockpit dropping several feet below the flight deck before he managed to bring everything under control. In that fragment of time he saw the waves rearing up to meet him, imagined he could hear their triumphant hiss as they tried to pull him down and smother him.
Buffeted by the wind, he climbed slowly and headed away from the carrier. When he circled once to get his bearings he saw the convoy far off below the iron-hard horizon, in long lines again, but still much too far apart for comfort. He saw some of the big fleet destroyers pushing past the heavy merchantmen. Tribal Class from their lean outlines and uneven funnels, he thought. That was the best of being half-airman, half-sailor. It kept your mind off other things. He levelled out at thirteen thousand feet and began a methodical search.
He could picture the carrier which was falling and dwindling behind him. Flying-off the two Swordfish to cover the actual convoy, and preparing to send a second fighter at a faster speed to sweep ahead of those precious ships.
He wondered if Turpin would ask for one of Growler’s pilots to be sent instead of his own. It was just as if he was working off his anger against Chadwick through his pilots. The fact that they had flown almost to their range limit to find his ship, and had shot down a Condor in the process, seemed to have had no effect on him at all.
Rowan thought of Creswell and his voice on the intercom. He had lost a lot of blood, but if the fragments had all been taken from his body he should be all right. He was young, with all the tough resilience which war seemed to create. Just so long as he was not burned. He recalled his own time in hospital, seeing the pitiful creatures hobbling about the wards. No faces at all, some of them. Just shining masks with eyes like stones.
He turned his head and moved the stick automatically. He had seen something, without recognising it. He steered towards the sun, his eyes watering in the metallic glare.
There it was again. Not just another broken wavecrest, or a shadow. He steadied the Seafire and darted a quick glance at the altimeter. He was at eight thousand now. He must take another look.
He circled warily, seeing his shadow crossing the instruments as he flew past the sun. He groped for his binoculars, using them to push up his goggles as he searched for the convoy. It was all but invisible, just a smoke haze and one dark shape. A wing escort probably. The carrier was at a different angle, separated from the convoy by a great spread of angry, broken water.
He tilted Jonah very carefully, listening to the Merlin’s confident whine, looking for the intruder. He swallowed hard. A small feather of smoke from the sea itself, a plume of spray around it.
It was a submarine, submerged, but with her schnorkel raised to suck air down to her diesels as she recharged her batteries for the final approach. Her attack on the convoy.
He pulled up and away into a steep climb. The submarine’s O.O.W. had not seen him. The forthcoming attack was probably pushing all else from his mind. The U-boat had doubtless been homed on to the merchantmen for days, while others gathered nearby for the killing. The Allies had had much more success with their U-boat sinkings this year than ever before. Better equipment, air cover, and above all radar had shifted the balance for the first time. The U-boat commanders had lost none of their skill or courage, but casualties had pared away the quality of their crews.
That German officer down there, standing in his wildly rolling hull, his mind dazed by the pounding diesels and his constant efforts to keep the boat from plunging out of control in the big waves, was more concerned with his job than a tiny speck in the sky.
Rowan levelled off above some clouds and tried his transmitter.
‘Hello, Lapwing. This is Jonah.’ He wondered if there was another submarine below him. ‘Do you read me? Over.’
The reply was muffled, fractured in static. ‘Yes, Jonah. Over.’
There were some other words in between which could have been anything.
‘There is a U-boat.’ He spoke slowly and with great care. ‘About seven miles to the south-east of you, steering north.’ He flicked over the switch.
‘Wait.’
He smiled gravely. Wait. Up the ladder of authority. Ops Room to bridge. To Captain Arthur Turpin. A bit humpty.
At times like this he could see Turpin in a better light. Up here you made your decisions, lived or died by them. Just you. Thinking. Watching. Expecting.
Turpin had a lot more to consider. If he ordered Rowan to drop a smoke float the German would doubtless see it, lower his schnorkel and run deep on his electric motors. But Rowan could not hope to keep flying round and round to guide the patrolling Swordfish with their depth charges to the exact position without being spotted himself.
‘Hello, Jonah. This is Lapwing. Are you receiving me? Over.’
A decision had been reached in five minutes. Less.
‘Roger.’
‘Extend your patrol. We will engage.’
Rowan began to climb again, watching the altimeter, listening to the big engine, thinking of Turpin. With that wide gap between him and the convoy he would have to send his two sloops. Working as a pair, with the Asdic sets sweeping before them like blind men’s sticks, they would be able to detect the U-boat if they cracked on speed. He looked at his watch. It would take them about twenty minutes. He trained his binoculars over the cockpit and waited for a gap in the cloud.
He saw the two sloops end-on, cutting through the big waves with abandon, throwing up spray and digging their narrow sterns deep into the water as they worked up to full speed. He was too high to see if the U-boat was still just below the surface.
Turpin would wait a little longer to allow the sloops to make contact and then start flying-off his Swordfish. The German commander would soon have all hell round his ears.
Regretfully Rowan headed further towards the south-east, turning his back on the silent drama below.
Something glinted momentarily, low down and far away to port, and for an instant he thought it was sunlight on a ship’s bridge. He stared, fascinated. It was an aircraft. Very small and seemingly motionless against the great moving panorama of broken water.
Growler must be near after all. Flying-off a patrol to try and contact the group. Whoever the luckless pilot was, he was well off course, and if he remained at that height would even be sighted by the U-boat, or one or her consorts.
He toyed with the idea of turning back and reporting his discovery to Turpin. Knowing that Growler was nearby might make him change his tactics, close ranks and wait for the U-boat to force home an attack.
But the thought re-crossed his mind that the other pilot might be lost. He made his own decision.
He began a shallow dive, watching the clouds skudding beneath him, layer by layer, running before the wind. He twisted his head from side to side, looking for the other plane. It was not where it should have been. It must have ditched.
He craned forward and saw it quite suddenly. It was a small aircraft, very slender, with protruding floats like skis beneath each wing. He pulled the stick and then levelled off amongst the clouds while he tried to work it out.
So far from land. A seaplane, probably an Arado 196. The realisation came to him as if he had heard someone’s voice. They did not have to fly from land bases. They could be carried by large warships.
He watched it flitting across the sea. It could not be flying at more than a thousand feet. The sun was glinting on its long, boxlike cockpit, and he tried to remember how many were in its crew, what weapons it carried.
He put the nose down, aiming straight for the seaplane, his ear
recording the sounds, his mind lingering on the fact that the parent ship must be fairly close.
The seaplane tilted steeply to starboard and changed course by ninety degrees.
He’s seen me. No matter. Too late now.
He saw the crosses on the wings, the tiny heads bobbing beneath the perspex. Two men.
He pulled out of the dive and held the seaplane just below him before firing a four-second burst.
The seaplane pilot was no amateur. He zigzagged from side to side even as pieces flew from his starboard wing, and almost stalled as he pulled away to allow Rowan to overshoot.
Rowan tried his transmitter but got nothing but squeaks and clicks. Out of range. He wondered what had happened to the U-boat, marvelled that he could even think about it as he turned in a steep arc to try another attack. There were two men out there, and both knew they did not stand a chance.
He closed to four hundred yards and fired a long burst right above the seaplane, the bright tracer reflecting on the cockpit like fireworks.
Why had he done it?
He saw the German waggle his wings and begin to descend towards the sea. When he landed on those waves the Arado would almost certainly break up and the two Germans be drowned. So why hadn’t he made it quick and killed them himself?
He circled the seaplane, seeing its floats glance off the first big wave, stagger and then dip steeply into a trough. The tail came up towards him, and he saw the sea breaking over the long cockpit. The prop feathered and stopped, and he watched as the little plane lifted and rolled over the tossing water like a fallen leaf. He roared low above it and released a smoke marker, again knowing it was useless. But the two Germans would know. And he would know.
Rowan headed back towards the convoy, realising it was darker and the clouds were more menacing.
He tried his transmitter yet again. This time he got an acknowledgement.
Between ear-shattering blasts of static he explained about the seaplane, its original course and position in relation to the convoy. They would be able to work it out from their own intelligence reports, he thought. The Arado’s maximum range, what sort of ships carried them, all the statistics which were hoarded like gems. He did not say that he had failed to destroy the aircraft.
Winged Escort Page 12